“He told me it was none of my business: not exactly in those words,” added the smiling officer, “but his refusal to enlighten me amounted to the same thing.”
Freeman turned toward the subject of their conversation, but he was so absorbed in watching a point to his left, and listening for that which he heard not, that the remarks seemed to be lost upon him.
“Let me ask how near we are to the spot where Mendez suspects Maroz and Ceballos to be.”
The lieutenant had put the same question to the guide before coming upon the settler, and he answered:
“Not more than a quarter of a mile.”
“A quarter of a mile!” repeated the astonished Freeman, “why I was sure I was within a dozen rods of it.”
“Nothing is easier than to be mistaken.”
It is singular how the emotion of mirth will intrude at the most inopportune times. Maurice Freeman was oppressed by a grief such as he had never known before, but he now laughed silently and heartily. He recalled his extreme trepidation, when he believed he was near the Apache camp, his effort to withdraw and the caution of Mendez in guiding him away. To him the picture was that of a big urchin, who has ignorantly approached some danger, and whose father seeks to coax him back to safety. The figure of himself playing the part of booby was what caused him to laugh, but his mirth quickly vanished, and he wondered at himself for having shown it.
“If such care must be used when we are so far from the camp, how will it be when we get within sight of it?”
The lieutenant shook his head.