All this was well, but it could not remove the shuddering dread from the heart of the father that the fatal blunder had already been made. The Apache’s relapse had allowed the golden chance to slip beyond repairing or recovery.
Freeman felt the need of Lieutenant Decker’s presence and counsel, but he could not go to him, for the signal agreed upon had not been sounded, and besides, the instructions of Mendez were that the father should wait where he was until his dusky friend returned. He was obliged, therefore, to content himself as best he might.
How long would he be gone? Would it be one hour, two hours, until daylight, or, if he gave way to his weakness again, would he ever return?
Had not the hostiles learned what he was trying to do? Had they not plied him with the atrocious stuff on purpose that he should make an exhibition of himself?
These and similar questionings were rioting in the brain of Maurice Freeman, when he perceived that Mendez was with him again. He appeared with the same strange suddenness as before, but alas! he was alone.
“Where is my boy?” asked the agonized father.
“The heart of Mendez is heavy, for he brings evil tidings; the pappoose of his white brother is—dead.”