The Apaches immediately began tantalizing the whites, in the hope of inducing them to attack. They swung their blankets aloft, shouted, and Geronimo, riding out a short distance from his companions, deliberately fired his rifle at the horsemen. He had a good weapon, for the singing of the bullet was heard as it passed over the heads of his enemies.
“I can be as polite as you,” remarked Lieutenant Decker, bringing his Winchester to his shoulder and letting fly.
He aimed at the chieftain, and nothing would have delighted him more than to see him pitch from the back of his pony, but the distance was too great to make the aim accurate and the leader suffered no more harm than had his enemies at his hands.
“Mendez,” said the young officer, turning to his principal scout; “do you think it likely there are only four of the Apaches? If such is your belief we’ll charge them.”
The sagacious scout grimly shook his head.
“More—plenty more—hide in sand—want us to fight ’em.”
“But where are their ponies?”
“Hide ’em easy—lay down—cover ’em wid sand—go in water—only nose stick out.”
Nothing would have pleased Geronimo more than to be attacked. In his broken English he called out taunts so insulting that the swarthy cheek of Lieutenant Decker flushed. How he would have leaped at the chance of a fight with him on anything like equal terms!