Mendez and Cemuri looked at each other and smiled; they knew what it meant. Geronimo was seeking to lure the young officer away from his supports, or, better still, striving to tempt forward the whole four, under the belief that the two forces were equal.
“Don’t go any nearer!” called Freeman, growing impatient with the recklessness of the officer; “he’s trying to draw you on.”
The lieutenant made no reply. His spirited horse, of his own volition, took two steps forward, but his rider checked him.
“Thank you, Geronimo, but the fly isn’t ready to walk into the spider’s web.”
Seeing the failure of his scheme, the Apache chief, with the quickness of a flash, raised his Winchester again and fired directly at the officer, whose escape was quite narrow, for the interval admitted of a fatal shot, provided it were well aimed.
As if to imitate every action of his enemy, Decker brought his rifle to a level and sighted carefully at Geronimo. It required no phenomenal marksmanship to bring him down, and he was hopeful of doing so, but at the moment of pressing the trigger, the chieftain disappeared as if by magic.
He knew what was coming and saw his danger. He flung himself over the side of his pony, whose body was thus interposed as a shield. Not to be baffled, the officer sighted as best he could and fired.
He did not harm the chieftain, but the bullet passed through the brain of his pony, who, with a cry of agony, reared on his hind legs, pawed the air and rolled over as dead as Julius Cæsar. His agile rider, who had no saddle, leaped free and ran hastily back to his companions, amid the jeering shouts of the youth who had unhorsed him.
“Geronimo is a squaw! He runs from the white man! He dare not come forward and fight him! He is afraid he will be hurt!”
All which, if it were so, did not change the situation or give any additional advantage to him who uttered the taunts.