The best course was to put a bold face on the matter and Freeman did so. Instead of shying off or making any move to avoid the Indians, he rode directly toward them, so close indeed that there was only room for them to meet and pass without brushing knees. It need not be said, however, that the white man kept his “weather eye” open.
As the parties came opposite, Freeman made a salute, smiled and called out:
“Howdy?”
They responded in kind, one of them, who seemed to be of mixed breed, grinning to the extent of showing the two rows of his fine white teeth. Their ponies were walking and Freeman’s heart beat a little faster, when they seemed about to stop; but he affected not to notice it and held the same easy, swinging gallop.
The real trial was within the few minutes following this meeting. Nothing was easier than for all five to turn and fire a volley, and he half expected they would do so. It was hard to restrain himself from spurring his horse into a dead run and leaning forward on his neck. This would have been his course had the Apaches made any demonstration, but they did not, and he shrank from showing distrust, much as prudence urged him to do so.
He had ridden less than a hundred yards when he turned and looked behind him. All the Indians were riding away at the same moderate pace and not one displayed any interest in him.
The sight was an inspiriting one and did much to remove the misgiving that had been with him to a greater or less degree ever since he left home.
“That’s one of the most decisive tests of what Captain Murray has been insisting upon for the past week,” reflected Freeman, with a thrill of pleasure. “It is not so many months since that a meeting like this, where I am beyond any help, would have been my death warrant, but now they do not even turn to look at me.”
A half hour later he arrived at the fort, where he was always welcome. He was acquainted with all the officers, whose life at these remote inland posts is sometimes intolerably monotonous. It is the same routine, day after day, month after month, from one year’s end to the other, with the eternal brassy sky overhead, the dreary stretch of sandy waste which grows more hateful to the eye, and the vain sighing for an exchange with some of the more favored posts, or a transfer to another branch of the service.
To many of the ardent young officers who leave West Point and assume the stirring duties of military life, the news of trouble with the red men is most welcome. It not only serves to break the monotony, but opens the prospect of the realization of every soldier’s hope—promotion.