The Young Scout: The Story of a West Point Lieutenant

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

It was not the simple fact alone that these two turbulent spirits had cast aside their disguise, but they were sure to induce other disaffected ones to join them. Should they succeed in gathering a dozen warriors or even less around them, another costly Indian campaign was inevitable and a reign of terror would follow in Southern Arizona.

Questioned regarding his old comrade Cemuri, Mendez replied that he was dead, slain by Maroz in the most treacherous manner conceivable. It was evident that there had been a desperate fight, for Mendez carried with him evidences of his own savage treatment.

It was noted by some of those who listened to the story, that Mendez was confused in a few of the details. Those who knew him well saw evidence that he had been indulging in the bane of his life, “tiswin,” that curse of so many of his people, but the exciting incident in which he had taken a prominent part had sobered him and he was fully himself.

Little time, however, was given to questioning the scout. The alarming danger was manifest to all. Serious work was at hand. Not an hour must be lost in pursuing the hostiles, whose example was likely to spread like a prairie fire. There was a hasty call to saddle, and in less time than would be deemed possible, several cavalrymen, all of whom had seen similar service, were scurrying to the southeast.

Naturally the first thought of Maurice Freeman, when he learned what had occurred, was his own family, ten miles away, with no suspicion of danger. He pictured the little brother and sister at play outdoors and the mother singing about her household duties, while the fearful shadow stole down upon them, as the deadly serpent winds its way through the tall grass and strikes its blow before its presence is suspected.

He thought, too, of Captain Murray, whose confidence in the continuance of peace was not to be shaken by argument or persuasion. He had ridiculed the fears of Freeman, but what would he say now when the news reached him?

Freeman had never taken pains to conceal his distrust of Maroz and Ceballos, after learning of their treachery the previous winter when Geronimo was turned back from his contemplated raid into the Sutra Valley. In fact, the ranchman had told Maroz to his face that he deserved shooting for his double dealing, and if he could have his way he would see that such punishment was inflicted. There could be no doubt, therefore, that the two renegades remembered the bitter words and would be eager to wreak revenge upon him who uttered them.

And yet there was one feature of the situation which brought the ranchman unspeakable relief. Mendez had said that when the hostiles leaped upon their ponies they headed for the Apache Mountains, which, it will be borne in mind, are on the southern side of the Salt River, while the Sutra Valley, in which he and a few of his friends had their homes, lies to the north. That broad, winding stream flows between, besides which an additional number of miles separate the two sections.

This knowledge I repeat was a great relief to the ranchman, as he turned the head of his horse homeward. So long as the hostiles pushed southward, so long was the safety of his family assured. There was no call to press his pony, especially as the heat was increasing and the animal was likely to suffer more than his rider.