CHAPTER XVII.
“NOW FOR IT.”
It was at the moment Maurice Freeman’s mustang struck the crest of the slight elevation, beyond the small brook, that he descried the ominous vapor rising in the direction of his own home.
There could be but one cause for the smoke that was growing denser every minute; it was from a burning building that had been fired by the renegade Apaches, Maroz and Ceballos, with perhaps several others they had gathered in their flight from the reservation; but the parent’s anguish was quickly relieved by the discovery that, instead of rising from the ruins of his own home, it ascended from the dwelling of Captain Murray, further up the valley. The two houses being in a line, it was natural that Freeman in his alarm should make the mistake, which he saw almost instantly.
But the relief was only momentary. The renegades were at hand, and had probably visited the nearest cabin before laying the other in flames. As the settler spurred his pony into a dead run, and without any thought of the consequences to himself, he was terrified by the tomblike stillness and the absence of all signs of life.
“They have done their work there and hurried on to the captain’s,” was his thought.
But never did the brave Molly look so sweet and beautiful, even in the delightful long ago, as when she stepped from the front door of the home with the Winchester in one hand, while she waved the other in salutation to her husband. The happy man snatched off his slouch hat, swung it aloft, and emitted a shout of joy such as he and his brothers sent forth when making the desperate charge in the heat of battle that led to victory.
“It looks as if it wasn’t a mistake after all,” he concluded, “to leave my gun behind me.”
He was out of the saddle before the panting pony could halt, and caught her in his arms.
“Thank God, Molly!” he exclaimed, “but what does this mean?” he asked, observing her white face and trembling form. “Has anything happened to the children? Where are they? Ah, Fannie?”