He nodded backward; they looked, and there were many more of the Chiricahua hostiles, at a short distance, peering and waiting. Geronimo mounted upon a boulder and yelled across.
“If you are fighting the Mexicans, tell us what to do.”
That was an odd situation. If the Chiricahuas had attacked the camp from the one side and the Mexicans from the other——!
The Mexicans called, where they were concealed.
“Send somebody to talk with us.”
Lieutenant Maus and Tom Horn advanced again. Four of the Mexicans met them half-way. One of the Mexicans was crying. His brother was the slender young lieutenant who had been riddled.
Lieutenant Maus returned and talked with Lieutenant Shipp. The Mexicans claimed that they had made a mistake. They had lost all their officers—among them Major Corredor, who was the big man, and, they declared, “the bravest man that ever lived.” They asked permission to remove their dead.
Lieutenant Maus accompanied each body into the Mexican lines. The Mexicans seemed to be afraid of the scouts.
Now noon was at hand, but instead of withdrawing, the Mexicans had taken a strong position that threatened the camp. Many of them were Tarahumari Indians, a Mexican tribe hostile to all Americans and Apaches.
The camp was short of food and ammunition. Several of the scouts had been wounded, one of them severely. Tom Horn’s arm hung useless. Captain Crawford lay underneath a blanket, with a bandanna handkerchief spread over his face. A piece of his forehead and a portion of his brain had been shot out, but he still breathed.