Keep watch now all around, especially east and southeast."Keep watch now all around, especially east and southeast."Page 175
And so it would seem Case, the bookkeeper, had "inside information," and so it happened that, within an hour after sunset, once again the gray-haired commander and the wounded subaltern were in conference, and Case's strange story was told in full. "There's more than enough in it to demand our warning Turner," said Harris. "Can you get me up to Squadron Peak—to-night?"
Just at tattoo the old-fashioned, yellow ambulance, drawn by a brace of mules, backed up at Bentley's quarters, and Harris was carefully lifted aboard. The general, with Strong and Bonner, stood at hand to say godspeed. "Promise him safe conduct," said the commander, as they drove away, and Harris touched his hat in acknowledgment. Briggs, with twenty stout foot soldiers, awaited them at the abandoned ranch. The doctor and two attendants accompanied him. The road for nearly four miles lay along the sandy flats, then went boring westward into the foothills, while a little worn branch turned off to the peak. Two-thirds of the way to the top the mules were able to pull the jolting vehicle, and from thence half a dozen brawny arms bore the young soldier on a stretcher to the summit. It was then after eleven, and the moon still behind the Mogollon, lowering black against the silvering skies full forty miles to the eastward. Already there was sufficient light to guide them, and a sergeant led on to a point where, surrounded by knee-high rocks, was a little blackened space where in bygone days many a signal fire had blazed, and here the men tossed the tinder, the pine cones and dead branches they had gathered on the climb. A match was applied. All crouched or stooped among the rocks, as the flames presently leaped on high, and gave ear to the quiet orders of the young soldier, practically in command. "Keep watch now, all round, especially east and south-east. It may be ten minutes before you get an answer, and theremaycome a dozen. More fuel may be needed," whereat half a dozen dark forms silently backed away down the slope, and all men waited and watched. Harris, with one arm and shoulder still bandaged, and obviously weak, sat grasping at the corner a folded blanket and busily coaching Briggs, who listened, absorbed. Ten, twelve, fourteen the minutes rolled by. The silvery sheen spread higher over the eastward sky. The crest of the distant Mesa was just fringing with dazzling white, when two voices at once exclaimed: "There you are, sir!" And afar over to the south-east, the direction of Tonto Creek, a little ruddy spark appeared through the gloom, and a moment later still another was made out, farther to the left. In twenty minutes three were in sight. "Anywhere from fifteen to twenty miles away," said Harris, as he studied them with the signal glass, "and," he continued, "I looked for one much nearer."
"There you have it, sir!" And almost opposite them, it seemed, and lower, straight away to the east, so near they could almost mark the waving of the flame, a fourth blaze burst into view.
"That's more like it!" said Harris. "Now the blanket. Give me a boost, corporal," and with that, supported by the strong arm of one of the soldiers, he stepped upon the nearest rock, the blanket in his left hand. Briggs grabbed the opposite corner with his right, and the next moment a woollen curtain swung flat between the fires.
"Now, Briggs, up!" and the hidden red eye was suddenly unmasked and glared out over the east. "Down!" and all toward the opposite fire was darkness again. Twice more was it raised and lowered. Then a five seconds' pause. Then twice again. "Thirty-two," said Harris. "'Tonio's old signal. Now watch for the answers!" From those at a distance there came no sign. The flare at each was steady. From the nearmost, almost instantly, came the desired response. It suddenly disappeared, and Harris, at second intervals, counted low, "One, two, three." Then came the red glow again, just a moment. Then darkness only for two seconds. Then light again. "It is 'Tonio," said he, "and that's his call to me. Now, Briggs, again! Slowly this time!"
And very slowly was the blanket raised and lowered twice. Then came two or three quicker movements. Then the blaze spoke untrammelled, and all eyes were on 'Tonio's torch, and they who had heard ill of him—had doubted him—found themselves oddly drawn to him across the intervening miles of darkness. Twice, thrice slowly his light, too, was curtained. Then for a moment it burned clearer; then seemed suddenly to sputter out. Within a few seconds, far more swiftly than it rose, the signal fire vanished from sight, and Harris stepped quietly down. "That's all," said he, yet the doctor, at least, could read the suppressed exultation in his tone. Then, seeing inquiry and disappointment, both, in the eager eyes about him, the young officer added, "He understands. He's coming, or sending, in."
"Did you promise him safe conduct?" asked Bentley.
"He did not ask it," was the answer.
Two hours later, once more safe at the post, the doctor had stowed his weary patient in bed, renewed the dressing and bandages, and was bidding him try to sleep, but Harris smiled. "You'll need me to translate," said he. "The general's message to Turner is being written now. Let us finish this while we're about it."
Sure enough. Toward half-past one the sentries on Numbers Six and Seven set up a shout for the corporal of the guard, and an Indian girl, trembling a bit, was led to the office, and half the garrison knew that word was in from 'Tonio. The general took his messenger kindly by the hand. Food and chocolate were in readiness at the Mess, but she shook her head. "Capitan Chiquito," she insisted, and then was conducted up the line, and, shrinking not a little, was led into the doctor's quarters. There, at sight of Harris, she instantly stepped to his bedside, knelt, and taking his weary hand, placed it on her head. He whom 'Tonio held in reverence, his followers could but blindly obey.
To his question in her own tongue, "Where is 'Tonio?" she answered, "Toward the moon, now two hands high. When it is straight above Pancha can reach him again." "Is 'Tonio well?" "'Tonio is well, but—others brought Pancha. They say they are afraid that soldiers shoot. They await Pancha's returning."
Evidently, despite the kindness in every face, the girl still feared the white man and wished to be gone. "He has sent her, general," said Harris. "Whatever you wish to send now to Turner will go through, if 'Tonio is not killed in the attempt."
And so, with unexpected burden of food and gifts and with a brief despatch to Turner, bidding him hasten with his entire force, the dusky, fleet-footed daughter of the mountain was led back to the stream, went bounding lightly across from stone to stone, and disappeared among the shadows toward the east.
"And now," said Harris, "Deltchay and Skiminzin may come as soon as they like. Turner will get here in time, and then—you may judge as to 'Tonio."
And this was Saturday night or rather Sunday morning, not yet one full week since Willett was brought in swearing he saw 'Tonio take deliberate aim at him, although only the horse was shot, and as matters stood in the gross and scope of garrison understanding, the weight of presumptive evidence was against the Apache, and there was more to come.
CHAPTER XVII.
As was to be expected, Lieutenant Harris was somewhat worse when time came for inspection Sunday morning, but Bentley said complete rest would soon restore him. The other interesting invalid, Lieutenant Willett, was correspondingly better, and was to sit up awhile later in the day. Inspection was held under arms and in fighting kit instead of full dress—the two companies looking like a pair of scanty platoons, so heavy was the drain for guard duty. From earliest dawn lookouts had been stationed on top of the adjutant's office at the south, and the hospital at the north edge of the parade, Bucketts having built for them a little wooden platform, with bench, shelf and sunshade, and there, with signal-service glasses, they scoured the barren wilds in every direction for sign of coming friend or foe.
It was eleven o'clock when Bentley came forth with Mrs. Stannard from his morning visit to Willett. "Oh, he's doing as well as an overfed, under-trained animal has any right to," said he, in response to the inquiry in her soft blue eyes. "I still think some men have too much luck in this world of ours. Here's Willett, who doesn't begin to deserve it, getting everything that is good, and Harris, who deserves all the good that the army affords, gets all the hard knocks and setbacks. Here's Willett swearing that 'Tonio's a renegade, hostile, spy and a traitor, and Harris convinced that he is stanch and loyal—that Willett must be mistaken in saying he shot at him, and though everything I know of the Apaches or ever heard, and every bit of evidence is overwhelmingly in favor of Willett's statement, just from what I've seen of these two men I'm deciding with Harris."
"You don't—feel confidence in Mr. Willett's—judgment?" she asked.
For a moment he hesitated, then turned and squarely faced her. "I don't feel confidence in Mr. Willett. There, Mrs. Stannard! There are not ten women in the army to whom I'd trust myself to speak of this—or five women out of it—but I am not happy over the way things are going."
"Don't you think he'll—learn to appreciate her?"
"He shouldn'thaveto learn! He should see it all at a glance, and thank God for the unmerited blessing."
"Perhaps he does," said she, ever gentle, helpful, hopeful. "It is lovely the way he speaks to her—and I'm quite eager to see them this afternoon."
What woman would not be? What man would not have been at his best at such a time, under such circumstances? The realization that he had won the fervent love of that fresh, pure, exquisite young heart was enough to thrill even a nature so utterly selfish as Willett's. It is the shallowest soul that most readily thrills, and what could be sweeter than the shy, yet rapturous love in the downcast eyes of Lilian Archer, when, as he had implored her mother, she was led that afternoon to the darkened room in which he sat, and, like knight of old, he took and bent over and kissed her trembling little hand. "I would kneel, too," he murmured, even as her mother stood beside her, with swimming eyes, and as he looked up into the blushing face his own eyes were filled with unfeigned homage, admiration, even love, his deep voice with emotion that was sweet to woman's ear. "Heaven never made a lovelier lover than Hal Willett," once said a famous belle and beauty. "That's why so many of us like to listen."
But these earnest, honest, inexperienced two—the whole-hearted army wife who had lived well-nigh quarter of a century in the undivided sunshine of an honest soldier's love, and this sweet, simple-hearted army girl who had never dreamed of or thought to know any love to compare with this—listened, spellbound, to Willett's almost eloquent avowal, and the last doubt or fear that Mrs. Archer entertained vanished like the morning mists before the sunshine.
"I declare," she said to Mrs. Stannard, "I'm almost as much in love as Lilian," and indeed it seemed so, and might well be so, for never was queen's courtier so exquisite in deference, homage, tact, as, in that blissful week of honeymooning, was Hal Willett to the mother of his dainty love. As for Lilian, the arid, breezeless day was soft with scented zephyrs; the unpeopled air was athrill with the melody of countless song birds; the unsightly desert flowered with exquisite millions of buds and blossoms that craved the caress of her dainty hand, the pressure of her pretty foot. The sunburned square of the lonely little garrison, environed with swarthy foemen, cut off from the world, was alive with heroic knights in glittering armor and ladies in lace and loveliness, and all were her loyal, devoted subjects, revelling in her happiness, rejoicing in her smiles, serving her in homage and on bended knee, their thrice-blessed, beautiful, beloved queen. God never made a more radiantly happy girl than was our fairy Lilian that wonderful week. God be thanked it was so utterly blissful, since it had to be so brief!
All day long the watchmen clung to their glaring stations, and Sunday went by without either alarm or excursion. All Sunday—Monday night, they scanned the dark depths of eastward basin, the lone reaches of the valley, the tumbling heights to the west. It was nine in the morning of the second day since the signalling from Squadron Peak when the cry went up from the roof of the office, "Signal smoke south-east!" and every glass at Almy was brought to bear within the minute, and half the garrison lined the lower edge of the mesa, and all men were listening for further tidings, when from the hospital came the stirring shout: "Smoke answer, west!" And there, plainly visible, and not five miles away among the pine-bearded foothills, in little puffs, singly and distinct, thick wreaths of gray-white smoke were sailing straight aloft. The waiting Apache of the Mazatzal was signalling the coming brother from the dark clefts of the Sierra Ancha. One hour later, just as ten was striking on the spiral of the office clock, two sudden shots were heard on the flats to the north-west, and the little herd of horses and mules, not two dozen in all, grazing under cover of the rifles of Sentries 3 and 4, came limping, lumbering in, fast as hoppled feet would permit and without sign of a herdsman. Number Three, a veteran of the war days, let drive with his fifty calibre Springfield, the gun of the day, and sent up a yell for "The Guard!"
"Join your companies, men," said the general, in his placid way, whereat most of them went with a rush. "The north side first, Bonner," he added, as the captain came hurrying to his chief. "They've sneaked up on the herd guard, I fancy. Send the picked shots out to the pits."
Out on the flats to the west of the Verde road, full five hundred yards away from rock, tree or shelter, other than mere clump of cactus, pumpkin size, or bunch of dirty weed, there was lying a little heap of dingy white and brown, with a cow pony kicking at empty air in a shallow ditch—what was left of the half-breed herd guard and his mount. With most of the cavalry gone, the quartermaster had supplied their place with such mounted men as he could make available, and in broad daylight, within long rifle-shot of the sentry lines, the Apaches had squirmed out, snake-like, on their bellies, unseen, unsuspected; had picked off one of two watchers and stampeded the other. The skirmish line stumbled over the survivor, quaking among the willows in the stream bed, and kicked him out into the open to help bear home his murdered brother; then pushed out as far as the first ridge in hopes of a shot, and were rewarded with nothing better than a glimpse of vanishing breech-clouts. Falling slowly back, toward noon, Bonner posted two men in each of a dozen rifle-pits, some fifty yards outside the sentry lines, as a rule, and wherever view of the approaches could be had. Two of these were on little knolls to the south of the store, and here were Craney & Co. in full force, every man armed with a Henry rifle and a war-model Colt, "Mr. Case-Keeper Book," as Sergeant Clancy jovially hailed him, quite as formidable as his fellows, and every whit as cool. Craney held that he and his men had a right to be counted in among those told off to hold the fort, and Bonner smilingly assented.
"You two seem to hit it off pretty well together," said he to Case and Clancy. "I reckon we'll Cossack you over yonder," and he pointed to a scooped-out little hummock nearest the stream, commanding much of the southward road and the trail along the willows, now facetiously termed the "Ghost Walk." It was an unusual assignment, or distribution, but it seemed to strike the fancy of both. In times of peril and at the fore-posts men think less of rank and more of repute. Clancy was known far and wide as a fearless Apache fighter, with a Gaines's Mill-Gettysburg record behind him. Case had never before been heard of afield, but his one exploit in the card room stamped him unerringly, said these frontier experts, as "a man of nerve." Clancy held out his big red hand. "Are ye with me?" said he. "Yours truly," said Case. "Then come on, Pitkeeper," said Clancy, "and we'll leave Book and Case behind."
The general came jogging down at the moment, bestriding one of Bucketts's general utility beasts, watching the posting of the post defenders, and he screwed his eyelids down to a slit as he glared from under the brim of his then unorthodox slouch hat, and squinted after the combination of soldier and civilian stalking away to the assigned station. "What have you there, Bonner?" he asked, as he reined in.
"'Erin go unum, E pluribus bragh,' sir, as Derby would have it." "The Celt and the Casekeeper," he added to himself. "Clancy and Case going gunning together as amicably as if they had never squabbled over a sutler's bill."
"Queer lot—that man Case!" said the commanding officer reflectively. "His face bothers me sometimes, as though I must have seen or known him before, yet he tells me that he did not come to Vancouver until after I had left that department. Is he all straight again?"
"Straight as the new toadsticker, general, and"—with a rueful look at that slender appendage—"a damned sight more useful. His ghost-herding spree was no end important. I've an idea Case can handle a gun as well as"—anothersotto vocenow—"he can play a worthless hand."
"Well," said Archer, as he glanced about him, "I don't believe, as a rule, in putting any but soldiers on post, but," as he considered the slender rank of infantry standing patiently at ease, barely a dozen all told, and then smiled at Craney and his belligerent force, only four in number, but each man a walking arsenal with two weapons and five shots to the soldiers' one, "there are no non-combatants in Indian warfare. Every man, woman and child may have to fight."
Yet Archer felt no measure whatever of apprehension. One hundred good men and true, at least, were left to guard the post, and many of them battle-tried veterans. Not since the war days had the Apaches mustered in sufficient force and daring to attack a garrison. Still, Archer knew that if they only realized their strength in point of numbers, their skill in creeping close to their prey, their swiftness of foot, and the ease with which they could escape, all they needed was dash, determination and a leader, to enable them to creep upon the post in the darkness, and in one terrific moment swoop upon the officers' quarters, massacre every soul, and be off across the stream before the men in the barracks could rush to the rescue. They had talked it over at officers' mess—the general and Bonner and Bucketts and all, and figured out just how fifty white desperadoes could plan and accomplish the feat. It would be no trick at all to come up the valley in the screen of the willows, creep to the west bank, divide into six different squads, one for each set of quarters, crawl to the post of the drowsy sentry, shoot him full of arrows before he could cry out or load, then, all together, charge up the slope and into the flimsy houses, pistols in hand and knives in their teeth, and simply butcher the occupants as they lay in their beds. Doors, even if closed or bolted, which rarely happened, could be smashed in an instant—matches would light their way. It would be all over in much less time than it takes to tell it, and it might well happen but for two things—the Apache's dread of the dark and his fear of a possible hand-to-hand fight.
Yet if Deltchay and Eskiminzin, with all their warriors were to reëforce these about them, with five hundred braves to the garrison's one hundred, even that dread might be overcome.
And by Monday's sundown it was known that numbers of Apaches had crossed the valley ten miles away to the south—the telescope had told that—and not a word or sign had been vouchsafed by Turner, and Tuesday brought no better news. Then 'Tonio, said many a man, had played them false.
Just at four o'clock Archer had arranged the dispositions for the night. Mrs. Stannard, with Mrs. Archer and Lilian, were to occupy the ground floor, north-west, room of his quarters—the one least exposed to flying bullets in case of attack. Mrs. Bennett and the matron were moved into a little room in the hospital. The soldiers' wives and children were to assemble in the barracks in case of alarm. The men in the outlying posts and pits were to be doubled at dusk—Bonner's company attending to that, while Briggs and his fellows were to sleep on their arms within the post. It now lacked but a few minutes of sunset. No further demonstration had occurred. Not an Indian had been seen within a radius of six miles, when, all on a sudden, there came a shot—then two, almost together, then a quick crackle and sputter of small-arms afar down the stream. "By Jove!" cried Bonner, from a perch by the lookout at the office. "They've opened on Case and Clancy!"
They've opened on Case and Clancy."They've opened on Case and Clancy."Page 188
And that was but the opening, for within a minute, from on every side, from far out among the rocks to the west, from the sandhills across the stream, from little heaps of brush and weed and cactus in the flats, from the distant screen of the willows in the stream bed, little puffs of white sulphur smoke jutted into the slanting sunshine, and the pulseless air of declining day was suddenly set to stir and throb by the crackle of encircling musketry. And then was seen the wisdom of the veteran's defence. Few of the hostiles, as yet, had other than old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifles, and few that they owned were effective over six hundred yards. By stationing his better shots in rifle pits well forward from the buildings on every side, Archer easily held the foe at a distance so long as they dare not "rush" his outposts. Only on the east side were there pits less than three hundred yards from the mesa, but here there was a dismal flat beyond the creek, affording a minimum of cover, and hardly a bullet whistled in from any direction so as to reach the quarters. Once in a while a little puff of dust flew up from the sandy slope without, but even that was enough to demand that the women folk should keep under shelter, and at the moment the firing began Lilian and her mother were seated by Willett's reclining chair, and then Mrs. Stannard joined them, and, the windows being shaded, they never saw, among the first to reach the general at the mesa edge, Harris, the wounded officer, revolver in his unfettered hand.
The first volleying over, only in single and scattered shots, as they reloaded, came the Indian fire. If the hope had been to strike dismay with a volume of sound such as native ears had not heard, the Apache was doomed to disappointment. Men who had heard the crash of Spottsylvania and Cold Harbor laughed at the puny crackle of two hundred muskets. Then presently the Springfields began deliberate reply, only an occasional shot, for only very rarely did so much as the tip of a turban appear, and then the sun had dropped below the Mazatzal and the valley was in shadow, and old Archer stood with grim, whimsical smile on his weather-beaten face, as, field-glass to his eyes, he scanned his outposts at the south where the firing seemed heaviest. It was a moment or two before he noticed Harris at all. When he did it was to utter a mild rebuke. "You should not be here, lad. You need rest. This is only fun."
Yet not all fun. Strong came presently thumping back from beyond the store. He had borrowed Craney's Pinto pony and had been visiting the southward posts, and Pinto had been clipped by a bullet and was half frantic with the smart and scare combined. Moreover, Strong's fighting face was red and mad, as he thrashed the lagging pony up the slope.
"It's Deltchay, sir, easy enough," said he, with sweeping salute, "and that isn't all"—this with almost challenging glance at Harris, who had dropped his pistol and was gazing intently through his binocular at an open, slanting space far out to the south-east, still blazing in the rays of the setting sun. "The man of all others that oughtn't to be there stood at that point of rocks not ten minutes ago—the man we sent for Turner, general—'Tonio himself!"
Then both men, the gray-mustached commander, the angering adjutant, turned on the silent little subaltern, who stood there without having so much as changed his attitude or lowered his glass.
"You hear that, Harris?" demanded Archer. And with calm respect, yet almost exasperating drawl, came the unlooked-for answer:
"I was about to mention it—myself, sir. 'Tonio was certainly there—and Turner close behind him. Look for yourself, sir!"
Look, indeed! Riding steadily down into the valley, still a long four miles away, came the extended line of half a cavalry troop in skirmish order, with the supports and reserves dotting the slope to their rear. "Turner, as sure as shooting," said the general—"and 'Tonio as his guide!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
The attack had ended almost as suddenly as it began. Darkness descended upon the valley and every vestige of the Apache was gone with the twilight. Long before time for tattoo the eager watchers in the down-stream posts could hear muffled hoofbeats and low-toned words of command along the still cautious skirmish line, and Turner came but slowly, first because he could see that there was no occasion for hurry; second, because, with his wounded to protect, there was every objection to haste. Between that steadily advancing array and these fire-spitting heaps of sand toward the post the Indians slid soundless away into the gloom of the foothills, and presently shouts of greeting and welcome re-echoed among the rocks, and Turner's men rode sturdily up to the fords. By ten the last litter had been shouldered through the swift waters and borne to the ready hospital, where Bentley and his assistants went busily to work. Six of the men and two Hualpai scouts had been more or less severely wounded, four of them being borne from Tonto Creek on improvised stretchers made from saplings and blankets. Shelter tents, or tentage of any kind, our men had no use for, save as sunshades, in Arizona.
And with Turner came the first tidings to reach the beleaguered post since the couriers were brought in, with their belated tales, from up the Verde. Turner looked a trifle surprised at the warmth of his greeting. Turner had had little idea of their being so closely invested. Turner had sent two runners in with reports, and they both returned safely, saying, "Almy all right, but plenty Tonto everywhere!" One of them said he gave his despatch to 'Tonio, as he dare go no farther. One of them brought his back with him, and the third—Hualpai 21, he supposed—had finally reached the post, as only two nights since an Apache-Mohave boy found his way to the Tonto Creek camp with the despatch recalling the cavalry. They started at dawn, wounded and all; had a long range fight with Tontos toward evening, and another next morning, but forged slowly and steadily ahead with only slight loss, and came in sight of the flag and the fracas late the second afternoon. Turner was glad to get back, he said, since it seems he was needed, but was no sooner back than he was eager to launch out again. Hadn't they heard? Why, there had been great doings up on the Mogollon. Old Gray Fox himself had taken the field and was out with all the horsemen from Whipple and Sandy, and Stannard had joined them, and they were ripping up the Tonto country in a way that bade fair to wind up the war. How had he heard? Why,runners—Apache-Mohaves—'Tonio's people. Kwonahelka and some of his ilk had managed to keep going between them, slipping through or skipping round the Tontos like so many "ghost goats." It was only here, round about Almy, the hostiles were too many for them!"
"D'you mean you didn'tknowthe Apache-Mohaves were just as hostile as the rest?" asked Archer.
"Apache-Mohaves!" exclaimed Turner, looking up in amaze from the hot supper set for him in the mess room. "Why, general, I couldn't have got along without 'em!"
"This beats me!" said the chief, looking at the faces about him for support, and finding it in every one, for Harris had been remanded to bed. "Up here they have chased our couriers, blocked the runners, and 'Tonio himself shot at Willett and killed his horse!"
For a moment Turner was too much surprised to speak. Suddenly he called to the orderly at the doorway to send his sergeant, who was then at the adjutant's office adjoining. "I beg your pardon, general," he said, "but this seems incredible in view of our experiences. Why, some of them joined us and stayed with us day and night." Then as a bearded, sun-blistered face appeared at the doorway, and a sturdy form in hunting shirt of deerskin and long Apache leggings stood attention before them: "Sergeant, send 'Tonio here, and you come with him. You and he seem to understand each other."
"'Tonio didn't come in, sir, nor the few that were with him. They hung back and quit at the Point."
"Quit! Do you know what's the trouble?"
"No, sir." But the soldier was obviously embarrassed. "I gather, though, from what I could understand, that 'Tonio thinks he's mistrusted. He says he will not come in till Big Chief comes himself. He means General Crook, sir."
There was silence a moment. It was for the post commander to speak if anybody, and Archer sat studying the veteran trooper before him. Officers of experience knew the value of expert opinion to be had for the asking among sergeants with war records behind them, and Turner's right bower, into whose sanctum at barracks only his intimates ventured, save with cap in hand and "sir" on their lips, was a man of mark in the regiment.
"Sergeant Malloy," said Archer, "did 'Tonio tell you why he was mistrusted?"
"I think he was trying to, sir, but I am new at his language and none too good at signs."
Again did it seem as though Malloy had understood more readily than he cared to admit, or would presume to say. It was very late. The day had been long and trying. With all its matter-of-fact, nonchalant ease of manner during the few hours under fire, the personnel of Camp Almy, officer and man, had been subjected to something of a strain night and day for nearly a week, and now was ready to turn in and sleep, but Archer and those with him were convinced that in Sergeant Malloy there lived a witness who, better even than Lieutenant Harris, could throw light on 'Tonio's singular and inexplicable behavior. There was not one of their number who did not believe, and in the absence of Harris would hesitate to say, that Willett had seen 'Tonio taking deliberate aim when the shot was fired that downed both his horse and himself. This was enough to warrant their doubt of 'Tonio's loyalty. All that was lacking was something to establish a motive—an explanation—for a murderous and treasonable deed. An unwilling witness was Sergeant Malloy, therefore the more persistent should be the examination, and after a moment's reflection Archer spoke again:
"Sergeant, you have formed an impression, I think, and I should be glad to have the benefit of it. Did—he mean that—Lieutenant Harris distrusted him?"
"No, sir." On this point the sergeant was confident.
"Did he mention any one—in particular?"
"I gathered that he thought that all the officers of the post, from the general down, with perhaps two exceptions, distrusted him."
"And these two—were?"
"Captain Stannard, sir, and Captain Turner."
"I see," said Archer gravely. "Now, had anything happened—had anything been said or done to account for his—sensitiveness, we will call it?"
Malloy hesitated. "The general understands, I hope, that I am answering only as to impressions. I might be mistaken as to his meaning, and he might have been mistaken as to the meaning of the officer in the case."
"Then there has been a case? When and where?"
There was impressive silence in the dimly lighted mess room as the impromptu council sat about the table, Turner, with the relics of his hearty supper, at the other end of it. Every man present seemed to feel that here at last the clew to 'Tonio's double dealing was to be found. The answer came readily enough:
"At Bennett's Ranch, sir, the night it was burnt."
"Why—what happened there?" And Archer was evidently surprised.
"'Tonio said he was insulted before his own people—called a liar—struck with a gauntlet."
"Struck? 'Tonio? A chief, and a son of a chief—of a line of chiefs, in fact! Why, what man could have been—mad enough to do that?"
There was just a suspicion of satire, of humor, of possible malice in the answer, yet every one familiar with the traditions and the vocabulary—the nomenclature—of the old army of the old days, knew well the sergeant was well within his rights. Respect and regret intermingled were in tone and word as in his answer, all unwittingly, Malloy furnished the missing motive for 'Tonio's crime:
"It wasn't one of the men, sir. It was Lieutenant—Lieutenant Willett."
Then for a moment there was another silence. Bonner, Briggs and Strong exchanged quick glances. Archer's fine, clear-cut face took on a deeper shade, then he turned his chair to squarely face the sergeant.
"Did he explain—how it came about?"
"'Tonio said that he wished to go, and ought to go, with Lieutenant Harris—the lieutenant was his chief. Lieutenant Willett forbade, as I understand, and ordered him to stay, and he had to get Lieutenant Harris himself to explain the order before 'Tonio would obey. Then 'Tonio says the lieutenant ordered him to do something, I could not tell what. 'Tonio answered by telling Lieutenant Willett not to step on some moccasin tracks, and the lieutenant surely couldn't have understood him, for he grew very angry and—but, indeed, general, it's more than I know that I've been telling——"
But Archer had one more question to ask, and asked it, and when it was answered the council broke up with no man dissenting from the general belief in 'Tonio's attempted, yet baffled, revenge.
"Did 'Tonio tell you of what happened later—of his attempt to shoot at Lieutenant Willett?"
"Not a word or sign of that, sir!"
And yet it was 'Tonio's people who kept the faith as to bearing messages and giving safe conduct to Archer's people in the field. It was all past Archer's comprehension and that of the officers present. There was no Gray Fox there who knew Indians as they knew themselves. There was no genial, straightforward "Big Chief Jake," the fearless soldier leader from the lower reservation, from Camp Apache and the San Carlos, the man on whom the Gray Fox leaned, the man whom the hostiles dreaded, the "friendlies" trusted, and all frontiersmen, soldier or civilian, swore by. They could have fathomed it. Even blunt old Stannard, had he been there, could have thrown some needed light on the vexed and gloomy question. But in all Camp Almy that night there was only one officer who, knowing few of these facts, nevertheless knew 'Tonio so well, and so repented him of his own brief suspicion, that he would have called a halt to the order given Captain Turner within the hour—to send Sergeant Malloy, with a dozen men, as soon as the coast was clear of the hostile Apaches, to run down 'Tonio wherever he might be, to secure and bring him in, a prisoner bound, and if he sought to escape, to shoot him dead.
CHAPTER XIX.
An atmosphere of peace ineffable surrounded old Camp Almy. The Indians lately infesting the neighborhood seemed to have gone away into the mountain fastnesses. Turner had pushed little scouting parties cautiously into the foothills to the west and the rugged country eastward across the stream. Others had ventured down to the Peak and scaled it in search of signal smokes or fires. Others still had explored the valley toward Dead Man's Cañon, and back by way of Bennett's, without finding so much as a moccasin print. Even the Apache-Mohaves seemed to have gone from the neighborhood. Malloy with his chosen ten was still out, and a rumor was prevalent that their orders might keep them away some days, so no apprehension was felt at their continued absence.
Another week was nearing an end. A runner, Hualpai, had come in from the far north-east, with despatches from Stannard. He was with General Crook and their comrades from the northward camps and stations. They had abundant supplies, had scattered and driven the Tontos, had made some prisoners of squaws and pappooses, who, even to the general, declared they knew not where the Bennett children had been hidden. The general was expecting to work southward along the Black Mesa to meet the column out from the Upper San Carlos under Major Randall ("Big Chief Jake," the aforementioned) and between them they meant to leave no stone unturned in the effort to find the boys. Stannard enclosed a letter for his bonny wife, and closed with a word by way of postscript over which Archer and the three B's found themselves pondering not a little.
"Wish we had Harris and 'Tonio with us. Hope they are doing well. The general is anxious to meet and know them both."
Harris was not well. His convalescence had been interrupted and impaired, as we have seen, and no man thrives bodily when heart and soul are sore within him; and, heart and soul, Harris was sore. He was sitting up, to be sure, but it was plain to be seen he was suffering. Mrs. Stannard, wise woman that she was, believed she knew something of the cause and held her peace. Dr. Bentley, believing also that he knew something of the cause, was not so thoroughly wise. Between Mrs. Bennett, his patients at the hospital, mostly convalescent, and this young knight, the doctor was having a busy time of it. Mrs. Bennett improved not at all, but had at least become less violent in her anguish. At times she seemed almost in a stupor, and Mrs. Stannard was beginning to wonder whether the matron, worn out with her lamentations, had been administering surreptitious opiates. Mrs. Archer's visits had become less frequent, because for long hours she had had to go and sit with Lilian and her crippled hero. But now that hero was up and out on the veranda, basking in the sunshine of love unutterable, though enjoined as yet to avoid the fervor of that of Arizona. Willett had never appeared to better advantage in his life than now, in modestly accepting congratulations, manfully asserting his unworthiness of the blessing that had come to him, and his determination, please God, to live a life of devotion to his new-found delight, this sweet floweret of the desert that so suddenly, so wonderfully, so dominantly had come to gladden, to bless, to inspire his career. Love is a marvellous beautifier, mental, moral and physical. In such pure and exquisite companionship, in the radiance of her presence, in the ecstasy of her sweet, shy, still half-timid caress, in the undoubted honesty of his resolution to be all her fondest wishes would have him, and in no easily shaken conviction that, even as he stood, he was a remarkably fine fellow, well calculated to make any girl happy, it was not difficult for Willett to rise superior to his past—to forget it, in fact, and to fancy himself for all times the high-minded, love-guided gentleman he stood to-day. Why should he not to the full rejoice in her delicious homage?—indulge her sweet rhapsodies?—encourage her fond day dreams? It was so easy now to be all deference and tenderness to the gentle mother he was soon to rob of her one darling, to be all respect and attention to the gallant old soldier father, to be everything that was exquisitely tender, fond, impassioned to this innocent and lovely girl, who trembled with delight at his kiss and clung in speechless rapture to his side. Life for him, even here at desolate Almy, had suddenly become a veritable heaven. Small wonder then that he quite forgot the purpose of his coming, the sordid events that preceded that most fortunate catastrophe, the fire,—forgot or thrust aside all consideration of the episode at the store, the encounter at Harris's bedside, the events of the evening when he was hurled headlong among the rocks, the victim of 'Tonio's vengeful aim. He had even ceased to remember that he had ever been capable of considering "Hefty" Harris a rival, that he had ever been capable of undermining or intriguing or inspiring an official report that reflected sorely on Harris as an officer and leader. In his present mood, in fine, forgetful of all his past, his heart was overflowing with the milk of human kindness, even to Harris, and, having successfully tricked him out of everything worth having at the post, was quite ready to forgive him and once more be the friend, comrade and classmate of his own imaginings.
Harris alone had not come to congratulate him, but then, as Willett well knew, Harris could not. Mrs. Stannard and Dr. Bentley both reported him still too weak to walk about. He had had much fever and pain and loss of sleep, said they. But now, when in the soft light of this Friday evening, Willett essayed a stroll up the line, with Lilian almost dancing by his side, and with fond eyes following the graceful pair, he took it quite amiss that Harris did not come forth to envy, and to add his felicitations. Come to think of it, that very truthful woman, Mrs. Stannard (who never told even a society lie unless there was no way out of it), had brought no word from Harris, nor had Bentley mentioned such a thing, and this fact impressed itself upon the happy man as twice, thrice they slowly promenaded past the open door of the doctor's quarters without a glimpse of Harris, and, finally, on the fourth, the return trip, Willett in his exuberant bliss, would not be denied.
"Harris! O—o—o—Hefty!" he shouted. "Come out and see a fellow!"
For a moment, silence. Then, not so resonant but still clearly audible, for both men had voices that "carried" and were used to command:
"Come in, if you will. Can't come out!"
"I can't without leaving my convoy," was the return shout, but as Willett glanced down into the lovely face so near his shoulder, he found it paling just a bit, and troubled, not rejoiceful. "What is it, sweet? Don't you—care to see him?"
"I think—I don't know—but—hemight not."
It was too late. She would have led her lover away, for, young as she was, Lilian Archer had a woman's intuition, if not many a woman's wit. All on a sudden, unheard because of moccasined feet and the doctor's Indian matting, Harris stood in the doorway. He did not seem to look at Willett. His eyes at once sought her, and seemed closing to a slit as they encountered even the tempered light of declining day—the curious habit common to so many who have long scouted in the glare of desert suns. He hesitated not a moment. At sight of her he came quietly to the edge of the veranda and down the shallow steps, his face pale, as was to be expected, a grave smile upon his lips and even playing about the corners of those keen, blue-gray, unflinching eyes. He waited for no announcement or salutation from his brother officer—Mrs. Stannard and the doctor had told him the news two days before, and there had been ample time in which to digest it. Down in the depths of his heart he believed that Willett had planned this "coup" for his especial mortification, and down to the tip of his toes he longed to kick him for it, whereas in Willett's exuberant self-gratulation, the one thought at the moment was really a "Rejoice with me." That other men should envy was, of course, to be expected. What worth were any triumph without the joy of being envied!
All his life he had been used to it. All his life, in childish sports, in boyish contest, on campus, rostrum, field or floor, among the lads at school, his fellows at the Point, his comrades in the service, wherever physical beauty, grace, skill and strength could prevail he had ever been easily winner, and when it came to women, what maid or matron had withstood his charm of manner? What man had ever yet prevailed against it? That others should long and strive for that which had come to him, unsought, unwooed, was something he could neither obviate nor deny. That was Nature's gift to him at birth. It was even magnanimous that, knowing this power, he should so often spare. Maids indeed might sigh at his indifference, but their solace lay in the eager offerings of other and less gifted men. Suffice it for him that at his beck the best of them would quit the shelter of other arms and come fluttering to his own. But now, of course, all this power of fascination must be sternly tempered, even suppressed. Henceforth he must be guarded. The winning of this pure young heart, the possession of this sweet and winsome nature, the lavish homage of this fresh and fervent love should steel his hitherto vagrant fancy against all would-be-willing victims. The time had come when other women must be bidden, if need be, to droop and die. Henceforth he had naught to offer them but the contemplation of his content and her unquestioned queendom.
And so he could forgive it in Harris that he should come forth with no welcoming look for him, the conqueror, and only a yearning gaze for her. He could have felt quick resentment had Harris manifested nothing but rejoicing, even in expressing it. He had hated Harris when, deposed from his high rank as first captain of the Corps of Cadets, he had seen that far less showy soldier, his classmate, step easily into command and hold it with better discipline and ever-increasing respect from the entire battalion. The day of their departure from the Point had been to Willett an unforgotten, unforgiven lesson. It was the custom of the times—an unwritten, if unmilitary law—that on graduation day the class should appear at the mess hall at the dinner hour, and either singly or in little groups of two or three leave the building while the corps still sat at meat. It was even permitted that some should utter a word or two of farewell. Man after man Willett's fellows had taken their departure, and been accorded by the gray battalion a godspeed more or less thunderous as the individual was honored, popular, or merely a negative quantity. Willett had planned to be the last to leave, expectant of ovation that should out-thunder all others, but the officer in charge apparently would not see that regulations were being ignored, that cadets were on their feet about the head of certain tables, actually clinging to would-be going fellows, in unbecoming and unaccustomed "cits," while he was forcibly restrained by none. So, finally, waving his natty straw to table after table, he passed on to the broad-arched entrance, the clamor of voice and the battering of the old time iron stool beginning in kindly and cordial fashion—they would not send a dog away, those big-hearted fellows, without some show of friendliness—yet in all that array he numbered not one real friend, for self-seeking had ever been his creed and there was no man of their sturdy brotherhood that did not know it. Beneath the arch he turned and gazed once more over the familiar scene, his eyes dry and glittering, his throat dry and husky. Yearlings and some upper classmen were making lively play with stamp and stool, but the din was more perfunctory than powerful—nowhere near what had happened the moment before when two well-beloved fellows, with bowed heads and moistened eyes, had fairly rushed from the hall lest men should see that at last there had come realization that this was the parting of the ways, that the daily habit of four long years was shed forever, that to most of their number the greeting of the gray battalion would be given never again. But he had his wits about him, even then. He saw that now at last, with but four minutes left before the companies must rise and quit the hall, Harris was coming—the new-made first captain, adjutant and quartermaster escorting—the commandants of table all over the hall springing to their feet, and the wild rumble of hollow iron beginning the crescendo of swift-coming, stupendous thunder, and Willett stood and swung his hat, and classmates half-way down the slope turned back to see, and understood without seeing, that there was something back of it besides Willett. And then a tornado burst forth, as Harris, pale to the lips, halted at the door. His escort sprang aside, and to a man the battalion leaped to its feet and let go with voice and foot and hand, and the din was deafening. One moment he stood there, trembling with emotion, incapable of response, then whirled and darted down the steps, leaving Willett to acknowledge the tremendous ovation that speedily died away—almost to silence—ere he, too, turned and followed. "Good-by, fellows! God bless you!" shouted Willett, as though in final triumph. He had had the last word; had "taken the call," and the dramatic success of the day was his, or might have been, but for a most unprecedented incident.
"Hush! hush! Shut up!" were the stern, sudden words with which the elders repressed the juniors who, impulsively, would have broken forth again. "Wait! Wait, you fellows!" was the cry, for on a sudden half a dozen stalwart gray coats had sprung from the door, regardless of the corporal on duty, disdainful of demerit, had hurled themselves on wet-eyed Harris, had heaved him up on their shoulders, with pinioned, arm-locked, helpless legs, and frantic, impotently battling fists, and borne him struggling up the steps and once more within the massive portals, and then pandemonium broke loose, for this was no divided honor—there was none to share it now. They bore him, vainly protesting, into the midst of the now risen battalion. They bore him forth into the June sunshine without. They surged about him under the trees and along the roadway, his halted classmates gazing back from the brow of the bluff, a swarm of spectators looking on, a stupefied group surging out from the officers' mess, conceiving that fire alone could account for the tumult. Then, over the uproar, could be heard the orders of the new captain. "Form your companies!" the shouts of the sergeants: "Fall in, men, fall in!" And then the demand: "March us back, Hefty! Take command once more!" "Start 'em back, Harris, for God's sake! I can never straighten 'em out," cried his half-laughing, half-sobbing successor, his first sergeant of the year gone by. He stood there prisoner, held by the staff and special duty men. He could not get away. Even the saturnine officer in charge stood a smiling observer, and, catching the young graduate's eye, waved approval and encouragement, and so there was no help for it. With a voice half-broken through emotion, he gave the old familiar commands that, three times a day for nearly ten long months previous, had sent them striding back through the gap between the old "Academic" and the gray gables of the Mess, and so on to the broad area of barracks beyond. Then, breaking away, he sprang over the eastward edge of the road, joined the waiting group of classmates at the crest of the hill, and with one long look at the disappearing gray and white column, turned his face to the winding road and the landing below, where the whistling ferryboat lay impatient of their coming—whither Willett had already gone.
Was Willett thinking of that bygone scene this breathless evening in the heart of the desert valley, and the shadow of the westward mountain, as his once successful soldier rival came silently forward to grace his triumph in the field of love? Harris at least was not. His bearing was quite undramatic, simple, dignified. His greeting was almost too simple. "I can't give you my right hand, Miss Archer," said he, smiling gravely, "and I won't give a left-handed felicitation. It's my first opportunity," he continued, as he stood quietly before her, looking straight into her blushing face, "and I'm sorry it has to be in such shabby fashion." Then just as quietly and squarely he spoke to Willett, the gray-blue eyes looking keenly into the brown. "You are mightily to be congratulated, Willett," said he, "and we'll shake hands on it as soon as I have a hand to shake with."
"I knew you would, old fellow!" said Willett, putting forth the unoccupied hand and laying it upon the other's shoulder, a well-remembered way of his when he wished to be effusive. "I'm coming round presently to have a talk—but couldn't help coaxing you out now."
"How—isyour shoulder, Mr. Harris?" began our Lilian, all observant of physical ills. On these, at least, she could pour the balm of her sympathy.
"Doing finely, thank you; and, pardon me, but the general is signalling. You're both wanted, I judge," and then, like the Union force at Second Bull Run, fell back in the best of order, in spite of the worst of blows.
"I'll be with you again before a great while, Hefty, old boy," again called Willett over his shoulder, as though insistent on an invitation; but an assenting nod was all that came. The general had signalled to his children because of the concern in Bentley's face at sight of Harris confronting all that happiness, but Bentley need not have feared for him. He would not have feared could he have seen the little thing that happened. She had put forth a slender hand, half timidly, as Harris stepped backward. She was thinking even in the overmastering presence of this hero whom she worshipped, and to whose side she clung, of that moonlit evening on the veranda, of the hiss and skirr of the deadly rattler, of the peril that had menaced and the quick wit and nerve of him who had saved her, this very plain, sun-bleached, seasoned young knight, who seemed quite ready to risk life or limb in her defence, and who, said Willett, had lost most of his heart. It was foolish in him, with her Harold there; still it was something to be rewarded, somehow, and, womanlike, she tendered the contemplation of her inaccessibility in his rival's bliss. "You'll come to see us soon, Mr. Harris? I've so much to thank you for."
"Just as soon as the doctor will let me, Miss Archer," was his entirely proper answer, and quite as properly our Lilian breathed a little sigh of relief, as, nestling closer still, she sped lightly homeward, clinging to her lover's side. It was so sweet to think of him as all her own.
It is the mistake other and older girls so often make. Even as she prattled in her bliss, looking radiantly into the fond, soft brown eyes that melted into hers, the summons of a rival claimant came swiftly down the vale, and the sentry at the northward post and the loungers at the lookouts were already screwing their eyelids into focus on the little dust cloud popping up along the stream fringe of willow. Two couriers came presently jogging into view, and before the general sat in the famous butler's pantry chair at the family table, he had told the contents of two despatches from the Gray Fox in the field, and decided for the moment to say nothing of the third. With the first and second, reporting progress and enclosing despatches to be forwarded to Prescott, we have nothing to do. With the last we may feel less concern than did they. Mrs. Archer, scanning the clear-cut face of her soldier lord, as he came within range of the hallway lamp, knew perfectly well he had something to conceal, and with never an instant's doubt or hesitation set herself to aid him. Without her tact and skill that little dinner of four, the last they were to know in many a day, would have been a sorrowful feast, for Archer was sore troubled in spirit. Not until an hour later could she get him to herself, leaving Lilian and her handsome Harold to bill and coo unsupervised, and then she only smiled bravely up into his face and said, "Now tell me, dear."
"It's that—that fool despatch I wrote about Harris coming like a curse, and chickens, home to roost." His hands were tremulous, his lips were twitching as he took from its envelope and unfolded a letter in the well-known hand of the field commander's favorite aide-de-camp. "Read it aloud," he said; "perhaps it won't sound quite so—reproachful from you." And obediently she read: