PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.Camp near head of Chevlon's Creek,December 2, 187—.Dear General Archer:Referring to the final paragraph of your despatch to Department Head-quarters, dated November —th, General Crook directs me to say that he was unaware of the instructions given Lieutenant Willett, aide-de-camp, to proceed to Camp Almy, and practically authorizing him to make certain investigations. It was far from his desire that anything should be done to even inferentially reflect upon the conduct of scouting parties from the post under your control. From reliable sources General Crook has full information as to the cause of the apparent ill success of Lieutenant Harris. Neither was he, nor were his scouts, to blame. It is the general's intention to see you before returning to Prescott and give you the facts in his possession; but meantime Lieutenant Harris has his entire confidence, and so have the few Apache-Mohave scouts, especially 'Tonio, all of whom, it is feared, have in some way incurred your disfavor.Captain Stannard is away at this moment, but will assure you as to the value and gallantry of Harris's effort in behalf of poor Mrs. Bennett, and also that 'Tonio is almost equally entitled to credit. It was far from General Crook's intention that Lieutenant Harris should be impeded or hampered in the least. Lieutenant Willett has rendered distinguished service in the Columbia country, but is a stranger to the situation and the Indians we have to deal with, and should not be permitted in any way to interfere with Lieutenant Harris.Orders were sent Willett some ten days ago to join us in the field, but the couriers, returned to-day, report that he was not at Prescott. If he should be still in your neighborhood, kindly inform him of the general's desire, and give him sufficient escort. We move toward Camp Apache to-morrow, and Stannard is already ahead in hopes of rescuing the Bennett boys.With the general's warmest regards,Yours as ever,Bright.
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Camp near head of Chevlon's Creek,
December 2, 187—.
Dear General Archer:
Referring to the final paragraph of your despatch to Department Head-quarters, dated November —th, General Crook directs me to say that he was unaware of the instructions given Lieutenant Willett, aide-de-camp, to proceed to Camp Almy, and practically authorizing him to make certain investigations. It was far from his desire that anything should be done to even inferentially reflect upon the conduct of scouting parties from the post under your control. From reliable sources General Crook has full information as to the cause of the apparent ill success of Lieutenant Harris. Neither was he, nor were his scouts, to blame. It is the general's intention to see you before returning to Prescott and give you the facts in his possession; but meantime Lieutenant Harris has his entire confidence, and so have the few Apache-Mohave scouts, especially 'Tonio, all of whom, it is feared, have in some way incurred your disfavor.
Captain Stannard is away at this moment, but will assure you as to the value and gallantry of Harris's effort in behalf of poor Mrs. Bennett, and also that 'Tonio is almost equally entitled to credit. It was far from General Crook's intention that Lieutenant Harris should be impeded or hampered in the least. Lieutenant Willett has rendered distinguished service in the Columbia country, but is a stranger to the situation and the Indians we have to deal with, and should not be permitted in any way to interfere with Lieutenant Harris.
Orders were sent Willett some ten days ago to join us in the field, but the couriers, returned to-day, report that he was not at Prescott. If he should be still in your neighborhood, kindly inform him of the general's desire, and give him sufficient escort. We move toward Camp Apache to-morrow, and Stannard is already ahead in hopes of rescuing the Bennett boys.
With the general's warmest regards,
Yours as ever,
Bright.
"It's a very kind letter, dear," said she, kissing his wrinkled cheek. "General Crook wouldn't wound you for the world."
"It isn't—that, Bella," he answered sadly. "I've wounded myself, and now I've got to send—him—with word of my orders as to 'Tonio."
"Send him—word?" she faltered. "Do you mean——"
"Certainly, dear. Who should go—but Willett?"
CHAPTER XX.
It was then lacking nearly an hour of tattoo. Already the arriving couriers, their mission executed, their wearied horses turned over to willing hands at stables, their hunger appeased at the troop kitchen, and the pent-up hankering for beer still unassuaged, were "filling up" at the expense of their fellows at the store, and wistfully looking on at the game.
Muñoz, the ever-ready; Dago, the still demoralized, and one or two of their burro-bred community, were settled at monte, Dago and Muñoz eying each other like gladiators, and already a table had started at stud poker, that might readily develop into "draw." The barkeeper was a busy man, and had been given the tip to keep sober or lose the last hold he had on his job. The bookkeeper had for a few days past moved in silence about the premises, avoiding the common room as he would a lazaretto, avoiding even his kind. For most of the week he had been utterly unlike himself—strange, nervous, restless, starting at sudden sounds, abrupt in speech and manner, occasionally springing to the door and stepping forth into the sunlight, wandering about with hanging head and hands in pocket, coming back and slamming into his seat as though at odds with all creation, striving desperately to concentrate his thoughts on the columns of figures, and failing wretchedly. "Case is all broke up," said Craney, "and damned if I know why. Last week he was the most popular man in Yavapai, or all Arizona for that matter." What Craney and his partner mortally feared was that Case would take to drinking again, with pay-day close at hand—the time of all others Case had never yet failed them, the time of all others when breach of faith could mean nothing short of breach of all business relations. But up to ninep.m.this night of prospective relaxation Case had been a stalwart. The test was yet to come.
It was still half an hour of tattoo when old Bucketts came into Bentley's quarters and found that skilled practitioner replacing the bandages and sling on his patient's shoulder. The tidings brought by the couriers and given out by Archer had long since been digested. Bucketts had something new. "Doc," said he, "if you have anything to say or send to Stannard, now's your chance."
"Don't call me 'Doc'!" snapped Bentley. "If there's anything I hate it's this curtailing of titles as though they were too good for the man that bears them. One of these days you'll get your double bars, if you don't die of over-eating, and then how will you like it to be called 'cap'? How'd you like me to call you 'Buck' now? Who's going to Stannard?"
"Pass the 'buck,'" said the quartermaster sententiously. "I apologize. But Willett starts at day-break—takes a sergeant, six men and a pack outfit—thought you'd like to know. Leaves us with mighty few cavalry, now that Malloy and his people are still out."
"What keeps them?" asked Harris, looking up from Bentley's busy hands. "I never heard what they were after."
"You never will," said Bucketts, "unless they stumble on it by accident," then colored under the look of surprise, almost of reproof, in the younger officer's face. It was not good that a post commander's instructions to his men at arms should be slightingly spoken of by one of his staff, and Bentley knew it; but Bucketts was already mentally kicking against those very instructions. Now he stood abashed and awkward. That Willett should be going seemed to Harris of small matter—a matter of course. He wished himself again in Willett's place.
"How soon can you letmebe going?" he asked Bentley.
"We could have had you out by this time if you'd only quit fretting," was the gruff reply. "Well, I suppose Willett's glad of a chance to join his chief?" he said interrogatively, though never looking up.
"Not unless looks belie him," was the answer.
Bentley bent lower over his work. "No—physical hindrance that I know of," said he suggestively.
"It's financial, I take it," said Bucketts sturdily. "Our investigator finds it—expensive—here at Almy."
So the sore was rankling still, and that luckless order had hurt no one so much as him who bore it, and so those who might have been his friends were taking a certain malicious comfort in his discomfiture. It was not Willett's fault that he had come thus handicapped, but one thing added to another had made him the disliked of men. Was it in compensation for this that he stood so beloved of women? Then Bucketts, having thus relieved himself, ventured again a glance at Harris, and the younger soldier's eyes were on his, searching, questioning. It was for Bucketts to explain, and he did it thus:
"Excuse me, Mr. Harris; I am not over-partial to this distinguished classmate of yours, and, to put it flatly, I'm no more his friend that he is yours. I'll say good-night." Whereupon this blunt official turned and quit the room, colliding at the door with an entering form, that of Strong, whose impact added to the quartermaster's distemper, for Strong was in a hurry, and half-savage mood.
"Doctor," said he, bolting in, with scant apology to his staggered fellow staff officer, "Craney wants to know if you're coming down to-night. He's worried a bit about Case."
"What's the matter with Case?" asked Bentley, barely looking up from the final tie of the sling, while Harris settled back in his chair.
"That's what he wants to askyou. I don't know, except he says Case hasn't slept for six nights, and he'll be wild as a hawk when the paymaster gets here; wants you to give him something to make him sleep, I believe. I told him I'd tell you, and now the general's shooting off his quill at the office. Hope you're better, Harris. Good-night."
"Reckon I'll have to go down awhile, anyhow. Harris, what Bucketts said was true, though he oughtn't to have said it. Willett has been playing late these last two nights, with Watts, principally, but Craney says he seemed oddly anxious to get Case into the game, and Case wouldn't play—wouldn't stay about the place while Willett was there—wouldn't have anything to do with him. Willett has lost quite a lot, I'm told, and now he's ordered off."
Harris was still silent. He had no love for Willett, at best. He had had in their cadet days more reasons than one for his dislike. He had far more reason now, yet never dreamed of still another—that report to department head-quarters. But Willett was his classmate, and, outwardly, they were friends. Bentley and, in fact, all the officers at Almy were new-found acquaintances, well as some few were known to him by reputation. Still, it came to him something of a shock that Hal Willett should no sooner seem well enough to be about than he should turn directly from her good-night words—her kiss, perhaps—to the gambling table and its probable accompaniments. It boded ill for the happiness of that sweet girl's future, and as Harris sat brooding, Bentley, unheard, unnoted, slipped away, and presently, with brisk step and buoyant mien, Hal Willett himself came bounding in. Barely ten minutes ago Bucketts had given the impression that he seemed dejected, dispirited, yet Willett now was confidence and energy personified.
"Hefty, old boy, how much cash have you got in hand? I want three hundred dollars."
There was no answer for a moment. Well as Harris thought he knew Willett, this was a surprise.
"What for?" were the exact words of the response, and neither in tone nor manner were there encouragement.
"I've got to pull out at dawn, I suppose you've heard, and I shouldn't like to leave I.O.U.'s—here!" And now the cheery confidence seemed evaporating. Willett's face was shading.
"Won't you sit down?" asked Harris reflectively. "I'd like to know something about—this."
"There isn't time, Harris. I'm in a hole, so to speak. I hate to bother you, but I'd rather come to a classmate and old friend, who is in position, as I know, to help out, than give these fellows a chance to talk. Probably they've been talking already, and you've heard," and now, with something like a resumption of the old familiar manner of their boy days at the Point, Willett settled on the broad, flat arm of the reclining chair and threw his own arm, long and muscular, over the back. There had come to be a saying in the gray battalion, when Willett was seen strolling with a comrade, his arm caressingly encircling him, "Well, Willett's doing the bunco act again." Possibly it was the instinctive shrinking of the wounded shoulder; certain it was that Harris drew perceptibly away, and Willett noticed it. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" said he.
"It's rather touchy yet," was the answer.
"Well, say, Hefty, here's the situation. You don't play, so you won't appreciate, maybe, and I only play once in a good while, but they rung in a brace game on me. That fellow Case is no better'n a professional, and you saw for yourself here what a cad he could be. He got my money that Saturday night and Sunday, and since then, like the cad he is, has refused to play it out—give me a chance to get it back——"
"Do you play with cads?" interrupted Harris.
"Not when I know it—to start with," answered Willett, flushing and beginning to draw away. Obviously the affectionate and confidential method was a failure. "But when a man's got your money, cad or no cad, you want it back."
"And Case has your three hundred dollars?"
"Just about. Then I owe Craney and Watts quite a lot. I lost a hundred in cash in the first place. I never saw such luck in all my life! And now, instead of going back to Prescott, I've got to skip for the war-path. Watts says the money he gave me in chips he owes to others who were in the game at one time or other, and he needs currency, not I.O.U.'s. Looks like a regularcombine, doesn't it?"
"You couldn't expect to win—everything there was in sight," said Harris quietly.
Willett flushed again. He had slipped from the broad arm to the narrow camp chair recently occupied by the doctor. Harris was displaying unexpected resistance. Willett had been accustomed to speedier surrender to his advances.
"It's more on that account than any other I hate to leave here with these things hanging over me," he answered moodily. Then, by way of expediting matters, "Time's mighty short—short asIam—and Watts says you have a stack of greenbacks in the safe."
Again silence a moment. Then Harris turned fully upon his visitor and spoke deliberately.
"You ask me to do what I declared three years ago I never would do, and that I have refused to do ever since—loan a man money with which to gamble or pay gambling debts. I need this money, Willett, to send home. I've been saving and sending home ever since I joined, but that's not why I won't play—and don't drink."
"Oh, we know how virtuous you are!" began Willett, with something like a sneer, but was checked with sudden, startling force. Harris almost sprang from his chair.
"None of that, Willett!" he cried, his voice harsh with anger. "Your ways and mine are wide apart, but I'll stand no sneering. You come to me for help and you're going to get it, not because you scoff at my views, but in spite of it; not for your sake, but that of the old Academy. You and I are the only West Pointers at this post, bar the dear old general. You and I are classmates, and I know you, anddon'tbelieve in you, but the money's yours for the asking. You say you come to me as an old friend, and I have never had faith in your friendship. I know how other men's and some women's names have suffered at your hands, and I don't know what you may have done to mine, but——" and now Harris was on his feet, standing over Willett—sitting there gripping the frail arms of a canvas-covered straddle-box, and looking up into the elder soldier's—the junior officer's—face in amaze. Never before had Willett been so braved by man or woman—"But your name shall be protected for just two reasons—and protected just so long as you can show you're worth it. But—Willett, I'm not preaching on drink or gambling now. There's another thing you've got to stop—or I'm done with you." And then Harris himself stopped short.
"I don't know what you mean," began Willett, shifting uneasily.
"Youdoknow what I mean! You've only to go back to your graduating June, when you were spooning day and night over a society flirt there at the hotel—a married woman at that—and your mantel-shelf was stacked high with unopened, unanswered letters from the poor girl you were engaged to. You were, Willett, in sight of God and man, so don't deny it! And she was telegraphing to me in pity to say was Harold sick—or what. She broke with you, of course, after you broke her heart. And you've been at that sort of thing ever since, unless the Division of the Pacific is a nest of liars—oh, bosh! I don't count Case, though it's like enough he told the truth. But now, Willett, you'rehere! and—what have we to expect at Almy?"
"Damn my past all you like, Harris. No man's more ashamed of it than I, but don't damn my future!" And now Willett was onhisfeet, his eyes snapping, his face aflame. "I was never so earnest in my life. [Small comfort that! thought Harris.] I never knew before what it was to be utterly in earnest. Stop it! Why, man, where have I—or you—ever known a girl likeher? Stop it! Oh, here, Hefty, I can't talk as I feel. Youmustsee how different this is—how much this means to me! The man doesn't deserve to live that—that could be untrue to a girl like that?"
"That's—sound enough," said poor Hefty. "But how long will you hold to it?"
"So long as I live, Harris," was the solemn, the surprising answer. "God knows I mean it," and Willett held forth his hand.
And Willett believed he meant it—firmly, solemnly believed he meant it, and his handsome face was never handsomer, never more eloquent of love, repentance, determination to do a man's manful part in furtherance of his devotion than at this moment when, in the dimly lighted, scantily furnished, low-ceilinged little room, these two men of different mould, these classmates of the nation's soldier school, stood and looked into each other's eyes, and slowly Harris began to stretch forth his left hand, then, stopping suddenly, slipped the right forearm from its broad white sling, steadied the elbow with his left, and slowly turned the thin, feeble fingers to meet the warm clasp of that before him.
"It's one of 'Tonio's tricks," said he. "Mano recto, mano cierto.Stick to that, Willett, and, by God, I'll stand by you in spite of everything I've ever thought or heard. Steady!"
Somebody was at the door. Harris saw and checked the effusive thanks on Willett's lips.
"What's that about 'Tonio?" said a ringing voice, as a "blouse" and buttons followed the blue sleeve into the field of vision, and the adjutant came slowly in. "Queer! D'you know I was thinking of him that very minute. Signal fire out south-east! Some Indians want to talk and afraid to come in. Turner's gone out with a squad to sample 'em. Willett, how soon are you coming over? The general's got the despatches ready."
"Right away, if you like! What's it now?"
"Ten twenty," said Strong, with a squint at his watch. "There's no hurry. He's writing personals now, and Bentley's just up from the store. There's news in of some kind from McDowell way, and Muñoz and Sanchez have jumped the game and quit. You'll probably have 'Patchie guides after all, Willett. Going down to the store after awhile?"
"For a moment, perhaps, after I've said good-night at the general's," answered Willett, anxious now to end the business and be away. But in came Bentley.
"Get back to the office, Strong," said he; "the general wants you; Turner's in and says there's no one near the fire, no one to answer. All they found was this. The general thought you might understand it, Harris. It lay on a rock by the fire."
He held forth a single feather, gray and white, tied with a bit of pink tape to a scrap of cardboard, torn from some cartridge case and folded over. Within, roughly traced in paint, were two figures—a 3 and a 2.
"It means, 'Tonio," said Harris simply, "and he wants to talk. What has happened that he should be afraid to come in—here?"
Willett heard and knew and would have stayed, but the doctor for once looked embarrassed, and Strong signalled Willet to come with him. "I'll be back presently, Hefty," said Willett significantly, and vanished.
Even then Bentley faltered. "I'll let the general answer that," said he. "How can 'Tonio be summoned in?"
"Only as I did, at the Peak, and on honor that he may go," was the answer. "Unless—I can go out to him."
"You can't—to-night, anyhow! Is there no one else he'll meet who can understand him?"
"Only one American—Case."
"Humph!" was the answer, with a shrug and a keen, inquiring look in the doctor's eyes. "I've shown it to Case, and he says 'Tonio has only one object in life now, in or out of the post, and that is to square accounts with Willett, who was ass enough to strike him. This from Case, mind you, who, I believe, hates Willett himself. I've just got him stowed away for the night. Had to take him out of earshot of the store and put him in limbo at Craney's shack, where he can't hear what's going on. I gave him a dose that would flatten out St. Vitus himself. There'll be no budging Case this night unless—but that isn't likely."
"Then I need to go and see the general," said Harris.
"Then the general will come to see you—here. My word for it," said Bentley, and went his way.
It was then nearly eleven. Five minutes later Willett, with relieved heart and elastic step, was hastening back to the general's quarters where sweet, yet tearful, welcome awaited him. An hour later he stepped forth into the starlight, turning to kiss his hand and wave silent good-night to a slender, shadowy form at the doorway, under the shelter of the gallery. Something in its pathetic droop and distress called him once again to her side, and with fond, clasping arms he drew the sobbing girl to his heart and pressed kiss after kiss upon the upturned, tear-wet little face. "Try to sleep, my darling!" he murmured. "Mother will wake you at four, and we'll have a moment before I go!"
"Mother won'thaveto wake me!" she cried, clinging to him the while. "Oh, Harold, if you only had not—to meet 'Tonio again!"
"No fear of 'Tonio, sweetheart," he answered. "Now, go Imust!" And so, with her kiss upon his lips, he left her to be led by loving mother hands to her little white room, and to her humble prayers, and the love-guarded pillow, where, lying wide-awake, still an hour later, she heard the shot and stifled scream that called a garrison to arms.
CHAPTER XXI.
The early game at Craney's had languished that evening. It was too near pay-day—the wrong way—for money to be burning in soldier's pockets, and when the soldier has none the garrison hanger-on has no one to look to. The couriers from the field column, being comfortably filled and fairly well tired, meandered off with their martial chums at tattoo. The few ranchers and packers hovered about the monte table awhile, hopeful, perhaps, of a clash between Dago and Muñoz, but even this hope was crushed when, just about taps, two belated Mexicans, innocent or reckless of the proximity of signalling Indians across the stream, came mule-bestriding into the glare of the common room sconces and "olà'd," for Sanchez, who hurried out to meet them, heard their excited tale, cashed in his few chips, and took himself and fellows off. "Barkeep" stuck his head through the port-hole to the adjoining sanctum where sat Craney, Watts, and that semi-military official known as the "contract doctor," expectant, possibly, of others coming, and told them of the "greasers'" doings, whereat Case, nervously, irritably pacing the floor, looked up in sudden interest and speedily plunged out into the darkness. Then Bentley had come, just at the time when the few packers and ranch folk were making a noise, and Case had reappeared, looking wilder, if anything, and declaring the greasers must have gone down to the old Sanchez place, Indian or no Indian. Then Bentley had felt his pulse and asked a lot of questions, and led him off into a corner for a little talk, and finally had prevailed on him to try to sleep in the vacant room at the "Shack," as Craney's own log-built cabin was called, and had led him away thither. He had never fairly gotten over the recent spree, said Craney. He would never explain what had induced him that Sunday afternoon to quit his old resort in the willows and go up to the officers' quarters, but go he had, for "Sudstown" had seen him, and had seen him later slinking back the longest way round to the store, keeping far from everybody, and looking badly shaken up. It was known, somehow, that he had been to the doctor's quarters, and, being half drunk, had got into Lieutenant Harris's room and there had made some noise and been ordered out. Rumor had it that there had been a scene between him and Lieutenant Willett, of which neither would speak, and the doctor had laid his commands on the attendant to know absolutely nothing about it—indeed, there was little he did know, save that there had been a disturbance. It was supposed at the store, and generally in the garrison, that Case had been drinking just enough to make him irresponsible, and in this condition he had ventured up to the post and made an ass of himself just when he was being trumpeted as a lion. Then, instead of having his spree out he had tried to taper, hence the highly nervous condition that had followed, which, instead of getting better, seemed getting worse.
"I've fixed him," said Bentley, "provided he keeps his word," and then, bidding Craney good-night, had gone to garrison, and found the general perturbed over Turner's report and the story about Muñoz. Together they had gone to the store again, the general and his medicine-man, to have some half-breed interpret the message of the feather, but by this time none was left. Together they had looked in on Case and found him drowsy and indifferent, but both the commander and his faithful ally distinctly heard his half-mumbled words as to 'Tonio's one object in life ere they came away, satisfied that Case would be of no further use for another night and day. Then Bentley had hurried to his other patient with the result we have already noted, and a little later the general went with him for still another visit, to soothe and reassure Harris, for the invalid officer was mad to be up and doing. There was something in the air.
Later still a stupid three-handed cribbage game was going on when, after eleven o'clock, Willett came briskly in. Strong had about given him up and was going home in spite of an unsettled account in his favor, which Willett had proposed to play off. They were all tired and ready for bed, and were only up because Willett was to leave andshould"square things" before leaving the post. The cribbage game stopped at sight of him. Craney went with him to the private desk in the inner office, whence in five minutes out he came, buoyant as before, declined to sit in again, laughingly said he'd take his revenge on the back trip later, called for a night-cap all round, bade everybody in the room a cordial good-night and good-by, and left with Strong at his heels.
"By gad!" said Craney, "he may not play like a sport, but he pays like one, and a game one," and he locked a roll of treasury notes in his safe. Then he and Watts and the disappointed deputy doctor went off to bed, leaving "barkeep" to close up when the few loungers quit paying for drinks, and only in the common room was there further stir about the store. Arrived at the shack, as Craney declared in the morning, he had taken a candle and gone softly to the back room where he found Case in bed and either dozing or drowsy or drugged—at all events he cared not to speak. His hat, coat and trousers hung on a chair; his shoes were at the foot of the bed, his watch on the table by his side, his money was locked in the trader's safe. Some medicine and a spoon stood by the watch. There was no light in the room save that which Craney carried; the one window was blanketed; sufficient air came through the loopholes, and the window sash was down against the hound pups that would otherwise have had free entrance. Then Craney went to bed and almost immediately to sleep, and heard nothing until after one o'clock, when, with shocking news, men came banging at his double-locked and bolted door.
Strong was one of the first to stir him, and Strong's face was white, as well it might be. As the sentries began calling midnight he had left Willett at the office, saying he must turn in for a few hours' rest. Willett, seemingly in excellent spirits, had been writing a few pages and addressing envelopes.
"I'll follow in twenty minutes or so," said he, "for I, too, need a snooze. I'll be up as soon as I've finished a little business." Strong had gone almost immediately to his pillow and to sleep, and was roused by the corporal of the guard who had run in to call him with the news that Lieutenant Willett had been shot dead.
At the moment of the shooting, so later said the guard, the waning moon, only a dull crescent, was up far enough above the eastward heights to throw a faint gleam over the valley. One of Turner's own men was on post at the south-east corner, and his yell for the corporal, instantly following the distant shot, was so excited and vehement that the infantry non-commissioned officer, who went at a run, was minded to rebuke him for raising such a row over a mere shooting scrape among the Mexican packers. "Packers, your granny!" said Number Six. "It's Lieutenant Willett that's shot, and I know it! He came down out of the office not twenty minutes ago and went straight out south for Craney's shack, and I'm betting he's done for."
And so indeed it looked when they found him but few minutes later—the whole guard, save the relief on post, coming swift at the run to the corporal's cry, and the garrison turning out, thinking sure it was fire. Three hundred yards or so south and east of the shack they found him lying flat on his face, which seemed forced into the soil, senseless, and for the moment apparently dead. Even when they turned him over and dashed water into his face, and brushed away the sand, there was no sign of life, nor sign of shot wound. Not until the doctor came on the run, urged by breathless messenger, was the tiny bullet-hole found under the left armpit, and such blood as had escaped seemed absorbed by the underwear. Internal hemorrhage was feared as they unfastened his uniform and sought for further wound and found none. Craney bade them carry him to his own room, where there would be better light, and while some of them laid him on Craney's bed and others carefully scouted the surrounding willows for trace of the assassin, and others still went in and stirred up Case, sleeping heavily, stupidly, "like a hog," said an indignant few until told of the doctor's "dope." Then Bentley came and drove all but an attendant or two, and Strong and Craney, from the room, until the general arrived, his own face ashen, to ask what hope was left, got but a dubious headshake in reply, and then sat him down, buried his sorrowing white head in his hands, and began to upbraid himself:
"It's all my fault—my doing," said he. "I see it all. I said the words that sent him!"
And then to Bentley and Craney the veteran soldier told his story. He had had difficulty, as Bentley knew, in persuading Harris not to get up—not to attempt to find 'Tonio that night; to wait until day, when the Indian more easily might be reached. It was late when he left Harris, and was surprised to see lights at the office. There, all alone, was Willett, writing, and to Willett Archer told the message of the feather, and of Harris's eagerness to find 'Tonio at once.
"Harris still holds that 'Tonio is utterly wronged, or at least utterly misunderstood," said he, "and that, Indian as he is, 'Tonio would not revenge himself on you as we supposed. 'Tonio knows he is suspected of the attempt to kill you, and yet wishes to come in and be tried. All he asks is fair play and trial before Crook himself. Then," continued Archer, "I asked Willett in so many words if it were true that he had struck 'Tonio with a gauntlet that night at Bennett's, and he said, reluctantly, it was—that 'Tonio had been insolent, insubordinate, that that was the way he had always dealt with such cases. Perhaps with men like 'Tonio it was all wrong, but he had never met Indians like 'Tonio before. I told him gravely that he had made a serious error, and that he should lose no time in getting word to 'Tonio that he realized this and desired to make amend. Willett said he would do it the very first time they met—that he knew how to bring 'Tonio in and would talk to him, man to man. I told him that it would be well to do this before quitting the valley, on his way out in the morning, perhaps. But, my God!" continued poor Archer, as he glanced at the senseless form over which physician and attendants were still working, "I never dreamed of his going out to-night. He said he should signal for a talk at the moment of starting with his escort, and so, probably, meet 'Tonio near the Peak."
A solemn little gathering was this at the shack, while up at the quarters two sorrow-stricken women, Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard, were striving to soothe and still poor Lilian, to whom the truth had had to be told. All the officers were up and astir, some of them conferring with their gray-faced commandant at the doorway, others heading the search over among the willows and down the stream. A strange fact had developed. Only one shot had been heard, only one shot hole had been discovered (and the probe indicated that the bullet, having struck a rib, had been deflected downward, where it was not yet located), but while this had produced shock and, possibly, temporary unconsciousness, it was another blow, one with a blunt instrument, probably more than one, upon the back of the head, that resulted in this prolonged stupor. Not once had Willett regained consciousness, nor, said Bentley, was it likely that he would. Bentley feared concussion of the brain.
Turner, a capital trailer, with some of the best of his men, was working down stream, and all who knew Turner felt that no trace would be bunglingly trampled out. The few pathways along the west bank, through the willows, showed recent tracks on only one, where the Mexicans and half-breeds had scurried away toward the old Sanchez place. Already a strong party had been sent thither in search, but meantime Turner was looking, as he frankly said, "for 'Tonio's tracks about the ford," for within forty paces of the lower ford poor Willett was found, and in the minds of every man and woman who could hold a listener that night no other explanation was either sought or expected. The fact that both shores of the stream were stony above and below the spot—that it would be easy for an Indian to conceal them, would account for it if their footprints were lacking, but lacking they were not. In a dozen places about the ford and down the east bank, in a dozen places around the spot where lay the stricken officer, the earliest comers had seen and marked and protected against obliteration print after print of the moccasins of the Apache-Mohaves—'Tonio's own band. This in itself was wellnigh proof positive, but more was to come.
Willett's trail was easily found and followed. Straight and swift he had gone across the flats from the post of Number Six, until within a hundred yards of the store, when, attracted possibly by the bleary lights still remaining in the barroom, he had veered that way until his footprints were merged with dozens of others in the path. Presently they were found again, passing between the store and the shack, around in rear of the low log building, where at that time, presumably, Craney, Watts and Case were asleep in their respective rooms. It seemed as though he had paused and moved about a little in rear of the shack as though in search of some one, and then had gone straight out beyond, heading for the nearest clump of willows south of the ford, and there it was found that the moccasin print overlaid that of the San Francisco boot and followed it up stream to where the torn and trampled sands, close to the brink, told of furious struggle. Moreover, this one moccasin print was wet and came over the stones and up the bank just about where Willett had reached it, and paused a moment or two before turning away. At this point the stream babbled over rocky shallows, and it was possible to cross by springing from rock to rock without wetting a sole, but whoever had crossed here had been hurried and incautious. One foot had missed, slipped or trailed, and its covering was soaking wet as it followed on up the bank. It was still wet enough to leave, as the lantern determined, a perceptible trace on the broad stepping-stones just below the placid pool at the ford, where the shores were low and sandy again—so wet, in fact, that the stain toward the opposite bank and on the farthermost stone became a splash so dark that the foremost sergeant, swinging his lantern aloft, sung out to his follower, "Watch out! It's blood!" and blood it proved to be—there and thereafter, down the opposite bank.
Yet not a drop was seen on the sands where Willett fell. Then his assailants had not escaped unscathed. Unarmed as he was, the officer had made a desperate fight for life.
"Now's the time to nab him!" said Turner, as he carried the report to Archer. "'Tonio has managed to elude Malloy's party, probably by leading them off on a false scent, but now we have blood to follow. Let me send out a platoon, mounted, and we may nail the gang before sunrise."
It was then short of two o'clock, and while busy trailers followed on with their lanterns down the eastward bank, and were presently seen flitting like fireflies far south among the willows, Turner himself, with a score of his men, hastened back to quarters. There was saddling in hot haste, yet with the precision of long practice. By half past two all sight or sound of the trailers and the pursuing horsemen was lost in the distance, and a corporal, trotting back from the Sanchez place, reported that Muñoz and some of his fellows had joined in the search, and already with important result. Captain Turner sent him back with his compliments to the commanding officer.
In the presence of Bonner, Bucketts and Strong, the general took the package, something heavy, bundled in the red silk handkerchief Turner had torn from his own brawny throat. A scrap of paper went fluttering to the ground, which the adjutant quickly recovered and handed to his chief, who read aloud in the dim candle light the words: "It might be well to keep this from Harris, at least to-night."
Looking a trifle dazed, Archer unrolled the silken folds, and laid on the office table the handsome, silver-mounted Colt revolver of the old calibre 44 model Willett had lost that Sunday night of his perilous adventure up the valley. There it was, inscription and all, every visible chamber still loaded, its murderous leaden bullet showing in the candle light. Archer slowly drew back the hammer. The cylinder slowly revolved. The barrel-chamber swung as slowly into view, black, powder-stained, and—empty. One shot, then, had been fired and very recently. Who could have had it all this time but 'Tonio? Who else could have fired it?
CHAPTER XXII.
Turner and his men were gone all night, all the next day, and much of the night that followed. Then they began drifting back in squads of three or four. By noon the second day the captain himself, with the main body, returned, dispirited, mystified. They had lost the trail near the Picacho, found it again, lost it, found it, scoured the foothills and scouted the east face of the Mazatzal, and came back empty-handed. Willett's pistol was the only thing recovered, even with such aid as could be rendered by some of the Sanchez party, Muñoz and José being most energetic in their aid—"'Patchie" Sanchez being, of course, nowhere visible. 'Patchie had affairs of his own to answer for and explain against the homeward coming of the Big Chief Crook, and was shy of Saxon society in consequence.
And Turner was plainly nettled and chagrined. He and his troop were about as expert trailers as could be found in our cavalry, which, in the old Arizona days, meant not a little. Turned believed that 'Tonio had dared to venture close to the sentry line, had lured his enemy to the fords, and there, aided by one or two of his band, had done him near to death, then fled for the fastnesses of the mountains. Turner believed that 'Tonio, or one of his people, was wounded and could be overtaken. The trail was easy as much as a mile down stream, and then became difficult. Turner had accepted the proffered aid of Muñoz and certain of their set. They were all up, it seems, by the time he reached the ranch, having been routed out earlier by the first explorers from the post, Sergeant Connelly and party, who stated that they found the "hull outfit asleep," this in spite of the fact that a game seemed to have been going on earlier in the night, for the paraphernalia were in evidence, also a moderate supply of liquid mescal.
Now mescal in those days was not distilled north of the Gila—was brought by devious route, when brought at all, from Mexico, and "Greaser" packers, who were models of temperance when only Gringo whiskey or German beer could be had, would sometimes stampede at the mere whisper of mescal. Yet here was mescal, and here were some, at least, of the Sanchez "outfit," sober and fit for business. Then it must be that the three who lay stupefied had had money to invest at monte, and had been plied with mescal until both cash and consciousness had left them, and all this would account for the sudden hegira from the store the evening preceding the shooting.
But in spite of their vehement assertions that 'Tonio had been signalling that very day—that they could point to the tracks of himself and his fellows in several places along the stream—these energetic and swarthy sons of the Incas could by no means find 'Tonio, or one of his tribe, when given the chance to lead and the backing of armed troopers. 'Tonio, well or wounded, was far too wary for them and, after hours of brag and bluster, not a vestige of him did they discover beyond a few scattered footprints and that one revolver, concerning which, it seems, Muñoz told sensational tales. He declared he had found it glinting in the moonlight just at the foot and to the right of the trail leading from the low ground to the summit of Squadron Peak. His story, indeed, was so positive and plausible that valuable time had been lost while some of Turner's most active troopers scaled the height in search of the fugitives whom Muñoz thought more than likely must be there, and José had agreed with him. Once well up among the rocks of the Mazatzal, after sunrise, these valued allies became bewildered and gave out, were handed a canteen and ration of crackers apiece and left to limp back to the shack, while Turner pushed on. They were at the store, recuperating, when his people reappeared at Almy, and each had derisive and uncomplimentary things to say of the other. Moreover, there was internal dissension among the Mexicans themselves. Dago's disgust with Muñoz seemed rekindled, while the sore-headed trio, done out of their money by aid of mescal, were slinking about the shack, looking unutterable things. When rogues fall out honest men profit, if they are wise and wakeful, and now, at a time when something of advantage might be learned, the interest of the garrison seemed centred about the general's quarters, whither Harold Willett had been borne, still senseless and in desperate case. Bentley could not say that he would live, yet had been heard to say he believed the bullet not yet cast that could kill him.
There had been a difference between Archer and his surgeon. The shack was no place for a patient in such a plight. It was on low ground, hot and stuffy in spite of high ceilings. Bentley wished him borne on elastic litter to hospital. Archer said bear him to his quarters, Mrs. Archerwouldhave it, and it was so ordered and done. Bentley wished to find that bullet, the blunt, old-fashioned, soft lead plug, and find it he had, lying fortunately close under the skin, after traversing several inches of Willett's anatomy without piercing a vital organ. It was cut out with little time or trouble, and set aside, sealed for future reference. Fever, of course, set in, and where, asked Archer, could more devoted nurse or nurses be found, and, in the absence of the patient's own mother, what woman had better right?
It wasn't so muchthat, said poor Bentley, as that they might overdo it—wear themselves out, and the patient, too. Willett was babbling in feverish delirium when his litter was borne into the general's dark hallway, and the patient thence to the white cot prepared for him, where Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard at first were installed as nurses. Bentley shook his head over the arrangement, and later he spoke of it to Harris who sat thoughtful, troubled and ill at ease.
Bentley had told him of the discovery of the revolver and the universal connection of 'Tonio with the attempted murder, and Harris bowed his head wearily upon his hands: "I will not believe it," was all he said.
A sergeant and six men had gone with despatches and orders to find the field column along the Black Mesa. A runner had been sent to McDowell with the news, and another to Camp Sandy, where was Colonel Pelham, the district commander, giving details of the attempted assassination of the young staff officer, and warning all to arrest 'Tonio on sight. The affair was the one topic of talk in every barrack room, mess, and gathering at the post, and the subject of incessant comment and speculation at the store. That 'Tonio was the culprit no man was heard to express the faintest doubt. There were some who went so far as to say thatanyman, officer, soldier or civilian, who dared to strike an Indian of 'Tonio's lineage had nothing less to expect. The one question was, how had 'Tonio succeeded in luring his victim, unarmed, to the spot, and why had he left his vengeance unfinished? The one man along officers' row to express dissent from public opinion was Lieutenant Harris; the one man at the store to sit in unresponsive silence was Mr. Case—the bookkeeper.
Busy with his books, making up for the lost time, he said, sitting long hours at his desk, within earshot of almost everything, and hearing every theory expressed, he never so much as opened his lips upon the subject further than to say that, from all accounts, the lieutenant brought it on himself, and should never have ventured out alone, much less unarmed.
"You didn't like him any too well yourself," bluntly hazarded Bonner, two days after the tragedy, and, somehow, a rumor of a row between them at the doctor's quarters was again in circulation.
"I didn't," said Case, imperturbably. "But that score is settled."
In the course of the prompt investigation made by Archer during the daylight hours that followed the affray, Bentley had deemed it a duty to tell the commander of the disturbance between Willett and Case, ascribing it to Case's vinous excitement after some transaction at cards, and though Archer believed the bookkeeper totally innocent of any part in the distressing affair that followed, both he and Bentley believed it due to everybody that Case's possible connection with it be looked into. With Craney they visited Case's own sanctum in the store building not two hours after the sound of the shot. There in its accustomed place was Case's revolver, every chamber loaded and a thin coating of dust on the grip. Case's pistol then had not been used. Bentley went in and examined the medicine glass—this was toward four o'clock—and apparently Case must have taken, said Bentley, at least four doses. That much at any rate was gone, and Case was sleeping so heavily he could hardly be roused—could hardly be kept awake, begged thickly, sluggishly, to be allowed to "sleep it off," as though he thought he must have been drinking again. Bentley brought out one of Case's boots, and the track it fitted could be found all over the flats, about the store, shack and stream, and proved nothing at all, for everybody knew he had been wandering aimlessly about for days and nights past. The window shade or blanket had been disarranged and the window had been raised a few inches, probably for air. Everything else was as Craney remembered seeing it before he turned in, and the inference was clear to every mind that Case had never left the room and probably, after the second dose, never left his bed.
And now, from Turner down, all troopers lately afield in search of 'Tonio were again at Almy, discomfited, disheartened. "Hunting for a needle in a haystack without a magnet," said Turner, "is no more fruitless than scouting for Apaches in these mountains without Apache scouts. There is only one way," said he, "to capture 'Tonio. 'Set a thief to catch a thief; set an Indian to catch an Indian.'" But the few Indian scouts assigned to Almy had all been drafted away with Stannard and the field columns in the Mogollon. "Even had they been available," said Archer, who listened with gloomy brow, "Harris says no Apache-Mohave would betray 'Tonio, and no Apache-Yuma dare do it," and now, as never before, Archer had taken to long talks with Harris—who would gladly have had him keep away.
"Youngster," said Bentley, looking his patient keenly over the second day after what had come to be called "the shooting," "I'm blessed if I'm not getting discouraged on your account. Here I have had you within reaching distance of 'fit for duty' twice, and both times you've gone back on me. It's my belief you'd be better anywhere else than here. Almy's too high strung for your temperament."
"Get me once in saddle and I won't come back—or go back on you," said Harris. "How's Willett?"
"High fever, tossing and talking—talking too damned much! You're sitting up much of the time day and night now. You need air and change, yet cannot stand jarring, or I'd take you driving."
"Let me ride a mule."
"I would, if I were sure of the brute behaving, but you never can tell what a mule will do, and now—there's no telling what Willett may say."
"What do you mean?" asked Harris, though he had some reason to know.
"Just this. He's muttering about matters none of us now want to hear, and want none of the Archers to hear. I've got Mrs. Archer out for a time, and going to get Mrs. Stannard in for a time, but there's that poor child upstairs going all to pieces for fear that beautiful boy may die, when—it's—it's—damnit, it's my profound conviction it would be the best thing that could happen!" and with that Bentley turned about and strode heavily out of the house.
Just at sunset that winter's evening, when all the eastward heights were a blaze of gold, and the far away fringe of the Mogollon was tipped with fire, and the rounded poll of Squadron Peak shone dazzling against the southward sky, the lookout on the scaffolding above the office set up a shout that brought half the garrison to its feet.
"Horsemen coming! McDowell road!"
It so happened that, just at the moment, Mrs. Stannard was walking slowly and thoughtfully from the direction of the hospital to her lonely roof. She had been to see Mrs. Bennett, whose general condition appeared a little more favorable, but who lay long hours moaning for those she had lost. Turner, coming in from the corrals, had joined Mrs. Stannard for a moment, but at sound of the alarm raised his cap and hurried straightway to the southward bluff. It might even mean a mail. The days were long to Mrs. Stannard and the nights were weary, for one anxiety followed another, and now, when she had so hoped that all might be gladness and sunshine for the sweet, unspoiled army girl, to whom her heart had so fondly opened, here at the very outset of her dream of love and delight, the grim Destroyer threatened, and even if Fate should spare the life of Harold Willett was it at all certain that that life would be what Lilian Archer deserved?
All in three minutes that afternoon, while bending over the unconscious sufferer, replacing with cool, fresh linen the heated bandages on his brow, she had heard words that she fain would have stifled—that caused her to look up, startled, into Bentley's sombre face. She was thinking of the sorrows that encompassed her as she came slowly home, and then, as the cry sounded from the lookout station, and people came hurrying to their galleries, and Harris slowly felt his way to the open door, she noted how pallid and sad and worn was the keen young face, and, forgetful of her troubles, turned to say a word of cheer to him.
"It used to mean the mail," said she, smiling brightly for his benefit, "but now no man can tell what a day may bring forth," she quoted. "The lettersImost want would be coming from the east. What would you have coming from the west?"
"Anything to bring me word of 'Tonio," he answered, adding, though not for her ear, "and take me out of this." She stepped to the gallery and frankly took his hand, looking kindly, gravely at him with her sweet blue eyes.
"You are not doing well, Mr. Harris. You are fretting too much, I fear. Tell me. You believe in 'Tonio thoroughly, don't you? So did Captain Stannard, and so should I. Do you believe he would have tried to kill—Mr. Willett?"
"Mrs. Stannard, Iknowhe would not!"
"Then I wish to ask you—something—something else. Was there—isthere—any one who could—who would—well, who—had any reason?"
For a moment he stood gazing at her, paler even than before, his stern young face full of strange emotion.
"You have some reason for asking that, Mrs. Stannard," he said, almost below his breath. "You have heard—tell me; has he—has Willett told you anything?"
"Nothing that connects any one with this crime, and yet, while I cannot tell you, and the doctor may not, I'll promise you this, Mr. Harris. If ever 'Tonio is accused and in danger, Mr. Willett has something to explain, and if he doesn't, then Dr. Bentley and I may have to."
With that, almost abruptly, as though dreading further question, Mrs. Stannard turned away.
Thirty minutes later, dusty and weary, five troopers rode slowly through the southward willows, across the sandy flats and up the slope to the adjutant's office, while the garrison, neglecting its evening meal, swarmed out to greet them. Six saddle-bags were crowded with letters and papers—the first in a fortnight—and the sergeant-major and his clerks went busily to work sorting out the mail, while Archer and his officers eagerly questioned the sergeant in charge. They were men of Captain Freeman's troop, all out scouting from McDowell. They camped last night at Silver Springs, fifty miles south-west, and came on from there while the captain and the troop turned back to the Verde Valley. No, they had neither seen nor heard of hostile Indians. All such seemed to have cleared out, for the time being at least. Had they met the Almy couriers on their way? Not one. They had come the lower trail by way of Standard Peak, where they had a signal station and guard now, where they left mail and rations for them, and then pushed on over into the valley. The Almy couriers took the short cut. No, they had seen nobody but some Mexicans, and hadn't much to say to them, 'cause Sanchez—'Patchie Sanchez—had been caught and was in the guard-house at McDowell, charged with being mixed up in the shooting of Sergeant Graves. That, at least, was welcome news. Had anything been heard of General Crook? Yes, something. Apache-Mohave runners came in to the bivouac at Silver Springs, with despatches, before they left, and that was one reason the captain turned back. One of them was wounded. They'd had a scrimmage with Tontos, they said, but got through safely, barring just this one—'Tonio they called him—said he was a chief of the old tribe.
"'Tonio there, and wounded!" cried Archer, while Strong and Bonner almost sprang to their feet, in surprise.
"'Tonio, sir, certainly," said the sergeant. "The doctor had him dressing his wound when we came away. It was only slight."
"Then," said the general, "by this time they've got my despatches, and 'Tonio's a doomed Indian!"
CHAPTER XXIII.
The week was closing, the third of a mournful little series of seven-day happenings, the like of which Almy had never before experienced, and it was hoped might never know again. "The Moon of Many Woes," as later it transpired the Indians had named the night goddess of November, was a thing of the past. A new queen had come, hovering like silvery filament over the black barrier of the Mazatzal in a sky cloudless and glinting with myriad points of fire. The nights were cold and still, the days soft yet brilliant in the blaze of an unshrouded sun. An almost Sabbath-like calm hovered over the valley, for even signal smokes had ceased to blur the horizon. Not a hostile Indian had been heard of since the coming of Freeman's couriers. The brawling gang of "greaser" gamblers had stolen away from the "ghost ranch." Even the ghost himself seemed to walk no more. Something had happened to call the firm of Muñoz y Sanchez elsewhere, and Dago, darkly glowering and scowling about the store, where day and night the bookkeeper sat absorbed in accounts and letters, muttered many acarramba, and had even been goaded into explosivecarrajo, because a defrauded soldiery, thirsting for revenge or restitution, persisted in connecting him with these skilled but quite unprincipled experts of the alluring game of monte, whereas Dago hated the sight of Muñoz, of whom he stood in dread.
But while all men knew the "greasers" had gone, and many wondered why, and none at Almy could tell, there was abundant reason to believe they would soon reappear. Much news had been coming in—news from Crook's column along the Mogollon and the eastward foothills—good news, too, for far and wide the Indians were heeding his Gospel of Peace, which, tersely translated, read: "Come in and be fed. Stay out and be fought," and by scores the mountain warriors, with their queerly assorted families, were flocking to the San Carlos and Apache reservations, and at last there seemed promise of a general burial of the hatchet. At last there was hope, wrote Stannard, that the Bennett boys would be restored. Good news, too, and stacks of mail, had come from Prescott and from far distant homes, but the bit of news that appealed to all but a chosen few at Camp Almy, as by all means the most important and welcome, was "The paymaster's coming!" The paymaster, indeed, after weeks of detention, was scheduled to be at the post by nightfall of the coming Tuesday or Wednesday, and Wednesday would usher in the old-time saturnalia of the south-western frontier, the joy of the laundress, soldier and sutler, the dread of every post and company commander from Her Majesty's dominion to the Mexican line—Pay Day.
And stacks of letters and some few papers and magazines—by no manner of means all that were hopefully started—had come to the Archers and Mrs. Stannard and the exiles of official Almy, and stacks of letters were there for the slowly bettering young soldier lying helpless under the commander's roof, faithfully tended and devotedly nursed, the object of the fondest hope and love and prayer—Lieutenant Harold Willett, on detached service from "the Lost and Strayed," as aide-de-camp to the commanding general, Department of Arizona, who never yet since the day he left Vancouver Barracks had set eyes on him. Most of these letters, tied in tape, stood piled like bricks upon the mantel-shelf in the darkened quarters. Some few of them, in feminine superscription and bearing the Portland postmark, Dr. Bentley had seen fit to segregate and set aside. They had been placed for safe keeping in the hands of Mrs. Stannard, of whom, said Bentley, "there are not ten women of her sense in the whole service," which, said Lieutenant Blake, of Camp McDowell, when told of the fact, "is a most egregious exaggeration," and no woman there knew just what he meant. Blake at the moment was riding boot to boot with his captain, Freeman, for between the two there dwelt an attachment and understanding rarely seen between captain and subaltern, but Freeman guffawed at his junior's whimsical remark, and told it, just to try the effect on three of the four heroines then quartered at the camp. No one of their number was there who did not envy Mrs. Stannard her place in public estimation, but no one of them, could they have known, would have envied her the plight in which she found herself—joint custodian, with Bentley, of Hal Willett's unconscious confidences—compelled to see a young girl's rapturous love lavished upon a man so saturated with the incense of feminine idolatry as to be more than apt to underrate the priceless boon of a pure woman's heart-whole devotion.
They had clipped short, and shaved, much of the hair from the back and left side of Harold's handsome head, where fell the blows that had stunned him, but as those severe contusions healed, and it transpired that the skull was sound, the doctor's main anxiety was transferred to the gunshot wound, which might well be serious in view of the amount of anatomy traversed, yet even that was healing, healthfully, steadily. "A beautiful constitution has this damned young Lovelace," said Bentley to Bucketts, in whom he had long since found a kindred spirit. "Just look at that!" and with a nod over his pipe stem, he indicated the bunch of letters forwarded from the Columbia. "Why don't you"—began Bucketts, but dropped it—he knew it was impossible. He knew, moreover, that when both mother and daughter have set their hearts on a single man, paterfamilias is powerless. "The whole family's infatuated," said Bentley, "and in his whole handsome carcase there isn't half the man in Willett that there is in that dried up little chap yonder."
"The dried up little chap yonder," dismounting slowly and carefully from one of Turner's staidest troop horses, was the unappreciated Harris, returning from one of the first tentatives in saddle. Days before this, had he been permitted, Harris would have been up and away, he cared little whither. He wished to shake the dust of Almy from his deerskins, get back to the mountains and the war-path, get over the Mazatzal to McDowell and 'Tonio—'Tonio, his faithful friend and fellow-scout, now languishing presumably behind prison bars, awaiting the orders of the Chief of Chieftains in his case, for all pleadings were vain. The last barrier to belief in his guilt had gone with the recovery of the revolver and the exposure of the cock-and-bull story, said Archer, by which he had humbugged Freeman and Blake into believing he had really been slashed in hand-to-hand fight with Tonto Apaches. The first name spoken by Willett, after the fever had left him, and speedily he began to recover sense, was that of 'Tonio—'Tonio who had shot him.
It had affected Harris to the point, almost, of relapse. He still fought vehemently against the story, declaring 'Tonio too high-minded, in spite of Indian blood and tradition, for a dirty bit of assassination. The brutal and bungling way in which the thing was done, said he, was enough to prove that 'Tonio had no hand in it. Thus could he talk to Bentley, at least, and even to Bucketts, who would listen, though he would not lie, and say he thought Harris right.
None the less there had been amaze at McDowell when Archer's demand was received. 'Tonio had been taken to hospital on his arrival, kindly, skilfully cared for by the young post surgeon, while the couriers had been sent on to Prescott. 'Tonio's wound was a knife slash in the left arm, and another in the side. He had lost much blood and had little left to build up with. He was too weak to attempt escape, wrote Major Brown, the post commander, even if he knew he was under arrest, which he did not. "If I have to confine him it shall not be with such cattle as that half cad, half coyote, Sanchez," and Harris, being very improperly told of this missive, could almost have walked the weary miles to McDowell to fall upon the major's neck and bless him. "The very fact that 'Tonio was cut and slashed conflicts with every theory in the case," said he. "Who would have cut and slashed him but Willett, if 'Tonio attacked him, and Willett had no knife."
And still Camp Almy clung to the belief that 'Tonio was Harold Willett's assailant and would-be murderer. Even Bonner, a conservative, had this to say: "Willett admits he struck 'Tonio. What Indian ever forgave that affront? He hates Willett as he loves Harris, and such an Indian love is almost as strong as his hate. We have some reason to think Willett no friend of Harris. 'Tonio went further and thought him an enemy. Couple that with his own grievance and there's more than sufficient motive for his crime."
The topic was too one-sided to be mildly interesting. Moreover, the paymaster was coming, which overshadowed all minor considerations, and Turner was to take twenty men and meet him midway over to McDowell, and could have taken fifty had volunteers been called for, and the garrison to a man would have offered to sally forth, "with mattock and with spade" to patch up the crazy road that twisted through Picacho Pass—anything to get the man and his money to Camp Almy, for "devil a cent of four months' pay had the garrison, and more than double that," said Sergeant Malloy, "is owin' me in I.O.U.'s that they wouldn't take for a treat at the store."
The night before Turner's fellows were to start, Mr. Harris coming with the doctor slowly homeward from the mess room and listening again, disgustedly, to arguments against his attempting to ride back with the paymaster to see 'Tonio at McDowell, the two came suddenly upon Archer, just stepping forth into the pallid moonlight. The general pulled up short at sight of them, and Harris silently raised his cap, the old-time salutation to the post commander.
"I was just about sending for you, Bentley," began the chief, as courteously he returned the salutation. "Bella thinks Willett's a bit flighty again, just now. Could you go in a moment? Come and take a chair, Harris," he added, as the doctor disappeared from the hallway. "We haven't seen you in a coon's age. What's this I hear about your wanting to go up to McDowell? Bentley says you're not yet strong enough."
"It's to see 'Tonio, sir. I'm about the only friend he has left," and Harris would have ignored the proffered chair, but the general again indicated his wish, which meant compliance.
"He'll need all he can get, I am afraid, my boy," and the answer was kind, even conciliatory. How was he ever going to admit to this uncompromising young campaigner that he had done him mighty wrong in his official despatch? Some time the boy must know it. Better know it through him, when it could be explained, perhaps condoned. They had exhausted the 'Tonio subject, so far as was possible between commander and subaltern. They had never yet talked it as man to man. When they did it would be on Archer's initiation, not that of Harris. The more the old soldier studied the young man the better he liked him. The less they discussed 'Tonio, the better Harris liked Archer. It was useless saying more. Harris silently took the chair at his senior's side and Archer continued:
"If it would contribute to your strength as much as your peace of mind, I'd send you over in the forbidden ambulance, my boy"—how the voice trembled at the word that so often, so constantly in bygone days, was on his lips!—"but Bentley says 'not yet'—not even for a week, so what can an old fellow do?"
"You are all that is kind—to me, general," was the grave answer, "and I hope to persuade Bentley before the paymaster goes back. If I do——"
"If you do—that settles it—— What is it, dear?" he asked, half rising from his chair. Harris was already on his feet. Lilian, all in white, save the belt at her slim waist, stood at the doorway and had spoken.
"Dr. Bentley asks that you come to him a moment, father. He is with—Mr. Willett." She saw who stood there by his side, and it was not so easy to say "Harold." Harris, bowing, would have backed from the veranda, but Archer interposed. "No, stay here awhile, lad; I—I want to talk with you. I'll be back in a moment."
Very possibly he thought he could be. But the moment lengthened. Lilian had come slowly forth. Something had told her she was neither needed nor desired in the room just then. Even her mother, silently, had left the bedside and was hovering about the doorway. And now here was Harris. Lilian had matured a little, and paled not a little, in these few days of vigil and anxiety, but she was inexpressibly lovely as she stood and looked wistfully into his face. "You know he isn't quite so well to-day?" she said. "There's fever again. He craves ice so. What wouldn't I—we—give for some? What do you think he called me"—she gave a queer little nervous laugh—"just a moment ago as I was fanning him?"
Harris did not answer. He would have hazarded "Sanctissima," possibly, as he stood there looking intently into her clear, soft eyes, with all their depth of tenderness and trust. Good God! Why should any man have to have a past, when love such as this was possible? "He called me Stella. Mother said he was dreaming of the pet dog he left at Vancouver, but his eyes were wide open—looking right up at me."
Harris knew well who Stella was. The name was appended to many a letter and "wire" that came to him during First Class camp, and later, begging him to tell her of Mr. Willett, and now here was this fair girl virtually bidding him say he had known a Stella. He ground his teeth as he turned aside to set a chair for her. There had been others since Stella, unless all indications lied. What might she not say if she knew them all?
"Icalled my mother Topsy and Aunt Ophelia, both, when I was getting over typhoid and Uncle Tom's Cabin," said he.
"Then Stella was only——" and the blue eyes were searching his.
"Only a—you know I was nearly 'found' in French. What would you call the parallel to anom de plume?Nom de chien?Nom de—something visionary, at all events. He'll be sitting up day after to-morrow and telling you—all about it."
She stood before him, with those pretty, slender, white hands loosely clasped, the clear, truthful, beautiful eyes looking straight into his sun-tanned, yet pallid face. No man in his time at the Point had ever known Harris to flinch at the truth or dodge an issue. "He is square as they make 'em," was the verdict of his classmates, and square he had been through his subaltern days, and now to be square meant the dealing to this sweet and trusting girl a blow that, while it might down his rival, would wreck her happiness. He now had dodged an issue at last, and then came the further trial:
"Mr. Harris, dogs don't write. Harold's talking about Stella'sletters, and saysyouget them."
He had dodged. He might as well flinch. The truth he would not tell her. A lie he could not tell her. He did, perhaps, the best he could for himself and the worst, perhaps, for her. He acted.
"Don't believe a word of it, Miss Lilian. He's mooning yet."
"Then—there wasn't any girl?—any letters?"
"There's only one girl in creation he cares for."
"But—Stella?" she persisted.
"Never saw his Stella in all my life. What he needs is ice, and I'm going to see he gets it."
With that he was gone, deaf to the words of relief the poor child would have spoken—trying to be deaf to the fierce upbraiding of conscience, and failing as he deserved, miserably.
An hour later that evening, with a pack mule, blankets, old newspapers and a brace of cracker boxes, two half-tamed Mohaves were heading for the heights to the north-east, where water would freeze in the canteens these December nights, and the rock tanks were nearly solid ice. Two hours later while Harris, nervous, irritable, and filled with nameless self-reproach, was pacing the narrow veranda at the doctor's quarters, there was a stir at the southward end of the post, a sound of hoofbeats and footfalls, a running to and fro and lighting up at the office. An orderly came on the jump and banged at the adjutant's door, and Strong shuffled forth in the moonlight and joined other dark forms over at head-quarters. The sentries were calling the midnight hour without, and the doctor was snoring placidly within. It was barely ten minutes before Strong came back, in one of his hurries, and Harris hailed for the tidings.
"Oh,you'llbe glad, I'm betting!" was the answer, half-rueful, half-relieved, for somehow Strong had "taken to" the doctor's guest—and to doubting his own. "Those galoots at McDowell let up on their watch, and 'Tonio's walked off—'gone where the woodbine twineth'—'Patchie Sanchez with him!"
CHAPTER XXIV.
That meant new trouble—trouble for Major Brown commanding the little two-company station—the "tuppenny post," his subaltern, Blake, derisively termed it—trouble for Blake, who was officer of the day, and was held on tenterhooks for many a day thereafter—trouble for Sergeant Collins, who was directly in command of the guard—"CollinsnéOolahan," as Freeman wrote him down, it having been discovered that this versatile Celt had served a previous enlistment in the "Lost and Strayed," when four of its companies were pioneering shortly after the war, where even the paymaster couldn't find them. Such of them as could be found in course of years were gathered up and sent to San Francisco for further exploration in other desert lands, but Oolahan and four of his fellows of Company "A," not having returned from wagon escort duty, were finally dropped as dead or deserted (those were days wherein nobody much cared which), whereas they were merely drunk at Cerbat. Under other names, as orthodox as the originals, they were now doing valorous and valuable service in other commands, Collins in particular proving a capital fighter and trooper, to the end that the best interests of the service were subserved by keeping a keen eye on his present and a "Nelson blind" on his past. Of the three soldiers thus involved at McDowell, Collins was the one who took it most to heart, for Collins had come to think ill of 'Tonio, whom at first he had championed. Collins despised 'Patchie Sanchez, whom he had known five years, and described as a "durrty cross betune a skunk and a spitbox," a greaser Indian who would knife his best friend. As for 'Tonio, whom he had known ever since he came to Arizona in '65, and once held to be "the wan good Indian in it," 'Tonio had made him believe he too held Sanchez in contempt. Yet, to all appearance, the two, who up to this night had been confined entirely apart, had gone together. One of the counts in the unwritten indictments against McDowell was that its officers and men had lionized the dangerous Indian they were bidden to hold under careful guard, had held him without bond or shackle in a vacant room of the hospital, until that very day, when, stung by an inspector's comment, Brown ordered him at last into confinement with Sanchez, who was shackled to a post in the prison room. Yet all that was left of either was the "greaser's" chains.Couldthere have been collusion?