An Apache Princess Part 12

"Who's that on No. 4?"

"One of 'C' Company's fellers, sir," answered the watcher, coming to his senses and attention at the instant. "Just down from Prescott, and thinks he sees ghosts or Indians every minute. Nearly shot one of the hounds a moment ago."

"You shouldn't put him on that post--"

"I didn't sir," was the prompt rejoinder. "'Twas the sergeant. He said 'twould do him good, but the man's really scared, lieutenant. Thought I'd better stay near him a bit."

Across the black and desolate ruin of Blakely's quarters, and well out on the northward _mesa_, they could dimly discern the form of the unhappy sentry pacing uneasily along his lonely beat, pausing and turning every moment as though fearful of crouching a.s.sailant. Even among these veteran infantrymen left at Sandy, that northeast corner had had an uncanny name ever since the night of Pat Mullins's mysterious stabbing. Many a man would gladly have shunned sentry duty at that point, but none dare confess to it. Partly as a precaution, partly as protection to his sentries, the temporary commander had early in the week sent out a big "fatigue" detail, with knives and hatchets to slice away every clump of sage or greasewood that could shelter a prowling Apache for a hundred yards out from the line. But the man now on No. 4 was palpably nervous and distressed, in spite of this fact. Truman watched him a moment in mingled compa.s.sion and amus.e.m.e.nt, and was just turning aside to enter his open doorway when the corporal held up a warning hand.

Through the m.u.f.fling sand of the roadway in rear of the quarters, a tall, dark figure was moving straight and swift toward the post of No.

4, and so far within that of No. 5 as to escape the latter's challenge. The corporal sprung his rifle to the hollow of his arm and started the next instant, sped noiselessly a few yards in pursuit, then abruptly halted. "It's the major, sir," said he, embarra.s.sed, as Truman joined him again. "Gad, I hope No. 4 won't fire!"

Fire he did not, but his challenge came with a yell.

"W-whocomesthere?"--three words as one and that through chattering teeth.

"Commanding officer," they heard Plume clearly answer, then in lower tone, but distinctly rebukeful. "What on earth's the matter, No. 4?

You called off very badly. Anything disturbing you out here?"

The sentry's answer was a mumble of mingled confusion and distress.

How could he own to his post commander that he was scared? No. 5 now was to be seen swiftly coming up the eastward front so as to be within supporting or hearing distance--curiosity, not sympathy, impelling; and so there were no less than five men, four of them old and tried soldiers, all within fifty yards of the angle made by the two sentry beats, all wide awake, yet not one of their number could later tell just what started it. All on a sudden, down in Sudsville, down among the southward quarters of the line, the hounds went rushing forth, barking and baying excitedly, one and all heading for the brink of the eastward _mesa_, yet halting short as though afraid to approach it nearer, and then, darting up and down, barking, sniffing, challenging angrily, they kept up their fierce alarm. Somebody or something was out there in the darkness, perhaps at the very edge of the bluff, and the dogs dare go no further. Even when the corporal, followed by No.

5, came running down the post, the hounds hung back, bristling and savage, yet fearful. Corporal Foote c.o.c.ked his rifle and went crouching forward through the gloom, but the voice of the major was heard:

"Don't go out there, corporal. Call for the guard," as he hurried in to his quarters in search of his revolver. Truman by this time had run for his own arms and together they reappeared on the post of No. 5, as a sergeant, with half a dozen men, came panting from across the parade, swift running to the scene.

"No. 4 would have it that there were Indians, or somebody skulking about him when I was examining him a moment ago," said Plume hurriedly. "Shut up, you brutes!" he yelled angrily at the nearest hounds. "Scatter your men forward there, sergeant, and see if we can find anything." Other men were coming, too, by this time, and a lantern was dancing out from Doty's quarters. Byrne, pyjama-clad and in slippered feet, shuffled out to join the party as the guard, with rifles at ready, bored their way out to the front, the dogs still suspiciously sniffing and growling. For a moment or two no explanation offered. The noise was gradually quieting down. Then from far out to the right front rose the shout: "Come here with that lantern!" and all hands started at the sound.

Old Shaughnessy, saddler sergeant, was the first on the spot with a light. All Sudsville seemed up and astir. Some of the women, even, had begun to show at the narrow doorways. Corporal Foote and two of the guard were bending over some object huddled in the sand. Together they turned it over and tugged it into semblance of human shape, for the thing had been shrouded in what proved to be a ragged cavalry blanket.

Senseless, yet feebly breathing and moaning, half-clad in tattered skirt and a coa.r.s.ely made _camisa_ such as was worn by peon women of the humblest cla.s.s, with blood-stained bandages concealing much of the face and head, a young Indian woman was lifted toward the light. A soldier started on the run for Dr. Graham; another to the laundresses'

homes for water. Others, still, with the lanterns now coming flitting down the low bluff, began searching through the sands for further sign, and found it within the minute--sign of a shod horse and of moccasined feet,--moccasins not of Tonto, but of Yuma make, said Byrne, after a moment's survey.

Rough, yet tender, hands bore the poor creature to the nearest shelter--Shaughnessy's quarters. Keen, eager eyes and bending forms followed hoof and foot prints to the ford. Two Indians, evidently, had lately issued, dripping, from the stream; one leading an eager horse, for it had been dancing sidewise as they neared the post, the other, probably sustaining the helpless burden on its back. Two Indians had then re-entered the swift waters, almost at the point of emergence, one leading a reluctant, resisting animal, for it had struggled and plunged and set its fore feet against the effort. The other Indian had probably mounted as they neared the brink. Already they must be a good distance away on the other side, rendering pursuit probably useless.

Already the explanation of their coming was apparent. The woman had been hurt or wounded when far from her tribe, and the Indians with her were those who had learned the white man's ways, knew that he warred not on women and would give this stricken creature care and comfort, food and raiment and relieve them of all such trouble. It was easy to account for their bringing her to Sandy and dropping her at the white man's door, but how came they by a shod horse that knew the spot and strove to break from them at the stables--strove hard against again being driven away? Mrs. Shaughnessy, volubly haranguing all within hearing as the searchers returned from the ford, was telling how she was lying awake, worrin' about Norah and Pat Mullins and the boys that had gone afield (owing her six weeks' wash) when she heard a dull trampin' like and what sounded like horses' stifled squeal (doubtless the leading Indian had gripped the nostrils to prevent the eager neigh), and then, said she, all the dogs roused up and rushed out, howling.

And then came a cry from within the humble doorway, where merciful hands were ministering to the suffering savage, and Plume started at the sound and glared at Byrne, and men stood hushed and startled and amazed, for the voice was that of Norah and the words were strange indeed:

"Fur the love of hivin, look what she had in her girdle! Shure it's Leese's own scarf, I tell ye--the Frenchwoman at the major's!"

And Byrne thought it high time to enter and take possession.

CHAPTER XVIII

A STRANGER GOING

At the first faint flush of dawn the little train of pack mules, with the rations for the beleaguered command at Sunset Pa.s.s, was started on its stony path. Once out of the valley of the Beaver it must clamber over range after range and stumble through deep and tortuous canons. A road there was--the old trail by Snow Lake, thence through the famous Pa.s.s and the Sunset crossing of the Colorado Chiquito to old Fort Wingate. It wormed its way out of the valley of the broader stream some miles further to the north and in face of the Red Rock country to the northeast, but it had not been traveled in safety for a year. Both Byrne and Plume believed it beset with peril, watched from ambush by invisible foes who could be relied upon to lurk in hiding until the train was within easy range, then, with sudden volley, to pick off the officers and prominent sergeants and, in the inevitable confusion, aided by their goatlike agility, to make good their escape. Thirty st.u.r.dy soldiers of the infantry under a veteran captain marched as escort, with Plume's orders to push through to the relief of Sergeant Brewster's command, and to send back Indian runners with full account of the situation. The relief of Wren's company accomplished, the next thing was to be a search for Wren himself, then a determined effort to find Blakely, and all the time to keep a lookout for Sanders's troop that must be somewhere north of Chevlon's Fork, as well as for the two or three little columns that should be breaking their way through the unblazed wilderness, under the personal direction of the general himself. Captain Stout and his party were out of sight up the Beaver before the red eye of the morning came peering over the jagged heights to the east, and looking in upon a garrison whose eyes were equally red and bleary through lack of sleep--a garrison worn and haggard through anxiety and distress gravely augmented by the events of the night. All Sandy had been up and astir within five minutes after Norah Shaughnessy's startling cry, and all Sandy asked with bated breath the same question: How on earth happened it that this wounded waif of the Apaches, this unknown Indian girl, dropped senseless at their doorway in the dead hours of the night, should have in her possession the very scarf worn by Mrs. Plume's nurse-companion, the Frenchwoman Elise, as she came forth with her mistress to drive away from Sandy, as was her hope, forever.

Prominent among those who had hastened down to Sudsville, after the news of this discovery had gone buzzing through the line of officers'

quarters, was Janet Wren. Kate Sanders was staying with Angela, for the girls seemed to find comfort in each other's presence and society.

Both had roused at sound of the clamor and were up and half dressed when a pa.s.sing hospital attendant hurriedly shouted to Miss Wren the tidings. The girls, too, would have gone, but Aunt Janet sternly bade them remain indoors. She would investigate, she said, and bring them all information.

Dozens of the men were still hovering about old Shaughnessy's quarters as the tall, gaunt form of the captain's sister came stalking through the crowd, making straight for the doorway. The two senior officers, Byrne and Plume, were, in low tones, interrogating Norah. Plume had been shown the scarf and promptly seconded Norah. He knew it at once--knew that, as Elise came forth that dismal morning and pa.s.sed under the light in the hall, she had this very scarf round her throat--this that had been found upon the person of a wounded and senseless girl. He remembered now that as the sun climbed higher and the air grew warmer the day of their swift flight to Prescott, Elise had thrown open her traveling sack, and he noticed that the scarf had been discarded. He did not see it anywhere about the Concord, but that proved nothing. She might easily have slipped it into her bag or under the cushions of the seat. Both he and Byrne, therefore, watched with no little interest when, after a brief glance at the feverish and wounded Indian girl, moaning in the cot in Mrs. Shaughnessy's room, Miss Wren returned to the open air, bearing the scarf with her. One moment she studied it, under the dull gleam of the lantern of the sergeant of the guard, and then slowly spoke:

"Gentlemen, I have seen this worn by Elise and I believe I know how it came to find its way back here--and it does not brighten the situation. From our piazza, the morning of Major Plume's start for Prescott, I could plainly see Downs hanging about the wagon. It started suddenly, as perhaps you remember, and as it rolled away something went fluttering to the ground behind. Everybody was looking after the Concord at the moment--everybody but Downs, who quickly stooped, picked up the thing, and turned hurriedly away. I believe he had this scarf when he deserted and that he has fallen into the hands of the Apaches."

Byrne looked at the post commander without speaking. The color had mounted one moment to the major's face, then left him pallid as before. The hunted, haggard, weary look about his eyes had deepened.

That was all. The longer he lived, the longer he served about this woebegone spot in mid Arizona, the more he realized the influence for evil that handmaid of Shaitan seemed to exert over his vain, shallow, yet beautiful and beloved wife. Against it he had wrought and pleaded in vain. Elise had been with them since her babyhood, was his wife's almost indignant reply. Elise had been faithful to her--devoted to her all her life. Elise was indispensable; the only being that kept her from going mad with home-sickness and misery in that G.o.d-forsaken clime. Sobs and tears wound up each interview and, like many a stronger man, Plume had succ.u.mbed. It might, indeed, be cruel to rob her of Elise, the last living link that bound her to the blessed memories of her childhood, and he only mildly strove to point out to her how oddly, yet persistently, her good name had suffered through the words and deeds of this flighty, melodramatic Frenchwoman.

Something of her baleful influence he had seen and suspected before ever they came to their exile, but here at Sandy, with full force he realized the extent of her machinations. Clarice was not the woman to go prowling about the quarters in the dead hours of the night, no matter how nervous and sleepless at home. Clarice was not the woman to be having back-door conferences with the servants of other households, much less the "striker" of an officer with whose name hers, as a maiden, had once been linked. He recalled with a shudder the events of the night that sent the soldier Mullins to hospital, robbed of his wits, if not of his life. He recalled with dread the reluctant admissions of the doctor and of Captain Wren. Sleep-walking, indeed!

Clarice never elsewhere at any time had shown somnambulistic symptoms.

It was Elise beyond doubt who had lured her forth for some purpose he could neither foil nor fathom. It was Elise who kept up this discreditable and mysterious commerce with Downs,--something that had culminated in the burning of Blakely's home, with who knows what evidence,--something that had terminated only with Downs's mad desertion and probable death. All this and more went flashing through his mind as Miss Wren finished her brief and significant story, and it dawned upon him that, whatever it might be to others, the death of Downs--to him, and to her whom he loved and whose honor he cherished--was anything but a calamity, a thing to mourn. Too generous to say the words, he yet turned with lightened heart and met Byrne's searching eyes, then those of Miss Wren now fixed upon him with austere challenge, as though she would say the flight and fate of this friendless soldier were crimes to be laid only at his door.

Byrne saw the instant distress in his comrade's face, and, glancing from him to her, almost in the same instant saw the inciting cause.

Byrne had one article of faith if he lacked the needful thirty-nine.

Women had no place in official affairs, no right to meddle in official matters, and what he said on the spur of his rising resentment was intended for her, though spoken to him. "So Downs skipped eastward, did he, and the Apaches got him! Well, Plume, that saves us a hanging." And Miss Wren turned away in wrath unspeakable.

That Downs had "skipped eastward" received further confirmation with the coming day, when Wales Arnold rode into the fort from a personally conducted scout up the Beaver. Riding out with Captain Stout's party, he had paid a brief visit to his, for the time, abandoned ranch, and was surprised to find there, unmolested, the two persons and all the property he had left the day he hurried wife and household to the shelter of the garrison. The two persons were half-breed Jose and his Hualpai squaw. They had been with the Arnolds five long years, were known to all the Apaches, and had ever been in highest favor with them because of the liberality with which they dispensed the _largesse_ of their employer. Never went an Indian empty-stomached from their door.

All the stock Wales had time to gather he had driven in to Sandy. All that was left Jose had found and corraled. Just one quadruped was missing--Arnold's old mustang saddler, Dobbin. Jose said he had been gone from the first and with him an old bridle and saddle. No Indian took him, said he. It was a soldier. He had found "government boot tracks" in the sand. Then Downs and Dobbin had gone together, but only Dobbin might they ever look to see again.

It had been arranged between Byrne and Captain Stout that the little relief column should rest in a deep canon beyond the springs from which the Beaver took its source, and, later in the afternoon, push on again on the long, stony climb toward the plateau of the upper Mogollon. There stood, about twenty-five miles out from the post on a bee line to the northeast, a sharp, rocky peak just high enough above the fringing pines and cedars to be distinctly visible by day from the crest of the nearest foothills west of the flagstaff. Along the sunset face of this gleaming _picacho_ there was a shelf or ledge that had often been used by the Apaches for signaling purposes; the renegades communicating with their kindred about the agency up the valley.

Invisible from the level of Camp Sandy, these fires by night, or smoke and flashes by day, reached only those for whom they were intended--the Apaches at the reservation; but Stout, who had known the neighborhood since '65, had suggested that lookouts equipped with binoculars be placed on the high ground back of the post. Inferior to the savage in the craft, we had no code of smoke, fire, or, at that time, even sun-flash signal, but it was arranged that one blaze was to mean "Unmolested thus far." Two blazes, a few yards apart, would mean "Important news by runner." In the latter event Plume was to push out forty or fifty men in dispersed order to meet and protect the runner in case he should be followed, or possibly headed off, by hostile tribesmen. Only six Indian allies had gone with Stout and he had eyed them with marked suspicion and disfavor. They, too, were Apache Yumas.

The day wore on slowly, somberly. All sound of life, melody, or merriment had died out at Camp Sandy. Even the hounds seemed to feel that a cloud of disaster hung over the garrison. Only at rare intervals some feminine shape flitted along the line of deserted verandas--some woman on a mission of mercy to some mourning, sore-troubled sister among the scattered households. For several hours before high noon the wires from Prescott had been hot with demand for news, and with messages from Byrne or Plume to department headquarters. At meridian, however, there came a lull, and at 2 P. M.

a break. Somewhere to the west the line was snapped and down. At 2.15 two linesmen galloped forth to find and repair damages, half a dozen "doughboys" on a buckboard going as guard. Otherwise, all day long, no soldier left the post, and when darkness settled down, the anxious operator, seated at his keyboard, was still unable to wake the spirit of the gleaming copper thread that spanned the westward wilderness.

All Sandy was wakeful, out on the broad parade, or the officers'

verandas, and gazing as one man or woman at the bold, black upheaval a mile behind the post, at whose summit twinkled a tiny star, a single lantern, telling of the vigil of Plume's watchers. If Stout made even fair time he should have reached the _picacho_ at dusk, and now it was nearly nine and not a glimmer of fire had been seen at the appointed rendezvous. Nine pa.s.sed and 9.15, and at 9.30 the fifes and drums of the Eighth turned out and began the long, weird complaint of the tattoo. n.o.body wished to go to bed. Why not sound reveille and let them sit up all night, if they chose? It was far better than tossing sleepless through the long hours to the dawn. It was nearly time for "taps"--lights out--when a yell went up from the parade and all Sandy started to its feet. All on a sudden the spark at the lookout bluff began violently to dance, and a dozen men tore out of garrison, eager to hear the news. They were met halfway by a sprinting corporal, whom they halted with eager demand for his news. "_Two_ blazes!" he panted, "two! I must get in to the major at once!" Five minutes more the a.s.sembly, not Taps, was sounding. Plume was sending forth his fifty rescuers, and with them, impatient for tidings from the far front, went Byrne, the major himself following as soon as he could change to riding dress. The last seen of the little command was the glinting of the starlight on the gun barrels as they forded the rippling stream and took the trail up the narrow, winding valley of the Beaver.

It was then a little after ten o'clock. The wire to Prescott was still unresponsive. Nothing had been heard from the linesmen and their escort, indicating that the break was probably far over as the Agua Fria. Not a sign, except Stout's signal blazes at the _picacho_, had been gathered from the front. Camp Sandy was cut off from the world, and the actual garrison left to guard the post and protect the women, children and the sick as eleven o'clock drew nigh, was exactly forty men of the fighting force. It was believed that Stout's couriers would make the homeward run, very nearly, by the route the pack-train took throughout the day, and if they succeeded in evading hostile scouts or parties, would soon appear about some of the breaks of the upper Beaver. Thither, therefore, with all possible speed Plume had directed his men, promising Mrs. Sanders, as he rode away, that the moment a runner was encountered he would send a light rider at the gallop, on his own good horse--that not a moment should be lost in bearing them the news.

But midnight came without a sign. Long before that hour, as though by common impulse, almost all the women of the garrison had gathered about Truman's quarters, now the northernmost of the row and in plain view of the confluence of the Sandy and the Beaver. Dr. Graham, who had been swinging to and fro between the limits of the Shaughnessys'

and the hospital, stopped to speak with them a moment and gently drew Angela to one side. His grave and rugged face was sweet in its tenderness as he looked down into her br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes. "Can you not be content at home, my child?" he murmured. "You seem like one of my own bairns, Angela, now that your brave father is afield, and I want to have his bonnie daughter looking her best against the home-coming.

Surely Aunt Janet will bring you the news the moment any comes, and I'll bid Kate Sanders bide with you!"

No, she would not--she could not go home. Like every other soul in all Camp Sandy she seemed to long to be just there. Some few had even gone out further, beyond the sentries, to the point of the low bluff, and there, chatting only in whispers, huddled together, listening in anxiety inexpressible for the m.u.f.fled sound of galloping hoofs on soft and sandy sh.o.r.e. No, she _dare_ not, for within the four walls of that little white room what dreams and visions had the girl not seen? and, wakening shuddering, had clung to faithful Kate and sobbed her heart out in those clasping, tender, loyal arms. No beauty, indeed, was Kate, as even her fond mother ruefully admitted, but there was that in her great, gentle, unselfish heart that made her beloved by one and all. Yet Kate had pleaded with Angela in vain. Some strange, forceful mood had seized the girl and steeled and strengthened her against even Janet Wren's authority. She would not leave the little band of watchers. She was there when, toward half-past twelve, at last the message came. Plume's own horse came tearing through the flood, and panting, reeking, trembling into their midst, and his rider, little Fifer Lanigan, of Company "C," sprang from saddle and thrust his dispatch into Truman's outstretched hand.

With women and children crowding about him, and men running to the scene from every side, by the light of a lantern held in a soldier's shaking hand, he read aloud the contents:

"BIVOUAC AT PICACHO, 9 P. M.

"C. O. CAMP SANDY:

"Reached this point after hard march, but no active opposition, at 8 P. M. First party sent to build fire on ledge driven in by hostiles. Corporal Welch shot through left side--serious. Threw out skirmishers and drove them off after some firing, and about 9.20 came suddenly upon Indian boy crouching among rocks, who held up folded paper which I have read and forward herewith. We shall, of course, turn toward Snow Lake, taking boy as guide. March at 3 A. M. Will do everything possible to reach Wren on time.

(Signed) "STOUT, Commanding."

Within was another slip, grimy and with dark stains. And Truman's voice well-nigh failed him as he read:

"November --th.