Tonio, Son of the Sierras (part 1)

Author of

"Norman Holt," "the Iron Brigade," "the Colonel's Daughter," "a Daughter of the Sioux," Etc.

Charles J. Post

G. W. Dillingham Company Publishers New York

Copyright, 1906, by

G. W. Dillingham Company

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London All rights reserved

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

Tonio, Son of the Sierras, erect and slender Frontispiece

Scrambling down the adjacent slope every man for himself

"Keep watch now all around, especially east and southeast"

"They've opened on Case and Clancy"

TONIO

SON OF THE SIERRAS

CHAPTER I.

"Does it never rain here?" asked the Latest Arrival, with sudden shift of the matter under discussion.

"How is that, Bentley?" said the officer addressed to the senior present, the surgeon. "You've been here longest."

"Don't know, I'm sure," was the languid answer. "I've only been here three years. Try 'Tonio there. He was born hereabouts."

So the eyes of the six men turned to the indicated authority, an Apache of uncertain age. He looked to be forty and might be nearer sixty. He stood five feet ten in his tiptoed moccasins, and weighed less than little Harris, who could not touch the beam at five feet five. Harris was the light weight of the —th Cavalry, in physique, at least, and by no means proud of the distinction. To offset the handicap of lack of stature and weight, and of almost cat-like elasticity of frame and movement, he saw fit to cultivate a deliberation and dignity of manner that in his cadet days had started the sobriquet of "Heavy," later altered to "Hefty"; and Hefty Harris he was to the very hour this story opens—a junior first lieutenant with four years' record of stirring service in the far West, in days when the telegraph had not yet strung the Arizona deserts, and the railway was undreamed of. He had only just returned to the post from a ten days' scout, 'Tonio, the Apache, being his chief trailer and chosen companion on this as on many a previous trip. The two made an odd combination, having little in common beyond that imperturbable self-poise and dignity. The two elsewhere had met with marked success in "locating" rancherias of the hostile bands, and in following and finding marauding parties. The two were looked upon in southern Arizona as "the best in the business," and now, because other leaders had tried much and accomplished little, it had pleased the general commanding the Division of the Pacific to say to his subordinate, the general commanding the Department of Arizona, that as the "Tonto" Apaches and their fellows of the Sierra Blanca seemed too wily for his scouting parties sent out from Whipple Barracks, and the valley garrisons of McDowell and Verde, it might be well to detach Lieutenant Harris from his troop at old Camp Bowie and send him, with 'Tonio, to report to the commanding officer at Camp Almy.

Now the commanding general of Arizona had thought of that project himself, and rejected it for two reasons: first, that the officers and men on duty at Almy would possibly take it as a reflection; second, that 'Tonio would probably take it as an affront to himself. 'Tonio, be it understood, was of the Apache Mohave tribe, whose hunting grounds had long been the upper Verde and adjacent mountains. 'Tonio had no scruples as to scouting and shooting Chiricahuas and Sierra Blancas or the roving bands of Yaquis that sometimes ventured across the "Gadsden Purchase" from Mexico. 'Tonio had done vengeful work among these fellows. But now he was brought face to face with a far different proposition. The renegades of northern Arizona in the earliest of the seventies were mainly Tontos, but many a young brave of the Apache Mohave tribe had cast his lot with them. Many had taken their women and children, and 'Tonio would be hunting, possibly, his own flesh and blood. The junior general had ventured to remonstrate by letter, even when issuing the order indicated, but the senior stood to his prerogative with a tenacity that set the junior's teeth on edge, and started territorial and unbecoming comparisons between the division commander's firmness on the fighting line a decade earlier, and far behind it now. San Francisco was perhaps five hundred miles from the scene of hostilities, and those farthest away seldom fail to see clearer than those on the spot, and to think they know better, so Harris and his dusky henchman came up to Almy with little by way of welcome, and back from their first scout with nothing by way of result. Therefore, the sextette of officers that had been but lukewarm at the start became lavish in cordiality at the close. The failure of Harris, the favorite of the chieftain of the big Division, meant that no further criticism could attach to them. If Harris could accomplish nothing worth mention, what could be expected of others?

Therefore, while awaiting the return of the courier sent up to Prescott, with report of what Harris had not accomplished, and asking instructions as to what the gentleman would have next, the commanding officer of the old post, built by California volunteers during the Civil War and garrisoned later by reluctant regulars, set a good example to his subordinates by doing his best to console the "casuals," as visitors were officially rated, and his subordinates loyally followed suit.

But Harris seemed unresponsive. Harris seemed almost sulky. Harris had added silence to dignity, and spent long hours of a sunny day sprawled in a hammock, smoking his pipe and studying 'Tonio, who squatted in the shade at the end of the narrow porch of the old officers' mess building, still more silent and absorbed than his young commander.

And this was the condition of things when the Latest Arrival appeared on the scene, fresh from head-quarters, some ninety miles northwest and two thousand feet higher. He had come late the previous afternoon. He had skated down the flinty scarp of Misery Hill, with the wheels of his buckboard locked, and hauled up at the adjutant's in a cloud of dust and misapprehension, with barely time for a bath and a shave before dinner. He was a new aide-de-camp of the department commander. He had served him well and won his notice on Indian campaigns afar to the north in the Columbia valley, where gum boots and slickers were as indispensable as here they were superfluous. He had never been, he said, so dry in his life as when he scrambled from his mud-colored chariot to the steps of the official residence. The temporal wants had been spiritually removed, but not the impression. Now, some eighteen hours later, he wished to know if it never rained at Almy, and there was no white man could tell him. So, one and all, they looked to 'Tonio, whose earliest recollections were of the immediate neighborhood.

And 'Tonio proved a reluctant witness. Urged by Stannard, the senior captain referred to, Harris put the question in "Pidgin" Apache, and 'Tonio, squatting still, gazed dreamily away toward the huge bulwark of Squadron Peak, and waited for respectful cessation of all talk before he would answer.

At last he rose to his full height and, with a sweeping gesture the length of his arm, pointed to the domelike summit, dazzling in the slant of the evening sunshine, that seemingly overhung the dun-colored adobe corrals on the flats to the south, yet stood full five miles away. 'Tonio so seldom opened his lips to speak that the six men listened with attention they seldom gave to one another. Yet what 'Tonio said was translatable only by Harris:

"When the picacho hides his head in the clouds, then look for rain."

"Lord," said the doctor, "I doubt if ever I've seen a cloud above it—much less on it! If it weren't for the creek yonder the whole post would shrivel up and blow away. Even the hygrometer's dead of disuse—or dry rot. But, talk of drying up, did you ever see the beat of him?" and the doctor was studying anatomy as displayed in this particular Apache.

Five feet ten 'Tonio stood before them, not counting the thatch of his matted black hair, bound with white cotton turban. Five feet ten in height, but so gaunt and wiry that the ribs and bones seemed breaking through the tawny skin, that in flank and waist and the long sweep of his sinewy, fleshless legs, he rivalled the greyhound sprawled at his feet. "'Tonio has not half an ounce of fat in his hide," said Harris, in explaining his tireless work on the trail. "'Tonio can go sixty miles without a gulp of water and come out fresh as a daisy at the end." 'Tonio's eminently fit condition had been something Harris ever held in envy and emulation, yet on this recent scout even 'Tonio had failed him. 'Tonio had complained. To look at him as he stood there now, erect, slender, with deep chest and long, lank arms and legs, trammelled only by the white cotton breechclout that looped over the waist belt and trailed, fore and aft, below the bony knee, his back and shoulders covered by white camisa unfastened at the throat and chest, his feet cased in deerskin moccasins, the long leggings of which hung in folds at the ankles, one could liken him only to the coyote—the half-famished wolf of the sage plain and barren, for even the greyhound knew thirst and fatigue,—knew how to stretch at full length and luxury in the shade, whereas 'Tonio, by day at least, stood or squatted. Never in all their long prowlings, by day or night, among the arid deserts or desolate ranges along the border, had Harris known his chief trailer and scout to hint at such a thing as weariness. Yet, within the week gone by, thrice had he declared himself unable to go farther. Did it mean that at last 'Tonio would purposely fail him, now that there were some of his own people among the renegades?

'Tonio had stoutly denied such a weakness. The few young men with the hostiles, said he, were more Tonto than Mohave—fools who had offended their brothers and dishonored their tribe. Chiefs, medicine men, even the women, he said, disowned them. The braves would kill, and the women spurn, them on sight. 'Tonio pointed to the "hound" scouts with the Verde company—Hualpais, some of them—splendid specimens from the mountains; Apache Yumas, some of them, not quite the peer of the Hualpais; but many of them—most of them, in fact—Apache Mohaves, fiercest, surest trailers of the wild Red Rock country, familiar with every cañon and crag in all the rude range from Snow Lake to the Sierra Blanca. "All brothers," protested 'Tonio. "All soldiers. All braves, unafraid of a thousand Tontos, eager only to meet and punish their traitor fellows who had taken the White Chief's pay and bread, pledged their best services and then gone renegading to the fastnesses of the Mogollon," adding with scorn unspeakable, "taking other women with them."

And still Harris was not content. Harris had sent a runner back when the scout was but half finished, with a note to be relayed to Prescott, to tell the general of his ill success and his evil suspicions, and the chief being himself out a-hunting, what did his chief of staff do but order the Newly Arrived down to Almy to meet the home-coming party and see for himself—and his general!

And of all men chosen to meddle in matters concerning "Hefty" Harris, perhaps the latest suitable, in some ways, was his classmate and comrade lieutenant, though in different arms of the service—Hal Willett of "The Lost and Strayed," so called from the fact that they had been sent to desert wilds in '65, scattered over three territories, and despite some hard fighting and many hard knocks, had never, said their detractors, been heard from since.

Rivals they had been in cadet days and more than one pursuit. Rivals they still were in the field of arms, for the name Harris had won for himself in Arizona Willett had matched in the Columbia, and now, fresh from the ill-starred campaign of the Lava Beds, was one of the few men to get something better than hard knocks, censure and criticism. Until the previous evening, not since the day they parted at West Point had they set eyes one on the other, and, knowing nothing of what had gone before and never dreaming of what would come to pass, a benighted bureau officer had sent the one down to find out what was the matter with the other.

And thereby hangs this tale.

For, as luck would have it, there was even then stationed in that far-away land a luckless lieutenant-colonel of infantry who had started with good prospects in the Civil War, had early been given command of a brigade of volunteers and within the month had had his raw concourse of undrilled, undisciplined levies swept from under him in the first fierce onset at Shiloh. What else could have been expected of men to whom arms had been issued but ten days before, and who had not yet learned which end to bite from the cartridge? Hurled from his terrified horse, the general had been picked up senseless, to see no more of fighting until Stone's River, eight months later, where with a more seasoned command the same thing happened. And still he persisted, when well of an ugly wound, and, while juniors in years and length of service were now heading corps and divisions, with double stars on their shoulders, and he had to begin again with a brigade, he got into line for Chickamauga with his usual luck just within range of the fatal gap left by a senior in command—the gap through which poured the impetuous gray torrent of the Southland—and for the third time everything crumbled away in spite of him, while he was left for dead upon the field. He had done his best, as had other men, and had fared only the worst. It was a case of three times and out. The impatient North had no more use for names linked only with disaster. When, finally exchanged, he limped back to duty, they put him on courts, boards and other back-door business until the war was over, then sent him to the Pacific Slope, with the blanket brevet of March, 1865, and here he was, eight long years thereafter, "The General" by way of title, without the command; silver leaves where once gleamed the stars on his shoulders; silver streaks where once rippled chestnut and gold; wrinkled of visage and withered in shank; kindly, patient, yet pathetic; "functioning" a four-company post in a far-away desert, with grim mountain chains on east and west, and waters on every side of him, four long weeks and four thousand miles by mail route from home, and much longer by sea; with nothing to do but send out scouts, sign papers, sing an old song or two when the spirit moved him; with not a thing in his soldier past to be ashamed of, nothing much in his soldier present to rejoice in, nothing whatever in his soldier future to hope for, finding his companionship in the comrades about him, and his sweetest comfort in the unswerving love of a devoted wife, and their one unstinted pride and delight, Lilian, their only daughter—their only surviving child.

Many of these eight years of what then was exile, while he, at first as a major of foot, was campaigning in regions long since reclaimed from savagery, and rusticating at frontier forts long since forgotten, Lilian and her mother had dwelt in lodgings at "The Bay" that the child might have the advantage of San Francisco's schools. Only once each year, until of late, had he been able to visit them, usually at Christmas-tide, but by every runner, courier, stage or post there came to them his cheery letters, bearing such old-time, outlandish post-marks or headings as "Lapwai," "Three Forks, Owyhee," and later "Hualpai," or "Hassayampa," until finally it became mild, civilized, pacific, even "Almy."

The uniform of a general, that the law had let him wear just as long in peace as had been the war in years, was finally packed in camphorated hope of resurrection, and the garb of actual rank resumed in 1870. He could bear the title ad infinitum, but not the sign.

The silver leaf, as said, had come to replace the worn and tarnished gold by '73, then mountain fever had seized and laid him by the heels, and then all the Indians in Arizona, or the army women out of it, could not dissuade Mrs. Archer from her duty. She and Lilian were the heroines of a buckboard ride from Drum Barracks to the Colorado, from the Colorado to Prescott, from Prescott down through wild and tortuous cañons to and beyond the valley of the Verde—to the wondering eyes of the waiting garrison and the welcoming arms of the fond husband and father at Almy.

And this was but the week gone by, just before the "Newly Arrived" had reached Prescott—just before "Hefty" Harris had returned from scout. Not until this very morning—the first since their reunion of that warm, yet winter's evening of the previous day—had the two classmates set eyes on Miss Archer (it was as she rode away by her father's side for a canter up the valley), and not until this late afternoon, as the sun was dipping behind the black range of the Mazatzal, did they have opportunity to speak with her.

Even as 'Tonio stood, silent and statuesque, while the doctor went on record as to the rainfall of the Verde watershed, there came suddenly into view, jogging quietly up the winding road from the lower ford, three riders, followed by half a pack of lagging, yapping hounds—"The Old Man," the maiden and the orderly—and all men on the wooden porch of the unpainted mess building, rose to their feet in deference to the united "powers above," rank and age, youth and beauty, and presently the commander was saying for the benefit of the two new-comers: "My daughter, gentlemen. Lilian, Mr. Harris, Mr. Willett."

Inadvertently he had named them in the inverse order of rank—a small matter, though Willett had been promoted to his bar a year ahead of Harris. Otherwise, it was with a fair field and no favor the old-time rivals of cadet days stood for the first time in the presence of the only army girl at that moment to be found in the far-flung shadow of the Mazatzal—stood side by side, facing both the starter and the prize in what was destined to be the last great contest of their lives.

CHAPTER II.

"Come and dine with us this evening, you two," the "Old Man" was saying, a few minutes later. He had been home long enough to consult the "Commanding General," as he frequently referred to that smiling better half, and to compare notes as to the condition of the larder and cellar. He had flung conventionality to the winds, as most of us had to in early Arizona days. "You others," he said, "have suffered so often from my steaks and stories, you're glad not to be included. To-day I'm bidding only these two youngsters. You know our dining table holds only six. No, never mind about the call!" he interposed, with uplifted hands, one to receive the toddy Briggs was stirring for him, the other in kindly protest, for both the youngsters were on their feet confusedly striving to make it understood that they had only been waiting for the cool of the evening to come to pay their respects. "And never mind about spike tail and shirt fronts either—come just as you are!"

"Indeed, I'll have to, sir," said Willett, whose undress uniform fitted him like a glove and was cut and made by the then expert military artist of the far East. They had not taken it too kindly, these others in white cotton sack coats, hewed and stitched by the company tailor, or even in canvas shooting rig, as was Harris, that the young aide-de-camp, after brief siesta in the mid-day lazy hour, should have appeared among them all, fresh-shaved and tubbed, and in faultless, bran-new, spick-and-span cap and blouse and trousers, with black silk socks and low-cut patent leather "Oxford ties." Harris, hammock slung, and moodily studying 'Tonio, looked approvingly, but made no remark whatever. Stannard, ever blunt and short of speech, had shoved his hairy hands deep in his trousers' pockets, a thing no sub would twice venture in his presence, looked Willett over from head to foot, then, with a sniff, had turned away, but Bentley and Turner had indulged in whimsical protest, "Gad, man, but you put us all to shame," said the surgeon. "I've seen no rig to match that since I came to this post. It's rarer than rain."

"What do you wear when you call on the commanding officer?" queried the Latest Arrival, with jovial good-nature. "Thank you, Briggs. That was a good toddy."

"Never had a family here until this week," said Bentley, "and such calling as I've done has been in what I happened to have on, and even then I've wished we dressed like 'Tonio there. Why, Mr. Willett, only once since I came to this post has there been an officer's daughter with us. Only twice has there been an officer's wife. Even Mrs. Archer wouldn't have tried it if the general hadn't been sick."

Willett laughed again, good-naturedly as before. "Well," said he, "in the field 'The Lost and Strayed' didn't dandy much, but here I had not even unpacked my trunk; had a whole buckboard to myself after we left Captain Wickham at the Big Bug, so I just fetched 'em along. This is light, you see—nothing but serge," and he held forth his arm. "Up there, of course, we had no use for white. Gunboats and 'plebeskins' was full dress half the year round——" And just then it had occurred to him to put that question: "Does it never rain here?" and in so doing he had appealed rather to Stannard and his fellows of the line, quite as though he thought Bentley doing too much of the talk, especially since Bentley's bent was criticising. But Stannard, as we have seen, had referred back the question, whereat the doctor, defrauded of his game, yawned languidly and turned over the matter to 'Tonio, thus dragging Harris, all unwilling, into the tide of talk, and presently out of his hammock. Next thing noticed of him he had disappeared.

To no man as yet, save the lieutenant-colonel commanding, had Willett told the purpose of his coming. Late the previous evening Archer had come to his office to receive the aide-de-camp, and there listened to his message. "The Old Man" looked up suddenly as he sat in the lamplight at the rude wooden table that served for his official desk, surprise and concern mingling in his kindly face.

"The general said that?" he asked.

"No, sir: the adjutant-general who was left in charge. The general is away hunting."

"I might have known that," said Archer to his inner self. To the aide-de-camp he merely bowed—bowed most courteously. He liked boys, and the Lord had seen fit to take back to himself the one lad poor Archer had liked most, and loved unspeakably.

"I think I shall say—nothing of it," said he, presently, after some reflection, "and—you can find out, through Harris, all there is to be told."

And not a word had he said, even to the post adjutant, from the moment of Willett's reporting to him at nine the night before, yet every man of the officers' mess knew well that something had sent the young staff officer to Almy—that something was to be looked into—and every man, including Harris, felt it in his bones that that something was the recent and unprofitable scout. That being the case, it placed them all on the defensive, and Willett, unhappily, upon his mettle.

A silence fell upon the party when it was found Harris was gone. 'Tonio himself had risen again, had stood gazing awhile along the eastward mountains, tumbling up toward a brazen sky, then had slowly vanished from sight round the corner of the adobe wall.

"Sticks closer'n a brother," said Stannard, epigrammatically, with a look at Turner, his comrade captain, whereat the latter shot a warning glance, first at Stannard, then toward the unconscious N.A., now hobnobbing with Briggs at the mess-room door.

"Harris doesn't like the young swell! What's the matter, d'ye s'pose?" asked Bucketts, the post quartermaster, a man of much weight, but not too much discrimination.

"Bosh! They're classmates and old chums," was Stannard's quick reply. "Harris is hipped because his scout was a fizzle, and he simply doesn't feel like talking."

"All the same, he doesn't like Willett, classmate or no classmate. You mark my words," persisted the man of mops and brooms, and Stannard, who had seen the youngster's face as he turned away, knew well the quartermaster was right. Therefore was it his duty, for the sake of the regiment, said he, to stand by Harris as hailing from the cavalry. He scoffed at the quartermaster and began to pace the veranda. 'Twas high time for evening stables, and the brief and perfunctory grooming the short-coupled, stocky little mountain climbers daily received. The herds had been driven in, watering in the shallows as they forded the stream full fifteen minutes before. There were only the surgeon, the adjutant, the quartermaster, and Lieutenant Willett seated on the veranda when Harris presently came back, silent as before, but clad in undress uniform, as neat and trim as that of the Latest Arrival, if not so new. Then came General Archer, his daughter, and the meeting. Then, a few minutes later, the bid to dinner, and then, barely an hour from that time, the dinner itself—a function the classmates marched to almost arm in arm when either would rather have been without the other.

The members of what there was of the mess, six officers in all, sat waiting the summons to their own board, and gazing idly after. Stannard, the only married captain whose wife had had the nerve to go to that desolate and distant station, was sitting under his own figurative vine and fig-tree represented by a pine veranda, about which neither vine nor fig nor other tree had ever been induced to grow, but that was not without other extravagances, since it represented to Uncle Sam an aggregate sum that could be best computed at a shilling a shingle. Stannard, hearing footsteps on the sandy soil, glanced up from the columns of an Alta California, ten days old, and growled through the adjacent blinds "They're coming now," whereat there was sound of rustling skirt within, and between the slats there came a glimpse of shining, big blue eyes, alive with womanly interest, and parted lips disclosing two opposing rows of almost perfect teeth, all the whiter by contrast with the sunburned, "sonsy" face that framed them. Together, yet separated, this Darby and Joan of the far frontier sat and watched the coming pair. "Isn't it good to see the real uniform again?" said she. "Isn't it absurd to think of trying a dinner here?" said he. Then both subsided as the two young officers stepped upon the resounding boards of the next veranda to the south, knocked at the commander's open door and were promptly welcomed.

"Now, Luce, they're going to have a very nice dinner," protested Mrs. Stannard. "I was in there helping over an hour, and Mrs. Archer's a wonder! Even if the dinner didn't amount to much, there would be Lilian."

"They can't eat her," persisted, grimly, the man.

"She looks sweet enough to eat," responded the woman. "You ought to see her. After a six hours' ride she looks fresh as a daisy, all creamy white with—but you wouldn't understand——"

"What on earth kept them out so long?"

"Didn't I tell you? Why, they went away to Bennett's ranch. Couldn't find a vestige of vegetables nearer. Mrs. Bennett has a little patch where she raises lettuce and radishes. The orderly carried a basket full of truck, and leaves and flowers, poppies and cactus, you know, and you've no idea how pretty they've made the table look."

Stannard sniffed. "Take their Sauterne hot or lukewarm?" he asked. "Fancy a dinner without ice, fruit or cream!"

"Of course they haven't white wine here, Luce! But there's claret—famous claret, too, and the water in the big olla's even cooler than the spring. They'll have French dressing for the salad. They have tomato soup even you couldn't growl at, and roast chicken, with real potatoes, and petits pois, and corn, and olives; then salad cool as the spring; then there's to be such an omelette soufflée—and coffee!—but it's the way the table looks, Luce!"

"Men don't care how a thing looks, so long as it tastes right. How does it look?"

"So white and fresh, and sprinkled with green and purple and crimson, the leaves and the poppies, you know. She——" But Mrs. Stannard broke off suddenly. "What is it, Wettstein?" she asked, for their own particular chef, a German trooper, with elementary culinary gifts, appeared in the hallway.

"It's Suey, mattam, says would Mrs. Stannard come over a minute. He's stuck, mattam."

"Stuck! Heavens! how?" cried Mrs. Stannard, up at once in alarm, and vanishing through the dim light of the blanketed window. The presumably punctured Chinaman was even then in full flight for his own kitchen door, some fifty feet away, and Mrs. Stannard followed. No Roman in Rome's quarrel was ever more self-sacrificing than were our army women of the old days in their helpfulness. Had the hounds ravished the roast again, as once already had happened? If so, the Stannard dinner stood ready to replace it, even though she and her captain had to fall back on what could be borrowed from the troop kitchen. No, the oven door was open, the precious chickens, brown, basted and done to a turn, were waiting Suey's deft hands to shift them to the platter. (No need to heat it even on a December day.) Mrs. Stannard's quick and comprehensive glance took in every detail. The "stick" was obviously figurative—mere vernacular—yet something serious, for Suey's olive-brown skin was jaundiced with worry, and the face of Doyle, the soldier striker, as he came hurrying back from the banquet board, was beading with the sweat of mental torment. Soup, it seems, was already served, and Doyle burst forth, hoarse whispering, before ever he caught sight of the visiting angel.

"Sure I can't, Suey! The General's sittin' on it!"

And Suey's long-nailed Mongolian talons went up in despair as he turned appealingly to their rescuer.

"Sitting on what, Doyle? Quick!" said Mrs. Stannard.

"The sherry, ma'am! The doctor sent it over wid his comps to s'prise him, an' my orders was to fill the little glasses when I'd took in the soup, an' I put it under the barrel chair——"

But Mrs. Stannard had heard enough. Even though convulsed with merriment, she seized a pencil and scribbled a little line on a card. "Give this to Mrs. Archer," she said, and a moment later, in the midst of his first story, the veteran was checked by these placid words from the head of the table:

"Pardon me, dear, but you are on the lid of the wine cooler. Let Doyle get at it a moment."

The general was not the nimblest-witted man in the service, but long experience had taught him the wisdom of prompt observance of any suggestion that came from his wife. Dropping his napkin, and the thread of his tale, he rose to his feet. Blushing furiously, Doyle bent, and with vigorous effort pried off a circular, perforated top, revealing a dark, cylindrical space beneath, from the depths of which he lifted a dripping bucket of galvanized iron, and sped, thus laden, away to the kitchen, to the music of Mrs. Archer's merry laughter and a guffaw of joy from the general's lips.

"How came you to put it there, sir?" demanded he, a moment later, as Doyle circumnavigated the table, filling, as ordered, the five little glasses with fragrant Amontillado. "I must tell you, gentlemen, this is one of the pleasant surprises that most admirable woman yonder is forever putting up on me. Life would be a desert without such."

"Indeed it wasn't mine!" expostulated madam, "though I'm deeply indebted to somebody. Who was it, Doyle?"

"Docther Bentley, ma'am. He said I was to keep it dark, ma'am—'an' in the coolest place I could find——"

But here the peals of laughter silenced the words and rang the glad tidings to listening, waiting ears in the kitchen that all was well. Mrs. Stannard scurried away to explain to her Luce, and the dinner went blithely on.

"You did right, Doyle! you did right!" shouted the general, "and we'll drink the doctor's health. Keep it dark, indeed! Haw, haw, haw!" And then nothing would do but he must tell the story of this precious and particular chair. Furniture, even such as he bought at San Francisco, and would live to a green old age along the Pacific, came speedily to pieces in the hot, dry atmosphere of Arizona. Little enough there was of cabinet ware, to be sure, because of the cost of transportation; but such as there was, unless riveted in every seam and joint, fell apart at most inopportune moments. Bureaus and washstands, tables, sofas and chairs, were forever shedding some more or less important section, and the only reliable table was that built by the post carpenter, the quartermaster.

And so these pioneers of our civilization, the men and women of the army, had had no little experience in cabinetmaking and upholstering. While the emigrants and settlers, secure under its wing, could turn swords into ploughshares and spears into pruning-hooks, as saith the Scriptures, their soldier folk turned clothing boxes into couches, soap boxes into cradles, and pork barrels into fauteuils. Chintz and calico, like charity, covered a multitude of sins, as declared in unsightly cracks and knotholes. The finest reclining chair in all Camp Almy belonged to the doctor, a composite of condemned stretchers and shelter tent. The best dining-room set was sawed out from sugar barrels, and, being stuffed with old newspapers and gayly covered with cheese cloth and calico, rivaled in comfort, if not in airy elegance, the twisted woodwork of Vienna. When it was known that Mrs. and Miss Archer had descended upon the camp, and their beloved commander had next to nothing by way of furniture with which to deck their army home, every officer hastened to place his household goods—such "C. and G.E." as did not belong to the hospital—at the general's disposal. The Stannards sent three riveted, cane-bottomed, dining-room chairs and their spare room outfit complete. Captain Turner, whose fair-complected partner had not yet ventured to these destructive suns, sent bedstead and bureau, the latter without knobs, but you could pry the drawers open with the point of a sabre. The post trader drove up from the store with a lot of odds and ends. Even the bachelors were keen to do something. All of which Mrs. Archer most gratefully and smilingly accepted and made mental note of for future return in kind. But, in spite of the Stannards' contribution, the general stood firmly to his prerogative and sat close on his throne—"The finest dining chair in all Arizona, sir," as he often declared. "Sawed out from a standard oak whiskey barrel at Old Port Buford in '58, according to my own ideas and lines, and sound as a dollar to-day, sir, and it's only been covered three times in all. Look at it!" And here, with a flourish, he would whip off the seat. "Combination chair and butler's pantry, sir. Used to keep my whiskey and tobacco there when the redskins had the run of the post and thought nothing of searching our quarters. And now Doyle's used it as the doctor prescribed, and then gone and forgotten it! Haw, haw, haw! By Jove, but that's capital sherry! Cool almost as if it had been iced! Harris, my boy, you don't drink!"

There was a moment's silence. Then the young officer answered, simply, yet almost apologetically:

"Why—I never have, sir."

CHAPTER III.

It happened at a moment when Willett, seated at the right of "the lady of the house," with Lilian at his dexter side, had caught the eye of his hostess, and, after the manner of the day, had raised his brimming sherry glass and, bowing low, was drinking to her health, a feat the general had thrice performed already. "If I'd only known of this, gentlemen," said their host, but a moment earlier, with resultant access of cordiality, "and could have found a drop of Angostura about the post, we'd have had a 'pick-me-up' before dinner, but d'you know I—I seldom have bitters about me. I've no use for cocktails. I never touch a drop of stingo before twelve at noon or after twelve at night. I agree with old Bluegrass. Bluegrass was post surgeon at the Presidio when the Second Artillery came out in '65, right on the heels of the war, and he did his best to welcome them—especially Breck, their adjutant, also a Kentuckian. Then he was ordered East, and he left Breck his blessing, his liquor case, and this admonition—Breck told it himself. 'Young man,' said he, 'I observe you drink cocktails. Now, take my advice and don't do it. You drink the bitters and they go to your nose and make it red. You drink the sugar and it goes to your brain and makes it wopsy, and so—you lose all the good effects of the whiskey'! Haw, haw, haw!" It was a story the genial old soldier much rejoiced in, one that Stannard had bet he would tell before dinner was half over, and it came with Doyle and the chickens. The kindly, wrinkled, beaming face, red with the fire of Arizona's suns, redder by contrast with the white mustache and imperial, was growing scarlet with the flame of Bentley's cherished wine, when in sudden surprise he noted that the junior officer present, seated alone at his right (there was no other girl in all Camp Almy to bid to the little feast, and Mrs. Stannard, in mourning for a brother, could not accept), had turned down the little sherry glass. Thirty years ago such a thing was as uncommon in the army as fifty years ago it was unheard of in civil life. For one instant after the young officer's embarrassed answer the veteran sat almost as though he had heard a rebuke. It was Mrs. Archer who came to the relief of an awkward situation. "Mr. Harris believes in keeping in training," she ventured lightly. "He could not excel in mountain scouting without it. The general's scouting days are over and we indulge him." Indeed, it wasn't long before it began to look as though the general were indulging himself. Claret presently succeeded the sherry, but not until Bentley's health had been drunk again and the orderly summoned from the front porch to go, with the general's compliments, and tell him so. "This claret," he then declared, "is some I saved from the dozen Barry & Patton put aboard the Montana when I came round to Yuma last year. It's older than Lilian," this with a fond and playful pinch at the rosy cheek beside him, "and almost as good. No diluting this, Mr. Willett," for he saw that young officer glancing from the empurpled glass to the single carafe that adorned the table, its mate having met dissolution when the general's chest was prematurely unloaded in Dead Man's Cañon en route to the post. "Dilute your California crudities all you like, but not the red juice from the sunny vines of France. No, sir! Moreover, this and old Burgundy are the wines you must drink at blood heat. No Sauturnes or Hocks or champagnes for us fire worshippers in Arizona! Lilian here and my blessed wife yonder don't like these red wines for that reason. They want something to cool their dainty palates, but men, sir, and soldiers—— What's this, Bella, Bellisima? Salad—French dressing—and cool, too! Bravissima, my dear! How did you manage it? The olla? Why, of course! Cool anything. Cool my old head, if need be. Hey, Willett?"

And all this time, when not chatting with the debonair officer at her side or saying a word to his bronzed, sun-dried, silently observant comrade opposite, Lilian's fond eyes forever sought her father's rubicund face, love and admiration in every glance. All this time, even while in cordial talk with her guests, Mrs. Archer never seemed to lose a look or word from her soldier liege; never once did her winsome smile or joyous laugh fail to reward his sallies; never once came there shade of anxiety upon her beaming face. "The General" was the head of that house, and they were his loyal subjects. They even sipped at the outermost ripple of the thimbleful of claret each had permitted Doyle to pour. Even when a loud "cloop" in the dark passageway to the kitchen told that another bottle was being opened as the omelet came in, borne aloft by white-robed Suey, crowned with red poppies and blue blazes, and set triumphantly before the mistress of the feast, Harris could detect no flutter of disapprobation. Even when, later still, the general's eager hand, stretching forth for the dusky flagon (it was sacrilege to sweep away those insignia of age and respectability), managed to capsize the candelabrum and sent the fluid "adamantine" spattering a treasured table-cloth (how quick the dash of the young trooper's hand upon the flame—and its extinction!), a gentle smile was the sole rebuke, followed by a "Thank you, Mr. Harris. I hope you didn't burn your hand! That's all my fault." The general declared it foolish to put candles on the table when we could have sconces by the dozen on the walls.

Indeed, there must have been a dozen candles, not to mention the big lamps of forbidden kerosene upon shelf and sideboard, each backed by its reflector of glistening tin. "We were vain, you see," continued Mrs. Archer, "of our two old-fashioned heirlooms. Those quaint three-socket sticks were brought by the general's grandfather from England in Colonial days." It was so with everything they had, though they had so little. The massive silver forks, the worn old spoons, the squat little sugar bowl and creamer that came in later, all bore a crest and a single word. All had been "The General's" before ever that well-descended veteran had bent the knee in wooing. All had been stored in San Francisco until their coming to cheer his exile, but now were duly paraded in honor of their first guests at Almy, the young scout leader from the southern border, and his classmate, the new aide-de-camp of the commanding general; both, as was understood, to leave them on the morrow.

And all this time, too, though the windows, Arizona fashion, were blanketed to exclude all heatful light throughout the day (those of the dining-room being hidden behind Navajo fabrics in black and white, and blue and crimson), the hallways were wide open that no breath of air might be lost. The hounds clustered whimpering and wondering at the doorways, front and rear, resentful of the vigilance with which the orderlies on duty withstood their dashes, they who long weeks and months had had the run of the house. Darkness had settled down upon the sandy parade. The lights gleamed along the opposite front, the long barracks of the soldiery, and the stars were glinting bright above the beetling pine crests beyond the murmuring stream. Over at the mess the surgeon, the adjutant, quartermaster, Captain Bonner of the infantry, with his subaltern, and solemn Captain Turner, sat on the veranda, smoked their pipes, and even while keeping up a semblance of talk, had an eye and an ear on the bungalow—the "Old Man's" quarters not three hundred feet away. The boom of his jovial laughter still rang out upon the air, and presently the tinkle of guitar, the swish of feminine garments, the rasp of chairs and the merry mingling of voices told that the little dinner party, the first the camp had ever known—for what is a dinner party without women—had quit the table and gathered on the porch. By this time, too, an unclouded moon had sailed aloft from behind the screen of eastward heights, and its beams were pouring slantwise upon the group, that portion of it, at least, that now was seated near the southern end. They who watched were not slow to see that Lilian had taken a chair within a few feet of the edge, with Willett still in close attendance. The red heart of the general's cigar was visible midway between the window and the central doorway, but the jovial host was wrapped in shade. The light from the doorway fell upon the white gown of Mrs. Archer and the trim, slender, undersized figure of Lieutenant Harris, standing before her. They heard the general's voice, cordial and resonant, uplifted presently in protest: "No, don't go yet, boy. Let 'Tonio take care of himself to-night. I want you both to hear Lilian sing. Here, orderly, you go find 'Tonio and give him my compliments—No! you just tell 'Tonio I want to see him."

The orderly with Archer, as with many another post commander, was the final resort, the cure-all, the infallible means of settlement of all matters in dispute. The orderly went and stood not on the order of his going. He knew not 'Tonio, nor where to find him, but he knew better than to say so—to say anything. He went straightway to the sergeant of the guard, than whom no man is supposed to know more what is going on about the post. That Harris might have the pleasure of hearing the promised song (he surely could not think of going now) the mess devoutly hoped, and were in nowise too content when the sound of moving, of people getting to their feet, and of Archer's jocund welcome, told that callers had come to join the recent revellers, and that meant, of course, the Stannards, for there was really no one else. And then it was remembered that Stannard had said that Mrs. Archer had asked that they should come over after dinner, since they could not well attend it. Lilian's singing was something all save these two young soldiers had already heard, enjoyed and longed to hear again, and the mess could not but wish that old Stannard had not been so exact in his interpretation, and punctual in his acceptance of that invitation. There followed a few minutes of general talk and laughter, and then Archer's voice was again dominant. Nothing would do but that the Stannards both come in and taste that famous claret (which neither desired after dinner, however much it might then have been enjoyed). Then all went trooping in-doors again, all save Lilian and Lieutenant Harris, for presently these two came sauntering into the moonlight at the southward end of the veranda. The girl resumed her seat and guitar; the young officer the chair lately occupied by Willett, and here full ten minutes were they in conversation when the orderly came stalking back from the guard-house; the quintette came flocking forth from the hallway, and Willett, coming to resume his seat and chat, found his classmate in possession. It was the first opportunity that had fallen to Harris, and if Willett hoped or expected that he would rise and surrender in his favor he was doomed to disappointment. Harris never so much as turned his head.

They were an odd contrast, these two young graduates of the nation's soldier school, as they looked to Captain Stannard that November night. He spoke of it to his wife and thought of it long after, for he, too, had come toward the little group a bit impatient, it must be owned, of the general's mellow monologue, and wearying of a conversation in which he had no part. But here again Stannard found scant opportunity. Miss Archer, bending slightly forward, was, with much animation describing to Mr. Harris the brilliant ball given by the artillery at the Presidio just before they were hurried off to that fatal Modoc war. Harris, caring little for the affair, and possibly hearing little of what she was saying, sat as though drinking in every word, and gazing enthralled upon the beauty of her sweet young face. He, too, was bending forward, his lithe, slender, supple frame clad in the trim undress uniform of the day, his clear-cut face, with its thin, almost hollow cheeks, tanned brown by the blazing suns of the southern desert, his hair cropped close to his shapely head, his gray-blue eyes, large, full and steady, fixed unswerving upon her. Leaning on his elbow, one lean brown hand was toying with the sun-bleached ends of his mustache, the other, with the class ring gleaming in the moonlight, lay idly on his knee. Lacking stature, size or weight, the physical attributes that make a man impressive, he looked the picture of the young athlete, firm and fit and trained for speed and staying power, yet cold in his steel-like strength and quality.

Overtopping him, standing where he, too, could hear and gaze, elegant in form, graceful in pose, and precise in dress, the picture of chivalric officer and gentleman, Hal Willett had the advantage of nearly six more inches in height, a presence that was at once commanding and assured, and a face as strikingly handsome as that of Harris was severely plain. Willett's eyes and hair were of a deep, lustrous brown, his eyebrows thick and heavily arched, his mouth soft, sensitive, with lips that were beautifully curved and teeth that were white and well-nigh perfect. His mustache, though long and curling, was carefully trained away so as to hide none of the charms that lurked beneath. He looked at once the knight of the ballroom and the battlefield, a man to make his mark in either contest, love or war, and make it he had. Life had been full of gifts to Harold Willett. He came from old border stock. His name was first of the presidential ten the year he entered the Point, first on the list of cadet corporals in the yearling June and first among the first sergeants the following year. An uncontradicted rumor had it that he could have been sergeant-major, but that he told the commandant his ambition lay in the senior captaincy, and first captain he had been named his first class summer, only to lose it late in August, the penalty of a rash and forbidden exploit for the sake of a smile, and possibly a caress, and lose it to the man who, starting at the foot of the list of his chevroned fellows two years before, had risen only to "late sergeant" of a centre company when they came from furlough, but, standing foremost in "Tactics," well up in every subject but French and drawing, and impeccable in conduct, won a captaincy in spite of his lack of inches. Graduating a dozen files ahead of his brilliant comrade, Harris had sought and won commission in the cavalry, was sent to duty in New Mexico and then in Arizona, ever roughing it in the deserts or the mountains until in physique he was hard as hickory, and in spirit wellnigh as elastic. Never until this recent experience in the Apache Mohave country had he shown symptom of discouragement. Now it was the more noticeable because coupled, it would seem, with distrust—distrust of him who had been for two years past an inseparable guide and even comrade, 'Tonio, "gran capitan" of Indian scouts.

And even as he sat there absorbed in the sweet vision in the moonlight before him, studying the play of her sensitive lips, forgetful for the moment of all else about him, there fell across the glistening boarding at her feet the shadow of a turbaned head, at sight of which she started, with faint, half-suppressed cry of fright; then, as though ashamed, broke into a nervous little laugh. Harris was in an instant on his feet, and whirling, confronted 'Tonio, tall, gaunt, silent, impassive.

"Que quiere?" he demanded, in the blunt vernacular of the service. It annoyed him that subordinate of his should thus appear unseen, unheard, unsummoned, and to her affright. He forgot the noiseless sand, the soft-soled moccasins, the native stealth; forgot at the moment the general's mandate and the orderly's mission. It flashed upon him at 'Tonio's quiet answer, grave, unresentful, and in the Apache tongue.

"My chief called me."

"Pardon me just one moment, Miss Archer. I'll come back at once," said Harris, bending over the still trembling girl. Then, turning sharply and bidding 'Tonio follow, his eyes met those of Willett, smiling affably.

"I'll keep it while you're gone, Hefty," said he, with laughing ease of manner, sliding promptly into the vacated seat. "Now, Miss Archer, if you'll be so good as to go right on where you left off, I'll be all gratitude and attention."

Without answer, Harris stepped lightly over to where the general and Stannard were now deep in one-sided argument over the merits of a war-time leader, known well to men of the Union Army east or west; the general declaiming, the junior listening, unconvinced. It was one point on which they differed widely, one on which the general was apt to dilate when warmed by wine. He had had only moderate aid from Willett in disposing of two bottles of sound old claret, and one was enough to set the garrulous tongue to wagging. He would not cease at sight of Harris, standing silent and respectful before him. Stannard had to interpose and say, "You sent for 'Tonio, sir, as I happened to hear," as indeed they all did, far and near, whereat the veteran turned.

"Bless my soul, boy, so I did! What for, I wonder?"

"To save my going over with night orders for the scouts, I think, sir," said Harris promptly, "and, unless you wish to see him personally, I'll tell him now."

"Must you make so early a start, Harris? It's only thirty miles to the cañon."

"I know, sir, but I need to be at Bennett's before sunrise. Their scouts would see us if we started later. We go on to the cañon after I have examined that neighborhood."

"All right, then. Buckets will issue rations at once. Start when you think best. But now, Stannard, see here; if he was such a stayer and so energetic in Virginia, how do you account for——"

But Harris had saluted and turned away, 'Tonio at his heels. As they passed the end of the veranda, where sat Lilian and her listener, Harris noted that the latter had drawn his chair much closer than he had dared, and was bending forward until the handsome dark head was almost over the fair hand toying with the guitar that lay idly in her lap. The modern vernacular for the successful squire of dames was then unknown. The girl, who had been leaning forward, all chat and animation when Harris sat there, now lay dreamily back in the rude but easy chair, her eyelids drooping, her long lashes sweeping the soft cheek, listening, drinking in the murmurous flow of Willett's almost inaudible words, and the stern young face of his classmate hardened in the moonlight, for Harris had seen and heard before. Briefly he gave his instructions to the silent Apache and closed with the sign, "I have spoken. That is all."

But 'Tonio did not stir. Something, possibly, in Willett's devotional attitude vaguely troubled the girl, and, edging back in her chair, she had lifted a little slippered foot from the floor. The general at the moment was talking loud enough to drown other sounds about him. The aide-de-camp, his dark eyes glowing and riveted on those of the fair face so near him, seemed deaf to everything but his own eloquence. But the Indian had placed one hand on his young officer's wrist, and with the other stood pointing at some object coiled underneath Lilian's chair, not half an arm's length from the little foot that dangled in its silken stocking but a hand's-breadth from the floor. At that moment Willett bent impressively, still nearer, and instinctively Lilian moved a hand as though about to edge farther away. It was at this very instant that Harris spoke, his voice, absolutely calm, even to the semblance of a drawl, but every word told clear, distinct, and, in spite of its courtesy, commanding, compelling.

"Miss Archer and—ah—Willett, be good enough to sit perfectly still a moment. Don't—move—a muscle!"

Even the general, for a wonder, had ceased—for breath, perhaps—and sat speechless and startled, for noiseless and stealthy as a cat, with long strides, 'Tonio had skirted the edge of the veranda, and with agile spring was at the back of Lilian's chair. There he swooped instantly. There was sound of strident, rasping sk-r-r-r-rr: then a lightning snap, as of a whip. Something black and writhing went flying into the sand, and then squirming blindly away, and 'Tonio straightened to his full height, and without a word strode from the veranda.

"In God's name, what was that?" cried the general, springing from his chair and hastening to his daughter's side.

"Nothing but a snake, sir," said Harris quietly, strolling toward them. "That one's done for, anyhow!"

CHAPTER IV.

An hour later the lights were out among the barracks, and the silence of the summerlike winter's night had settled on the garrison. Over at the Mess and office buildings all was darkness. Along the log and adobe façade of the officers' quarters, from occasional open doorways the gleam of lantern was thrown across the wooden verandas. The moonbeams flooded the sandy parade and the rough-hewn roofs and walls with tender, silvery radiance that put to shame the twinkling lights, down at the store on the lower flats, and the bleary eye of the big, triangular, glass-faced, iron-bound cresset at the log guard-house, perched at the edge of the mesa. Afar off, through dim vistas of the valley, the silver ribbon of the stream wound and twisted among the willows, but the heights, as a rule, were wrapped in the shadows of their own pines. A game of goodly proportion was going on down at the card room, a brace of ranchmen and prospectors, a venturesome "sub" and the "contract doctor" making up the party, but the general, his household and near neighbors had retired or were retiring for the night. Only the guard and the "owls" were "on deck." Army folk in those days and regions had a way of turning out at dawn for the cool of the morning, turning in at taps for the needed six hours' beauty sleep, lunching lightly at noon, snoozing drowsily an hour or two, then after tub and fresh linen, venturing forth, those who had to, for the afternoon duties. All social enjoyment, as a rule, began when the sun could not see, but had dropped back of the screen of the mountains.

But there was still faint stir at the camp of the scouts, out beyond the corrals. Rations had been drawn at tattoo, and a limited portion issued to the lithe, swarthy fellows, squatted in semicircle in front of their chief, patiently awaiting their share, no man of their number opening so much as the end of a package, either of cartridge or cracker, until the last had his dole and all were served. It was known that before dawn they were again to set forth, whither, not even 'Tonio had been told, and 'Tonio had noted and felt it. Hitherto there had been counsel between his young commander and himself. This night there had been none. Instead, only half an hour after the exciting episode at the commanding officer's and the despatching of the intruding rattler, 'Tonio had been summoned to the adjutant's office and then questioned by Lieutenant Willett, with cargador Muñoz, not Lieutenant Harris, serving as interpreter. Hitherto 'Tonio had conducted his conference with the Great Father's captains with Lieutenant Harris translating. It was significant both to that officer and to 'Tonio that this time a pack train employé had been selected, his name having been suggested at head-quarters at Prescott, and an orderly sent for him early by way of caution, for Muñoz loved monte and mescal. Another significant thing was that Harris had declined an invitation to be present at 'Tonio's examination. "If Mr. Willett has any question to ask me," he said, "he'll find me at Dr. Bentley's," whither, indeed, he had repaired, as it were, awaiting summons.

Moreover, it was patent to Stannard and Turner and Dr. Bentley, too, that Harris took it much amiss that Willett should at last disclose the fact that he was there to "investigate." He had said nothing of it the night before. He had put up at the adjutant's, after quite a long session at the Mess, an affair attended by Harris only an hour or so, and even then only as an absorbed listener, with other fellow-soldiers, to Willett's brilliant description of the recent campaign in the lava beds, culminating as it had in the brutal massacre by the Modocs of their would-be best friends, the peace commissioners, and General Canby. After taps, however, despite his long and dusty buckboard ride, Willett saw fit to "sit in" to the game almost always in progress down at the trader's store. Whereupon Stannard, Turner and Harris, non-participants ever, took themselves off to bed. It was not much of a game, said Strong, who was there, only Willett, Craney, Watson, Briggs and himself, and was remarkable for only one fact, that Case, the bookkeeper, who never before had seemed to care to play, had happened in late, looked curiously on a moment, and then, without having been presented to Willett, seemed desirous of taking a hand. Craney wondered if Case had been drinking again, but Willett took no notice. Willett was feeling very jolly, said Strong, and it was quite late when they finally quit.

Harris was up with the sun looking over his pack train and observing 'Tonio and his fellows. Willett did not turn out until office hours, when he had a conference with General Archer, ending in his expressing a wish to "look about" him for the day. He had asked no questions of Harris; had met him heartily, as classmates should, but with just a suspicion of superiority of manner that Harris could not like, and without a word of appreciation of the capital soldier work Harris had been doing.

There was another reason why Harris resented Willett's investigating his scout that second evening. A total abstainer himself from boyhood, reared by a careful mother and aware for many a year that his father's occasional lapses were her perennial dread, Harris had set his canon against the practice from the day he doffed the gray at West Point, and never swerved from his creed after donning the blue. Not so with Willett. Not so with nine-tenths of his associates. Harris had seen, without remark, that Willett enjoyed the occasional beverages mixed for him at the Mess in the late afternoon, and again had noted that his comrade did quite his share this second evening toward finishing the doctor's sherry, though it was the "Old Man," after all, who "got away with" most of the Bordeaux. Twice after dinner Archer had ushered his guests within doors, once to try what was left of the claret, and later, after the snake episode, when some nerves might be in need of bracing, to sample some phenomenal Monongahela. Then when Harris was through, after saying good-night, he was presently followed by Willett, flushed in face and abrupt in manner. Miss Archer had been spirited off by her mother, and presumably gone to bed. She'd get used to snakes if she stayed long in Arizona, said Willett. What was the sense in scaring her, anyway? Why hadn't Harris quietly given him the tip? He could have snapped Mr. Rattler's head off without anybody being the wiser, and Harris saw that the night-caps, taken on top of all that preceded, had tangled Willett's ideas, despite which fact Willett now announced that he had summoned the interpreter and desired Harris to send 'Tonio to the office for investigation at once.

And Willett represented the commanding general, who knew nothing of what was going on, and Harris could only obey.

It was a dramatic scene as it opened. Willett had not failed to hand a copy of his instructions to the post commander and had left entirely to his judgment the question as to whether the officers should be present. Archer had decided against it. 'Tonio might be alarmed. It were better, he said, that no one except the post adjutant, the interpreter, and Lieutenants Willett and Harris appear, and then Harris, whose letter from the field announcing the ill success of the scout was the original cause of the investigation, said he preferred to be excused. Harris did not wish to appear to 'Tonio in the light of an accuser, and Willett was secretly better content that his classmate should stay away.

Down in the bottom of his heart Willett felt that four years of such experiences as Harris had encountered made him a far better judge of Apache methods and motives than he, Willett, could expect to be. Moreover, he knew well that, were he in Harris's place, he should resent it that an officer no higher in grade, and inferior in Arizona craft, should be sent to inquire into the conduct of his scout. It was just one of those things a tactless chief of staff would sometimes do; but, even though Willett appreciated, none the less did he welcome the order. It put him at once in position of ascendency over a classmate of whose record and success he was both jealous and afraid. If he had felt this earlier in the day the feeling was intensified now, for though he had seemed to some of the officers, to Archer and his family, especially to Lilian, far the more accomplished and attractive of the two, the entrance of that disturbing rattler on the scene had destroyed the equilibrium of affairs. Willett had had no experience with the venomous little reptile, Harris had had much, and Harris's utter sang froid, and cool, commanding words had averted what might have been a tragedy. One start, one sudden move of the girl at that critical moment might well have been fatal. The snake, alarmed and angered by previous stir and by Willett's approaches, was actually coiled for the spring. The tiny fangs would have fastened in a flash on that slender, unprotected ankle, and the rest could only be conjectured.

And so, it was in no judicial mood that Willett began his questioning. Accustomed as he was to the hang-dog, dissolute specimens of degenerate red men he had seen in the Columbia country and the lava beds, he hardly knew what to make of 'Tonio, this ascetic of the mountains, clear eyed, trained to a fineness almost unhuman, all wire and sinew, an Indian withal who looked him straight and fearless in the eye, and held himself as proudly as ever did chieftain of the Aztecs or the Sioux. Summoned from the camp fire to this unsought council, finding himself confronted by strangers, missing his own friend and commander, and instinctively scenting accusation, 'Tonio stood and faced his judges without so much as a tremor.

For a moment Willett sat and studied him. "Siwashes" of Puget's Sound, Klickatats of the Columbia, and scowling, beetle-browed Modocs of upper Nevada he had often met, and their shifting eyes dropped before the keen gaze of the dominant soldier, but this son of the Sierras never so much as suffered the twitch of a muscle, the droop of an eyelash. In the language of the "greaser" cargador, whose border vernacular had suffered through long contact with that of the gringo, "'Tonio didn't scare worth a damn, even when the lieutenant tried bulldozing," but that may merely have been the expression of civilian jealousy of military methods. Being in the pay and under the protection of the United States, 'Tonio could be called on for explanation at any time, only—there were two ways of calling.

"Tell him," said Willett, "the chief-of-chiefs believes the Apache Mohaves are hiding in the Mogollon,—many of them—bucks, squaws and children, and he was sent to find them and to bring them to the reservation. Why did he fail?"

Muñoz, as nearly as he could, put the question, but none too confidently.

"Because my people were driven beyond sound of 'Tonio's voice," was the calm reply, the eyes for the officer, the words for the man, and Muñoz again translated.

"How so? Was not word sent them by Arahawa?"

"Arahawa said the white brother would come with food and presents to lead them home. What they saw was guns and scouts and soldiers. Therefore, they were afraid and fled. Soldiers with guns catch no Mohaves who fear. Therefore was it useless, and I tired."

"Could you have caught them and persuaded them had you gone alone?" And Willett asked as he had been instructed at headquarters.

"Caught? Yes! Persuaded? No! They say white soldiers killed Comes Flying, brother to Chief Lone Pine."

"How does he know Comes Flying was killed? We heard it only the night I reached Prescott. No one has told it—here." And now the officer's eyes were glittering. The adjutant shifted uneasily in his chair. This was news to him. Comes Flying stood second only to Lone Pine in the tribe, yet Camp Almy had not heard it. 'Tonio had told it not even to Harris.

"The mountain eagle is 'Tonio's friend; the bear, the lynx, the birds are his brothers."

"Then you knew the Apache Mohaves were in the Verde Valley—and in Dead Man's Cañon as late as last week—that they had raided Stoner's Ranch?"

"They were not there, nor did they raid Stoner's Ranch! My people stayed not even on the East Fork. They fled deep in the Mogollon."

Willett gave vent to impatient "Pish!" The Indians he had known all lied, of course, but looked it. This man looked him full in the face, even as he lied, and looked the truth.

"I'll show you why we know you lie," said he impulsively, but the adjutant held up a warning hand, saying, "Listen!"

Through the open doorway, barred against unauthorized intruder by the single soldier, standing beyond earshot upon the level of the parade, there came the prolonged cry of a sentry at the upper end of the garrison. Number Three had repeated, but Number Four was impatient, imperative, and the yell came again: "Corporal of the Guard, Number Four!"

"That means something," said the adjutant, springing to his feet. "I'll be back in a minute if it doesn't," and away he went, swift-speeding under the flagstaff, and Muñoz followed straight to the base of the staff, where the trumpeter of the guard and three or four men from the barracks were already gathered, their own surreptitious, blanket-shrouded game for the moment forgotten. They were staring through the moonlight straight away to the northeastward chain of heights, rocky and precipitous, that spanned the valley in that direction, and suddenly two of them gave tongue:

"There it is again! Didn't I tell you?"

Far away among the pines at the crest a tiny blaze shot into the skies, brilliant even in the moonshine. "Signal fire, sure!" said three voices at once. "Signal fire, sure!" echoed other voices, as more men came running forth from the barracks to join the watchers on the parade. "Signal fire, sure, and right up over the Bennett Ranch—where the general was to-day!"

"My God, I wonder have they jumped it! Yonder comes the corporal—back—running!"

Back, indeed, and running and straight for the doctor's, where he could be heard banging at the open door. So away went the trumpeter, full tilt for tidings, and others, impatient, followed. Instead of coming back the trumpeter kept on, running still harder toward the brow of the hill and the post of Number Four. It was the corporal who called to his halting and anxious fellows:

"It's Bennett's Ranch! His dago's in with the news—mos' dead down there on Number Four; says they've killed the whole family—'Patchie Mohaves!"

There was awed silence one moment. Then a deep voice broke it, and all eyes turned on the speaker. 'Tonio.

"Apache Mohave? No! No!!"

CHAPTER V.

Bennett's "dago," when halted by Number Four, was as limp a specimen of humanity as that drowsy young trooper had seen in all his soldier days. Bennett's dago was no stranger to the post, having occasionally come thither on errands for his employer, and semi-occasionally appeared without such semblance of authority, but, whether his mission was for master or man, it had never hitherto failed to lead to the store and monte. Small as was the garrison, and few as were the neighboring ranches, there was generally business enough to support two card rooms, one for officers and the "gente fino"—the trader, his partner, the chief packer, forage master, and an occasional rancher or prospector; the other, a big one, and often a riotous, for the soldiery, scouts, packers and riffraff of the frontier, and for this establishment Bennett's dago had an indescribable fascination. Here he had met and differed with Muñoz, the two coming to a knife duel, promptly suppressed by the gun butts of the guard. None the less was Muñoz called into requisition as interpreter, for between peril, exhaustion and defective English the "dago" could only splutter an unintelligible jargon that might have been Sicilian, Maltese, or Calabrian, but could not be Spanish. Bennett, it seems, had picked him up for dead on the Verde road, early in the spring of the year, and Mrs. Bennett had nursed the poor devil back to life. Then it turned out that he knew how to cook. Later it transpired that he had been with a Mexican "outfit," prospecting for gold; had taken mountain fever, become a burden to them, and was left to look out for himself at a tank in Dead Man's Cañon. He paid for his keep in cooking and chores, said Bennett, and picked up enough English to enable him to get along about the ranch. He presently showed desire to care for the horses and mules and to ride them, and one day he disappeared with Bennett's best saddle mule and was gone forty-eight hours, and on his return gravely tendered Bennett a five-dollar gold piece in payment for his time and mule while away. He said he won it at monte, and it was proved that he had found his way to the card room, as a mule does to water, and, without knowledge of English, displayed consummate skill in the game; had played only two hours, had won twenty dollars and departed at dusk. But his winnings were in greenbacks and silver. Whence had come the gold? The trader's people said he stabled his mule; introduced himself as "Bennett's mozo—me," and "sat into" the game then in progress as though long accustomed; showing silver, mainly Mexican, the only credentials the players required. At sunset he quit, easy winner, and went without taking so much as a "snifter." Once having found the way, and the means, the dago came again and yet again, neither giving nor having trouble until he ran foul of Muñoz, the Mexican, whom he seemed to hate at sight. Whatever his lingo, or that employed by the polyglot Mexican, they understood each other, and the misunderstanding that followed was purely personal.

Now, in spite of his craze for gambling the dago had points that appealed to Bennett. He found him valuable in many a way. He was almost doglike in his devotion to Bennett's wife and children. He was a "bang-up" cook, barring a heavy hand at first with chile and onions. He patched up an old guitar of Mrs. Bennett's and strummed delightfully all manner of strange Mexican and Mediterranean melodies, and, encouraged by her, had even been betrayed into song. He was kind to the stock, and the mules took to him from the very start, which the two horses did not do. The dogs tolerated at first and then "tied" to him. So, too, the cat adored him. He got along smoothly with the one negro and two Maricopa Indian boys Bennett had brought with him from the Gila. He did not drink even when at the post, and in the course of six months had come to be a feature, almost a fixture of the ranch, yet "Dago" was the only name by which he was known, even among his benefactors. Bennett said he believed he had forgotten he ever had another.

That very morning, showing all his white teeth, he had whipped off a battered old hat of Mexican straw at sight of the general and his fair daughter, had taken the basket while the orderly led the horses to the corral, had followed them about the little garden patch while Mrs. Bennett delightedly showed her lettuce and spinach and the gorgeous bed of poppies. Then he had brewed delicious chocolate, though condensed milk was poor substitute for whipped cream, and had prepared such an appetizing little luncheon, and had made himself so useful, that the general was moved to say to Bennett that any time the dago tired of his job he could find one at the fort. "I wonder he stays," said Bennett. "I only give him five dollars a month, even now, and he could get twenty, and unlimited monte, at the store; besides, he is mortal 'fraid of these 'Patchie Mohaves; hell knows why, and hides when he sees 'em coming."

"Do they never bother you stealing or—some way?" asked the general, with an anxious glance at the two sturdy little ranchers, five and three-year-old Bennetts, rolling and wrestling in the sand, showing off for the benefit of the visitors.

"'Patchie Mohaves?" asked Bennett, looking up in surprise. "Never have! You know I drove mule team to the agency two years ago, and sort of grew to them. Why, Minnie, now, thinks as much of them, or most, as she does of the boys at the post. They're a sort of police, sir. The Tontos don't dare come down so long as the Mohaves are about here."

"I know," said the general reflectively. "Yet some few bucks drifted off to the Tontos, and the agent's been raising a row because so many of them roost down here instead of staying on the reservation, bringing in game. Did you know that two bands were out—women and all—without permits, and that was one thing that brought Lieutenant Harris and his scouts up here?"

"Well, that accounts for our having seen none of them for over two weeks. They must have gone clean out to the Mesa. General," he continued anxiously, "they don't like their agent, or that agency. They're herded in there with Apache Yumas and sick Tontos and Sierra Blancas—fellows that get better treatment because they're bigger devils and raise merry hell. I know 'em and the agent don't. I'd move in to the post if they were out, but we're safe with the 'Patchie Mohaves."

That was what poor Bennett was saying not twelve hours earlier, and now the homelike ranch had gone up in flames, and Bennett, wailed the dago, lay butchered among the ruins. So, too, the negro. The Maricopa boys had fled only, probably, to be run down and killed, but what had become of the poor, helpless little wife and mother, with her bonny, blue-eyed boys, God alone knew.

By this time half the enlisted strength of the post was up and out and flocking to hear the tidings. Bentley, the surgeon, had shuffled over in his slippered feet and was giving Dago first aid to the demoralized in the shape of aguardiente Americano, that made him sputter and sneeze, but speedily braced him. The adjutant hurried over to call the commanding officer, passing Harris on the way, and Harris, already in campaign dress, was hastening to the camp of his scouts. Turner, silent and sombre, as was his wont, had elbowed his way through the throng and stood glowering at Dago and the beetled-browed Muñoz, as though weighing them in mental balance, and finding both wanting. Mrs. Stannard, through the blinds, had hailed the adjutant as he went bounding by to say the captain would be out in a moment. Already Wettstein had told them the fearful news. The adjutant stepped inside the open hallway at the general's and banged on the swinging door of the little front room, answered almost instantly by the subdued and gentle voice of Mrs. Archer from the head of the stairs. The general was sound asleep. Was it necessary to wake him?

Strong expected as much. Not once a month did that genial veteran permit himself an over-indulgence, but, when he did, the quicker he slept it off the better. He had taken his night-cap and turned in betimes, so as to be up at reveille. But Strong knew what the "Old Man" would say to him later if he failed to rouse him now. "It's immediate, Mrs. Archer," said he. "We have bad news from Bennett's Ranch."

A pale, frightened, white little face had come peering over the motherly shoulder at the moment, even whiter in the flickering light of Mrs. Archer's candle, and at sound of the name there went up a low cry of distress.

"Oh, Mr. Strong, is it Mrs. Bennett—or the boys?"

"We don't—know—yet, Miss Archer. The dago's here, scared to death; galloped all the way with a story of an Indian raid. I'm hoping it isn't as bad as he thinks. God forgive me the lie," he added under his breath.

"But they haven't hurt her? They surely would not hurt her!" came the piteous wail, as the girl clung to the rude balustrade, while her mother hastened to rouse the sleeping warrior. "Heaven pity her," thought Strong, "unless they have killed her outright and not carried her away."

Then came a step in the hall behind him, and Willett was there, alert and resourceful. "Pray don't be troubled yet, Miss Archer," he called reassuringly, and barely noticing Strong. "The messenger's been stampeded before this, the men tell me. He's too badly scared to know the truth. It may be there's been a fire. I think there has, for the light could be seen, and so he imagined Indians and never stopped to see. I'm going right up there and will send back word. Please don't worry yet!"

How thoughtful he was for her, and for dear mamma! How kind! Strong knew full well that the light they had seen was the glare of no burning ranch, but a beacon far up in the hills—a signal fire, of course. The ranch lay in a deep valley ten miles to the north-east, with high ridges intervening. In the brilliant moonlight a glare that might otherwise have been seen on the sky would pass unnoted. Strong knew, deep down in his heart, that whatever the fate of the family, the ranch was a thing of the past, but Willett's words were soothing. It was better to let them go unquestioned.

Then out came the general on the landing above, his towzled gray poll poking over the rail. "What is it, Strong? I'll be down quick as I can half dress." Indeed, he was losing no instant of time, though it cost him some items of toilet. With his feet in "flip-flaps," his legs in loose linen trousers, and buttoning a sack coat over his nightgown, the veteran was already shuffling downstairs. "Run back to your room, dear," he said, as he passed his little girl. "You shall know everything presently," and then in a moment was out in the free air of heaven, the two young officers with him.

Briefly, cautiously, the adjutant murmured the dago's story, adding his fear as to its truth. Blankly Archer looked at them an instant, aghast, appalled, as well he might be, and for the moment unable or unwilling to trust himself to speak. There had been no time, he said, to souse his head in the big basin of cool water his wife would have given him. He was still heated, flushed, suddenly roused from heavy slumber, and by no means at his best. Strong knew just how to act in the premises and would have given him time to recover, but there was Willett, alert and insistent,—Willett who represented the commanding general, and whose words carried weight—Willett who was quick to seize the opportunity and to say:

"This is just in line with what we thought at headquarters, sir, and the quicker I can get to the spot the better. With your consent, general, I'll push out at once with the scouts, and we'll get back word to you before daylight."

And even Strong, loyal soul, had to admit later that the general's answer was practically "Yes, yes, by all means, Willett, and I'll send a troop in support," whereupon Willett darted away to the adjutant's quarters to doff his natty uniform and don something older and more suitable. Twenty minutes thereafter he had swung a leg over one of Stannard's troop horses and spurred away down to the north-eastward slope, toward the upper ford of the stream, where dimly in the distance another horseman could be seen, with a dozen shadowy, ghost-like forms gliding along in tireless jog trot in line with him—Harris and his mountain hounds, the Apache scouts, already en route for the scene of disaster. Bentley, Stannard and Turner, standing at the edge of the bluff, with fourscore soldiers clustered about them, while others had gone with Dago to hear again his tale, gazed thoughtfully after the disappearing shadows and then at each other.

"Humph!" said Stannard, in words meant for his fellows, but in tones that went farther. "There'll be conflict of authority now or I'm a duffer!"

Ten minutes they stood and watched; then came the orderly with the general's compliments, and he'd be glad to see Captain Stannard at once.

"That means you're going, Stan," said the surgeon. "I suppose he'll send my assistant with you."

They found the commanding officer on the porch of his quarters, very grave and quiet now, perfectly calm and self-possessed. The dago had squatted at the edge of the steps, his face bowed in his hands, shivering as though from cold. Muñoz slouched near by, eying him in aggressive contempt. Several sergeants, with many of the men, were grouped at respectful distance, eager and waiting the word. Strong was with the ladies, for Mrs. Stannard had dressed hurriedly and come over, and between them the two elders were gently striving to console or encourage Lilian, who had been quite overcome by the particulars as translated by Muñoz. The dago claimed that from his pallet, under the "linter" of the corral, he had been roused by the sudden yell at the ranch, followed by swift shooting, screams and cries of Mrs. Bennett and the children, the outburst of flame, and then he saw them, the Indians, coming for him, and he sprang on the best horse and lashed him all the way to the post.

Stannard came at the moment, solid, stocky, and reliable—a man it was a comfort to look at in moments of peril or excitement, and such moments were frequent in the old days of the frontier. Silently he saluted, stood before the commander and received his brief orders—mount the troop, follow the scouts, and if it should appear that Mrs. Bennett and the children had been carried off by the Indians, to pursue and do his best to recapture. Rations would follow by mule train.

Stannard had just one question to ask.

"Shall I call on Mr. Harris or Mr. Willett for scouts, sir?" And even then it was noted that he named Harris first.

"Why—on Mr. Harris. He is in command."

"Very good, sir," said Stannard, and turned on his heel. Mrs. Stannard, hastily kissing Lilian's pale and tear-wet cheek, started to follow, but through the little knots of soldiery a strange figure came forcing a way, a lithe Apache on resentful mule—'Tonio, already back from the front, a little folded paper in his hand. Lashing the obstinate brute he bestrode, 'Tonio dove straight at the general, and all men waited to learn the tidings. Hastily Archer opened the paper, glanced it over in the moonlight, looked up, and nodded to Stannard.

"Willett says from round the point they can see two more signal fires toward the north-east, just the way to the Apache Mohaves!"

Then came a dramatic incident. Sitting his saddle mule like a chief of the Sioux, 'Tonio straightened to his full height, his strong face gleaming in the brilliant, silvery sheen, his bare right arm, with clinching fist uplifted, and in a voice that rang out like a clarion on the hushed and breathless night, shouted his response for his people:

"Apache Mohave! No! No! No!"

CHAPTER VI.

Barely a mile away to the north-east of the site of old Camp Almy a ridge of rock and shale stretches down from the foothills of the Black Mesa and shuts off all view of the rugged, and ofttimes jagged, landscape beyond—all save the peaks and precipitous cliffs of the Mogollon, and some of the pine-crested heights that hem the East Fork. Time was, toward the fag end of the Civil War, when the volunteers from the "Coast" kept a lookout on the point, a practice that yielded more scalps to the Indians than security to the inmates. The system, therefore, fell into disuse, and the post became unpopular because of the mutilated condition in which the pickets were twice found by the relief, and the amount of reliable information received from the point never quite paid for the cost. With the disappearance of the Tontos, who were not such fools as their Spanish name implied, the practice of stationing outlying sentries was dropped. The Tontos seemed to have abandoned the valley to their distant cousins, the Apache-Mohaves, whose presence there, in small, itinerant parties, was objected to less by the few scattered settlers than by the one badgered agent at the distant reservation.

This, at least, was the case at first. Bennett and Sowerby, from above Camp Almy, and two others from below, found them friendly and peaceable. But presently complaints were heard from settlers over at McDowell, in the Verde Valley to the west, and other settlers away up the Verde toward Camp Sandy. Then Sowerby swore his stock was run off, and Bennett presently remained the only ranchman to stand up for them. The agent declared them contumacious and tricky. Other whites—Arizona white was then a reddish-brown—added their evil word to the official's. It was the old adage over again: "Give a dog a bad name," etc., and the department commander had sent for scouts to coax them in, before despatching troops to enforce their coming, and Harris had found nobody—nothing but abandoned rancherias and unsavory relics.

And then had come the tidings of a clash—the killing of Comes Flying, son of a chief, and brother to a tribal leader, and then in reprisal, probably, the burning of Bennett's home and the butchery of Bennett. Then Harris had stayed not a moment, but, acting on the understanding of the previous evening, had gone forth at once.

It is well to be prompt, yet oftentimes wise to be prompted. Post commanders like to be able to say in their reports, "I ordered" this, or "By my direction" that, and Harris had gone at the word of alarm without other word with the general.

That Harris was to choose his own time was the understanding between them when they parted, almost affectingly, at night, for between the snake episode and the successive toddies the good old gentleman was quite effusive. There would have been, probably, no change in the instructions had Harris started at reveille or even at dawn. But to "pull out" at midnight, with the situation changed and without another word with the commander, was something open to criticism. Moreover, Harris knew it.

But he had two reasons, neither of which might count with a court of his peers, but were of mighty account to him. 'Tonio had come to him actually ablaze with indignation. 'Tonio had said his people were accused when his people were innocent. 'Tonio had begged that they start at once, and he would show it was not Apache-Mohaves at fault. He would show who were the real raiders, and might even rescue the prisoners. So Harris never hesitated. Leaving a brief note in the hands of Dr. Bentley, he had ridden away with 'Tonio and a dozen of his best, only to be overtaken a mile or so out by the man of all others he least desired to see. Hal Willett was the second reason Harris had for wishing to get well away. If ever there came opportunity for a man to step in, and upon, another man's plans and purposes, Harold Willett could be relied upon to take it. Harris knew him of old, knew instinctively that, if a possible thing, his classmate, ever selfish and self-seeking, would rob him of the fruits of his long service with the scouts, and would not scruple in such an emergency to take over the command.

Harris was right. Just as the leaders rounded the huge shoulder of hillside jutting so boldly to the bank of the stream, and were eagerly pointing to the two distant flames far up in the foothills, Willett came galloping to his side. "Signal fires, of course!" said he. "It's just as I said, and this fellow of yours denied. They're making for the Mesa. I'll send back word at once." With that he set to scribbling a note on a page of his scouting book, then again galloped forward, catching Harris and 'Tonio riding side by side.

"Tell 'Tonio to take this straight to General Archer," said he.

Then Harris turned on him:

"I don't recognize your right to order my scouts about, Willett. I need 'Tonio here."

"You'll have him again in twenty minutes," was the conciliatory answer. "This is by Archer's own order, Harris. I've come straight from his side. Otherwise I'll interfere with you as little as possible."

And Harris, with one look of distrust in his comrade's flushing face, turned quietly to 'Tonio, said barely ten words to his second, not one to his senior, then bitterly spurred ahead.

He was not the first man in the profession of arms to realize what it is to faithfully and persistently labor to develop, instruct and discipline a body of men until he and they are working in absolute accord, all the intricate parts of the human machine nicely adjusted and moving without the faintest friction, and then to find himself at the eleventh hour set to one side, a stranger to his men and a rival to himself set in his stead, and be bidden to move on as a sort of martial second fiddle, while the credit and reward go to the new first violin. Nor was Harris the last by any manner of means. As General Archer had himself been heard to say, "One essential of military preferment is a knowledge of the game of euchre—your neighbor." Couple this with utter indifference to the rights of fellow-soldiers, and a catlike capacity to work by stealth in the dark, and there is no starry altitude to which one may not aspire. Harris made the same mistake older soldiers had sometimes made in higher commands, that of sticking to their own men, and duties, without keeping an eye on, and a friend at, headquarters. Anomalous as it may sound, the absent are ever wrong, even when "present for duty," where they should be. If Harris that night had only gone to headquarters instead of his camp; had stopped to see the general instead of starting promptly to the rescue, there would have been less to tell by way of a story.

Possibly a realization of this had already come over him, as angering yet unswerving, he once again overtook the eager leaders among his scouts,—lean, wiry fellows, ever gliding swiftly on in that tireless Apache running walk. Once there again, he kept his broncho at the trot to hold his own, and a broncho trot, after a mile or two of warming up, becomes something besides monotonous. Away to the far front, the north-east, flickered the tiny blazes; guiding lights, as Willett would have it; bale fires, as Harris began to believe—fires set by confederates to blind the eye of the pursuit, or lure pursuers to a trap. Away to the far front, seven miles now, and deep in a nook of the foothills, lay the site of Bennett's ruined ranch, and thither, at top speed of his scouts, was the young leader pressing. Not even a dull glow in the heavens above, or a spark on the earth beneath, could the sharp-eyed scouts discover to tell of its lonely fate. Only the dago's horrified words, only the confirmative symptoms of these farther fires, had these fly-by-night rescuers to warrant their mission. The story had its probable side. Peaceable as had been the Apache-Mohaves, the fact that a clash had occurred between them and some of the agent's forces,—a clash in which Comes Flying had been killed,—might readily turn the scale and send them on the war-path. If so, the first and nearest whites were apt to be the victims. If so, Bennett and his beloved wife and boys might well have been murdered in their beds—or spared for a harsher fate. In any event, the first duty—the obvious one—for Harris and his scouts was to reach the spot with all speed; ascertain, if possible, the fate of the ranch folk, then act as their discoveries might direct. All this Harris was turning over in mind as he hurried ahead. The road, though little worn, was distinct, and now that they were out of the bottom and skirting the stony bed of a little mountain stream, quite firm and dry. Six miles an hour, easily, his swarthy, half-naked fellows were making without ever "turning a hair." His own lean broncho, long trained to such work, scrambled along in that odd, short-legged trot, and Harris himself, trained to perfection, hard and dry, all sinewy strength, rode easily along—he could have done almost as well afoot—at the head of his men, keeping them to their pace, yet never overdriving.

But with Willett the case was different. For him there had been no hard and dry scouting. It had been wet work in the Columbia country. It had been "hunt-your-hole business" in the lava beds, where the hat that showed above the rocks was sure to get punctured. Then the month of feasting in that most lavish of cities, "'Frisco, the Golden," and the fortnight's voyage by sea, with further symposiums, and finally some hours of frontier hospitality at Prescott and at Almy, all had combined to spoil his condition, and before he had ridden forty minutes Hal Willett found himself blown and shaken. He lagged behind to regain breath, then galloped forward to lose it. He knew that Harris had left him in anger and indignation not unjustifiable. He knew he had not full warrant for his authority. He knew Harris was entitled to unhampered command, and that he had hampered. Yet, now, believing that Harris was pushing swiftly ahead as much to "shake" him as to reach the scene, he again dug spurs to his laboring troop horse, and came sputtering over the loose stones to the young leader's side.

"Harris," he puffed, "this is no way to work your men. They'll be blown when you get there, and of no earthly use."

"You don't know them," answered Harris, with exasperating calm, and without so much as a symptom of slowing up.

"But—I know how it affects—me,—and I'm no novice at scouting."

"You are to—this sort of thing, anyhow," was the uncompromising answer, and then with a cool, comprehensive glance that seemed to take in the entire man, he added, "You're out of training, Willett—the one thing a man has to watch out for in Apache work. Better let me leave a couple of men with you, and come on easily. You won't be very far behind us."

And then, as bad luck would have it, 'Tonio came cantering up from the rear, his big, lop-eared mule protesting to the last, and 'Tonio bore a little folded paper.

He was not versed in cavalry etiquette, this chieftain of the frontier, nor had he learned to read writing as he did men. The two officers at the moment were side by side, Willett on the right, his charger plunging and sweating with back set ears and distended nostrils; Harris on the left, his broncho jogging steadily, sturdily on, showing no symptom of weariness. "To Gran Capitan—Willett" were the general's words, it seems, when he sent 'Tonio on his way with the note, but in 'Tonio's eyes Harris was "Gran Capitan," even though hailed at times as "Capitan Chiquito," and to Harris's left 'Tonio urged his mount and silently held forth the missive.

There was never any question thereafter that it was meant for the other. Archer had his reasons. Willett was there as the aid, the representative, of the department commander, charged with an important duty. Willett had come to him, volunteered to go with the scouts, and he had bidden him God speed. Willett was the senior in rank as first lieutenant, promotions in the "Lost and Strayed" having been livelier than in the "Light Dragoons." Moreover, Willett had shown proper deference to him, the post commander, whereas, Harris, said he, in his first impulsive, self-excusing mood, even though warranted in going, had gone without a word. Sensitive and proud, the veteran of many fights and many sorrows, ruefully bethinking himself of Harris's abstinence and his own conviviality, saw fit to imagine Harris guilty of an intentional slight.

Like noble old Newcombe, the gentlest and humblest-minded of men, "he was furious if anybody took a liberty with him," and in his sudden rousing and wrath this was what he thought Harris had done. It was to humble him rather than to exalt Willett that he ignored the one and hailed the other. "To Gran Capitan Willett," he said, and 'Tonio handed the missive to the one "gran capitan" he knew and served and loved.

And Harris, never noting the pencil scrawl upon the back, proceeded to tear it open, when Willett stretched forth his hand:

"I think you will find that is for me, Harris—an answer to what I wrote," and his words had the distinct ring of authority. Harris flushed, even in the moonlight; turned it over, read the unsteady characters, "Lieutenant Willett, A.D.C.," surrendered it without a word, and a second time drove ahead, while Willett reined up to read.

It was ten minutes before Willett again overtook the pale-faced young officer at the front. Harris's mouth looked like a rigid gash, and his battered felt was pulled down over a deep-lined forehead, as with stern eyes he turned his head, but never his shoulder, in answer to his classmate's imperative call.

"Rein in now, and listen to this, Harris. If you must have it, it's—by order."

And Harris slowly checked his horse; silently inclined an ear.

"Lieutenant Willett, it says," began the senior, with the sweat rolling into his eyes, "Your despatch received. The fires you mention indicate further hostile parties, 'Tonio insists not Mohaves. If not, must be Tontos. Therefore, move with caution. Stannard just saddling. Use your discretion as to waiting for him.

"Archer, Commanding Post."

Then Willett turned. He had begun to refold, but ceased, and held it forth. "Read it yourself, if you like." Harris's gauntlet came up in protest. He bit his lip hard, but said no word. The scouts were but white specks in the distance now. There was sudden cry, low, like that of the night-bird, and 'Tonio dug his moccasined heels in his lop-eared charger's ribs and drove out to the front, then turned in saddle, looked back at his chief and pointed. Both officers instantly followed.

The trail led over a low spur, and the scouts had halted and were squatting at the crest. Straightway before them, possibly four miles, a dull red glow lay in the midst of the moonlight, with occasional tongues of lurid flame lazily lapping at some smouldering upright. The fire had spent its force; gorged itself on its prey and was sinking to sleep.

"Come on then!" said Harris, speaking for the first time impetuously. "If you can't stand the pace let us shove ahead!"

"And run slap into ambush? No. My orders are to move with caution. We've got to feel our way now. Hold your hand, Harris—and your men."

Barely fifty minutes had they been in coming these six miles from Almy. Barely fifty minutes thereafter, and with less than three miles more to their credit, halted for cautious reconnaissance, with the ruined ranch still a long mile away, there came sound of feeble hail from a patch of willows down by the brookside, and presently, in fearful plight, they dragged forth Bennett's colored man-of-all-work, unharmed, but half dead with terror. Yes, Indians had suddenly come in the early evening. First warning was from the Maricopa boy who came running from the spring, saying they had killed his brother. Bennett grabbed his gun and ran out to see, telling him, Rusty, to take a rifle and hurry with Mrs. Bennett and the children and hide in the willows down the creek. They heard firing and yelling, and 'twas all Rusty could do, he said, to keep Mrs. Bennett from running back to her husband, and the children from screaming aloud, but he made them go with him still farther down the valley, down to that patch yonder, and there they lay in hiding while the Indians burned the ranch, and seemed hunting everywhere for them, and at last things quieted down, but Mrs. Bennett was wild and crazy and crying to go back and find her husband, dead or alive, and he had to hold her. Just a few minutes ago, not fifteen minutes before, she broke away, and he found it was no use trying. She started to run back, telling him to save her boys. She kissed them both and went, and it wasn't five minutes after that before he heard her scream awfully, and the boys began to cry again, and then—then he saw two Indians coming running, and he knew they'd got her and were coming for the children, so what could he do but run and save himself?

"Lead on where you left them!" ordered Harris instantly, never waiting for Willett to speak. Ten minutes brought them to the farther shelter, a dense little willow copse, empty and deserted. "Come on to the ranch," was the next order, but there Willett interposed.

"Carefully now. Let your scouts open out and feel the way," he ordered, and Harris would not hear. Harris had thrown himself from his horse to lead the search. He never stopped to remount. He ran like a deer up the stony creek bed until he regained the road, his scouts following pell-mell, and in ten minutes more they found him bending over the lifeless body of brave, sturdy Jack Bennett, weltering in his blood at the side of the spring house, and with no sign of the hapless, helpless wife and mother anywhere.

"By God, Hal Willett!" cried Harris, as he sprang to his feet, all dignity and deliberation thrown to the winds. "You may 'proceed with caution' all you damned please. 'Tonio and I go after that poor woman and her children. We'd have saved them here if it hadn't been for you!"

CHAPTER VII.

The dawn was breaking in sickly pallor over the jagged scarp of the Mesa, bounding the chaotic labyrinth of bowlders, crag and cañon beneath. Far up the rugged valley, jutting from the faded fringe of pine, juniper and scrub oak that bearded the Mogollon, a solitary butte stood like sentry against the cloudless sky, its lofty crown of rock just faintly signalling the still distant coming of the heralds of the god of day. Here in the gloomy depths of the basin, and at the banks of the murmuring stream, all was still silence and despond. The smouldering ruins of Bennett's cosey home lay a mass of dull red coal, with smoke wreaths sailing idly aloft from charred beam or roof-tree. The mangled body of the stout frontiersman had been gathered into a trooper's blanket and lay there near the pathetic ruin of the house he had so hopefully builded, so bravely defended, for the wife and little ones. Half a dozen Indian scouts, silent and dejected, were squatting inert about the little garden, irrigated from the main acequia, where the heavy-headed poppies, many of them, were still nodding on their stalks, while others lay crushed and trampled. A little distance away down the stream a little troop of cavalry, in most business-like uniform, had dismounted and was watering some fifty thirsty horses, while its stocky commander, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his riding breeches, his slouch hat pulled down to his brows, his booted foot kicking viciously at a clump of cactus, was listening impatiently to the words of the young aide-de-camp, who seemed far less at ease than when he trod the boards of the general's quarters some six hours earlier in the night.

"Do I understand you then," and Stannard spoke with a certain asperity, "that Mr. Harris, with just two or three scouts, has gone out hunting on his own hook?—that even 'Tonio isn't with him?"

"He claimed the right to go, and I told him to take half a dozen—half a score of the scouts, if need be, and leave the other half with me, only I drew the line at 'Tonio. I needed him here. He is the only Indian in the lot who understands enough English to catch my meaning and to translate. I could let Harris go, or 'Tonio, separately, but not both together. That left me powerless. Oh, yes, he objected. He said 'Tonio had always been his right bower—always had worked with him and for him. But 'Tonio, not Harris, is the chief of scouts, the man they look to and obey. Now he and most of his followers are here to do your bidding. If Harris had been allowed his way, I'd have been probably alone."

Stannard sniffed. "Which way'd he go?" he bluntly asked.

"I'm not sure. We were going to trail the moment it was light enough to see. One thing is certain, they did not start in the direction of the signals, though they may have veered off that way. 'Tonio is the only one who claims to know anything. 'Tonio says 'Apache Tonto' was the murderer, not Apache-Mohave, and 'Tonio's in the sulks. Look at him!"

Stannard glanced an instant toward the gaunt figure of the Apache, standing dejectedly apart from all others and gazing fixedly toward the dawn. The light was stronger now. The red was in the orient sky. The distant butte was all aglow with the radiance of the rising yet invisible sun. Stannard seemed more concerned in the whereabouts of Mr. Harris than in the worries of Mr. Willett. Again he returned to his questions.

"Well, did Harris give any inkling of his purpose—whether he meant to follow the trail till he found captives and captors, or only till he found where it probably led to? I've got to act, and lose no time. Sergeant, tell the men to hurry with their coffee," he called, to the brown-eyed, dark-featured soldier who was coming forward at the moment. A salute was the only answer, as the sergeant turned about in his tracks and signalled to the boy trumpeter, holding his own and the captain's horse. Another moment and Stannard was in saddle.

"Harris didn't say," was the guarded answer. "You know, I suppose, that he left the post without consulting the general, and he took it much amiss that, in compliance with the general's orders, I exercised certain authority after reaching him. Now you are here to take entire charge, I turn over the whole business to you. There's what's left of the scouts; there's what's left of the ranch; and there," with a glance at the blanket-shrouded form, "is what's left of the Bennetts. I'll jog back to the post by and by."

"Oh, then you're not going on with us?" said Stannard, relieved in mind, he hardly knew why.

"No, sir, I only rode out here to investigate and report. We, of course, hoped to save something."

"Pity you hadn't spared yourself and not spoiled the pie," thought Stannard as he looked about him over the scene of desolation. The men were snapping their tin mugs and the refilled canteens to the saddle rings. The captain rode over to 'Tonio, a kindly light in his blue-gray eyes. He whipped off the right gauntlet and held forth his hand.

"No Apache-Mohave!" said he stoutly. "Apache Tonto. Si! Now catch 'em Teniente Harris." Poor lingo that "pidgin" Indian of the desert and the long ago, but it served its purpose. 'Tonio grasped the proffered hand, a grateful gleam in his black eyes; warned with the other hand the captain's charger from certain tracks he had been jealously guarding; then pointed eagerly, here, there, in half a dozen places, where footprints were still unmarred in the powdery dust. "Si—si—Apache Tonto!" and the long, skinny finger darted, close to the ground, from one print to the other. "No Apache-Mohave! No!"

"Then come! Mount!" called Stannard. "Leave a corporal and four men here as guard until the ambulance gets out from the post," he added, to the first sergeant. "Mount the troop, soon's you're ready. I'm going ahead with 'Tonio and the scouts. Ugashi, 'Tonio! Good-by, Mr. Willett. Take one of the men, if you need an orderly," he shouted back, over a flannel-shirted shoulder, innocent of badge or strap of any kind. In point of dress or equipment there was absolutely no difference between the captain of cavalry and his fifty men.

A moment later, spreading out over the low ground like so many hounds throwing off for a scent, 'Tonio and his scouts were trotting away toward a dip in the rugged heights to the north-east, for thither, the moment it was light enough even faintly to see, the keen eyes of the Apaches had trailed the fugitives, and now with bounding feet they followed the sign, Tonio foremost, his mount discarded. Afoot, like his fellows, and bending low, pointing every now and then to half turned pebble, to broken twig or bruised weed, he drove ever eagerly forward, the stolid bearing of the Indian giving way with each successive minute to unusual, though repressed excitement. Thrice he signalled to Stannard and pointed to the crushed and beaten sand—to toe or heel or sole marks to which the Caucasian would have attached but faint importance had not the aborigine proclaimed rejoicefully "Apache-Mohave!" whereat Stannard shook his head and set his teeth and felt his choler rising.

"Thought you swore Apache Tonto awhile ago," said Stannard wrathfully. "Now you're saying Apache Mohave!"

"Si! Si! Apache Tonto—kill—shoot. Apache-Mohave good Indian. Look, see, carry," and with hands and arms in eager gesture he strove to illustrate.

Could he mean that they who killed Bennett were hostile Tontos, and that these who bore the poor widowed creature were of the Mohave blood? If so, why should 'Tonio seem really to rejoice? Had he not strenuously denied that his people took any part in the outrage? Was he not now insisting that they were active in bearing her away—probably to captivity and a fate too horrible? Stannard, riding close at his heels, his men still following in loose skirmish order until they should reach the ravine, studied him with varying emotion. Harris had certainly betrayed a fear that 'Tonio was but half-hearted in the matter of scouting after Apache-Mohaves. Now the suspected scout was trailing for all he was worth, with the pertinacity of the bloodhound.

Broad daylight again, and the sun peering down from the crest of the great Mesa, and the morning growing hot, and some new hands already pulling eagerly at the canteens, despite their older comrades' warning. And still the advance went relentlessly on. They were climbing a rugged, stony ravine now, with bare shoulders of bluff overhanging in places, and presently, from a projecting ledge, Stannard was able to look back over the rude landscape of the lowlands. There to the west, stretching north and south, was the long, pine-crested bulwark of the Mazatzal, the deep, ragged rift of Dead Man's Cañon toward the upper end. Winding away southward, in the midst of the broad valley, the stream shone like burnished silver in the shallow reaches, or sparkled over rocky beds. Far to the south-west, the dull, dun-colored roofs and walls of the post could barely be discerned, even with the powerful binocular, against the brown barren of the low "bench" whereon it lay. Only the white lance of the flagstaff, and the glint of tin about the chimneys, betrayed its position. From north to far south-east ran the palisade-like crest of the Black Mesa, while the Sierra Ancha bound the basin firmly at the southward side. Deep in the ravines of the foothills, where little torrents frothed and tumbled in the spring tide, scant, thread-like rivulets came trickling now to join the gentle flood of the lower Tonto and the East Fork of the Verde, and, at one or two points along the Mesa, signal smokes were still puffing into the breathless air. Below them, possibly six miles away, yet looking almost within long rifle-shot, the square outline of the abandoned corral, the blackened ruin of the ranch, with the adjacent patches, irrigated, tilled, carefully tended—all Bennett's hard and hopeful toil gone for nothing—told their incontrovertible tale of savage hate and treachery. It was a sorry ending this, a wretched reward for the years of saving, self-denial and steadfast labor of him who had lived so long at amity among these children of the mountain and desert, giving them often of his food and raiment, asking only the right to build up a little lodge in this waste land of the world, where he need owe no man anything, yet have home and comfort and competence for those he loved, and a welcome for the wayfarer who should seek shelter at his door. It was the old, old story of many a pioneer and settler, worn so threadbare at the campfires of the cavalry that rough troopers wondered why it was that white men dared so much to win so little. Yet, through just such hardships, loneliness and peril our West was won, and they who own it now have little thought for those who gave it them.

Stannard sighed as he closed his signal glass and turned again to the duty in hand. "What's the trouble?" he bluntly asked his faithful sergeant; lieutenants at the moment he had none.

"Check, sir. All rock and half a dozen gullies. Scouts are trying three of them. Don't seem to know which way they went from here. Even a mule shoe makes no print."

The troop, following its leader's example, without sound or signal had dismounted, and stood in long column of files adown the ravine. 'Tonio and his fellow-scouts had disappeared somewhere in the stony labyrinth ahead. Up this way, before the dawn, the dusky band must have led or driven their captives, two of Bennett's mules having been pressed into service. Up this way, not an hour behind them, must have followed Harris and his handful of allies, four Indians in all. Up this way, swift and unerring thus far, 'Tonio, backed by half a dozen half-naked young braves, had guided the cavalry, and never before, so said old Farrier Haney, who had 'listed in the troop at Prescott, and had served here with the previous regiment in '69—never before had he known 'Tonio so excited, so vehement. Beyond all question, 'Tonio's heart was in the chase to-day.

But this delay was most vexatious. Every moment lost to the pursuit was more than a minute gained by the pursued. Lighter by far and trained to mountain climbing, the Apache covers ground with agility almost goatlike. It was long after seven, said Stannard's watch, and not a glimpse had they caught of Indian other than their own. It was just half past the hour, and Stannard with an impatient snap of the watch-case was about thrusting it back in his pocket, when, far to the front, reëchoing, resounding among the rocks, two shots sounded in quick succession, followed in sudden sputter by half a dozen more. "Turn your horses over to Number Four, men!" shouted Stannard. "Sergeant Schreiber, remain in charge. The rest of you come on."

Scrambling up a rocky hillside, he led on to the divide before him—the crest between two steep ravines—his men coming pell-mell and panting after, every now and then dislodging a stone and sending it clattering to the depths below. Two hundred yards ahead, at a sharp, angular point, one of the Yuma scouts stood frantically waving his hand, and thither Stannard turned his ponderous way. No lightweight he, and the pace and climb began to tell. Eager young soldiers were at his heels, but grim old Stauffer, the first sergeant, growled his orders not to crowd; hearing which their captain half turned with something like a grin: "Tumble ahead if you want to," was all he said, and tumble they did, for the firing was sharp and fierce and close at hand, augmented on a sudden as 'Tonio's little party reached the scene and swelled the clamor with their Springfields. Another moment and, springing from rock to rock, spreading out to the right and left as they came in view of a little fastness along the face of a cliff, the troopers went scrambling down the adjacent slope and, every man for himself, opened on what could be seen of the foe. Some men, possibly, never knew what they were firing at, but the big-barrelled Sharp's carbine made a glorious chorus to the sputtering fire of the scouts. Five hundred yards away, bending double, dodging from bowlder to bowlder, several swarthy Indians could be seen in full flight, apparently. Then old 'Tonio threw up a hand from across the stony chasm, signalled to his friends to cease, sprang over a low barrier of rock, disappeared one moment from view, then a few yards farther signalled "Come on." And on they went and came presently upon an excited, jabbering group at a little cleft in the hillside. A mule lay kicking in death agony down the slope. Another lay dead among the bowlders. An Apache warrior, face downward in a pool of blood, was sprawled in front of the cleft, and presently, from the cavelike entrance, came Lieutenant Harris and 'Tonio, bearing between them the form of an unconscious woman, and Stannard, as he came panting to the spot, ordering everybody to fall back and give her air, and somebody to bring a canteen, slapped Harris a hearty whack on the shoulder, whereat that silent young officer suddenly wilted and dropped like a log, and not until then was it seen he was shot—that his sleeve and shirt were dripping with blood.

And just about that hour, less than thirty miles away, based on Lieutenant Willett's verbal report, the commanding officer of Camp Almy was writing a despatch to go by swift courier to department head-quarters—a report which closed with these words:

"The presence at this juncture of Lieutenant Willett, aide-de-camp to the department commander, was of great value and importance, and I trust that his decision to remain may meet approval. On the other hand, it is with regret that I am constrained to express my disapproval of the action of Lieutenant Harris, commanding scouts, who left the post with his men immediately after the alarm and without conference with me; was only overtaken by Lieutenant Willett after going several miles, and, when informed of my instructions, practically refused to be guided by them. Persuading a few of the scouts to follow him, he left the detachment, in spite of Lieutenant Willett's remonstrance, and started in pursuit of the marauders. As these must largely outnumber him, it is not only impossible that he should rescue the captives, but more than probable he has paid for his rashness with his life."

CHAPTER VIII.

"The Gray Fox" had but just received his promotion to the star, jumping every colonel in the army. He had been doing mighty work among the recalcitrant Apaches at a time when other commanders were having hard luck in their respective fields—one, indeed, forfeiting his own honored and valued life through heeding the sophistries of the Peace Commissioners rather than the appeals of officers and men who long had known the Modocs. For long years the warriors of the Arizona deserts and mountains had bidden defiance to the methods of department commanders who fought them from their desks at Drum Barracks, or the Occidental, but George Crook came from years of successful campaigning after other tribes, and in person led his troopers to the scene of action. One after another the heads of noted chiefs were bowed, or laid, at his feet. The pioneers, the settlers, the ranchmen and miners took heart and hope again, and the marauders to the mountains. Then came "our friends the enemy," from the far East, with petition and prayer. Suspension of hostilities, on part of the troops at least, was ordered, while most excellently pious emissaries arrived inviting the warriors to come in, to be reasoned with, taught the error of their ways and persuaded to promise to be good. The astute Apache had no objection to such proceedings. He was certainly willing to have the soldier quit fighting, just as willing to come and hear exhortation and prayer, when coupled with presents and plenty to eat; most Indians would be. So the new general stepped aside, as ordered, and left the elders a fair field. "The Gray Fox" went hunting bear and deer, and while the Apache chieftains went down to the Gila to reap what they could from the lavish hands of the good and the gentle, their young men swooped on the stage roads and scattered ranches, and made hay after their own fashion while shone the sun of peace and promise. So happened it along the Verde and Salado that the Apache came down like the wolf on the fold, and so Harris had come up from the Southern Sierra, and 'Tonio had sworn that, all signs to the contrary notwithstanding, his people were not, as the agent declared, the pillagers and pirates. "Apache-Mohave? No! No!!"

"The Gray Fox" had ventured to give his views to the War Department, which in turn had ventured to express itself to the Secretary of the Interior. But let us lose no time in following further. The Eastern press, and such of the Eastern public as had any leisure to devote to the subject, persisted in looking upon Indian affairs from the viewpoint and remoteness of Boston, where once upon a time Miles Standish and our Puritan forbears handled such matters in a manner anything but Puritanical. Nothing was left to the military arm of the Government but temporary submission, so, as has been said, "the Gray Fox" went off on a hunt for bear, mountain lions, and such big game as was reported to be awaiting him toward the Grand Cañon to the north. An adjutant-general of the old school was left in charge of the desk and the department, and all on a sudden found that while Peace and its commissioners held their sway far to the south, grim-visaged War had burst upon the northward valleys, and chaos had come again.

The couriers bearing Archer's report to Prescott found others, similarly burdened, from the upper reservation, from Camp Sandy, and even from points to the west and south of department head-quarters, all telling of death and depredation. So, while the chief of staff ruefully digested these tidings at the office, the couriers proceeded to have a time in town, to the end that, when replies and instructions were in readiness to be sent out, only two of the six were in shape to take them, and Archer's runner—one of the frontier scouts, half Mexican, half Apache—was one of the two.

Now, the chief of staff had been nearly three years in Arizona, had served in similar capacity to predecessors of "the Gray Fox," and naturally thought he understood the Apache, and the situation, far better than did his new commander, and the fact that he had allowed this conviction to be known had led to a degree of official friction between himself and the one aide-de-camp left that was fast verging on the personal. Bright, almost invariably the companion of the general in his journeyings, was even now with him, lost in the mountains ninety miles in one direction; Willett, the newly appointed aide-de-camp, was with the commander of Camp Almy, ninety miles away in another, while black-bearded Wickham stood alone at Prescott. Wickham had not been consulted when Willett was sent with confidential instructions to Almy. Wickham would have disapproved, and the chief of staff knew it. Wickham had to be shown Archer's despatch, though the adjutant-general would gladly have concealed it, and now, in chagrin at the outcome of affairs at Almy, and in consternation at the ebullition all around him, the adjutant-­general was quite at a loss what to do. Wickham, if asked, would have said at once, "Send for General Crook," but that would be confession that he, the experienced, did not know how to handle the situation. So again he took no counsel with Wickham, but issued instructions in the name of the department commander and ordered them carried out forthwith.

Then it transpired that only two couriers were fit to go. Thereupon, the commanding officer of the one cavalry troop at the post was ordered to detail three non-commissioned officers, with a brace of troopers apiece, as bearers of despatches to Date Creek, Wickenberg, Sandy and the reservation, while Sanchez, the Mexican-Apache Mercury, was ordered to hasten back to Almy by way of the Mazatzal. It was then but ten a.m., and to the annoyance of the adjutant-general, Sanchez shook his black mane and said something that sounded like hasta la noche—he wouldn't start till night. Asked why, the interpreter said he feared Apache Tontos, and being assured by the adjutant-general that no Tonto could be west of the Verde, intimated his conviction of the officer's misinformation by the only sign he knew as bearing on the matter—that of the forked tongue, which called for no interpreter, as it concisely said, You lie. Sanchez meant neither insult nor insolence, but the adjutant-general regarded it as both, ordered another sergeant and two men got ready at once to ride to Almy, and bade the interpreter take Sanchez to the post guard-house and turn him over for discipline to the officer of the day. The sergeant started forty minutes later, with his two men at his back, and just thirty-five minutes behind Sanchez, who left the station on the spur of the moment, and the interpreter with a cleft weasand. It is a mistake for one man to attempt the incarceration of an armed half-blood of the Indian race. Sanchez started in the lead, afoot, and, in spite of his fear of Tontos, kept it all the way to the Mazatzal, where, as was later learned, he abandoned the paths of rectitude and the trail to Almy, and joining a party of twenty young renegades, complacently watched the coming of that sergeant and detachment from behind the sheltering bowlders of Dead Man's Cañon, and thus it happened that the orders Archer had been expecting three long days and nights were destined never to get to him.

It was this situation he had been puzzling over when at ten p.m. the officer of the day came in to say that new signal fires in the east were now being answered by others in the west, away over in the Mazatzal, and the general went forth to the northern edge of the "bench" to have a good look at them, wishing very much he had Stannard or Turner or "Capitan Chiquito"—little Harris—to help him guess their meaning.

But Stannard, with his sturdy troop, was still far afield, scouting the fastnesses of the Mogollon in hopes still of overtaking the marauding band that had ruined Bennett's ranch, murdered its owner, and borne away into the wilds two helpless little settlers for whom a half-crazed, heart-broken woman at Almy was wailing night and day. Turner, following another route and clew, was exploring the Sierra Ancha south of Tonto Creek, and Lieutenant Harris, in fever and torment, was occupying an airy room in the post surgeon's quarters, the object of Bentley's ceaseless care, and of deep solicitude on part of the entire garrison.

Borne in the arms of Stannard's men, poor young Mrs. Bennett, raving, had been carried back to the ruins, and thence by ambulance to the post. There now she lay with her reason almost gone, nursed by the hospital steward's wife, and visited frequently by three gentle women, whose hearts were wrung at sight of her grief. Mrs. Stannard sometimes spent hours in the effort to soothe and comfort her. Mrs. Archer was hardly less assiduous, but was beginning now to have anxieties of her own. Lilian, her beloved daughter, fancy free, as the mother had reason to know, up to the time of their coming to this far-away, out-of-the-way station, seemed dangerously near the point of losing her heart to that very attractive and presentable fellow, Willett, the aide-de-camp, and Mrs. Archer did not half like it.

When the news was brought in to Almy that Mrs. Bennett had been recaptured, and that Lieutenant Harris was wounded in the fight which scattered her abductors, Willett was the first to mount and away to meet them. It was his orderly who came galloping back for the ambulance, and Willett who, before the arrival of the surgeon, had caused to be rigged up a capital litter on which, later, by easy stages his suffering classmate was borne to the post. Harris was indeed sorely hurt, so sorely that the faintest jar was agony. Harris was weak and pallid from suffering when lifted to his couch in the doctor's quarters, bearing it all with closed eyes and clinching teeth, suppressing every sound. The general was there to bear a hand and speak a word of cheer, all the time wishing it were possible to overtake the courier, by that time nearly twenty-four hours on his way to Prescott, that he might amend the wording of that report. He was for sending a "supplementary" that very evening, but who was there to send? Sanchez was the only available post courier. The scouts were away with the cavalry. Both troops were now afield. Barely a dozen horses were left at the post, and every able-bodied, ambitious cavalryman was with his comrades on the trail. They who remained were the extra duty men, or the weaklings. Moreover, when Archer spoke of it to Willett, the latter very diplomatically argued against it. Wait a day and something worth sending would surely turn up. Two such captains as Stannard and Turner could not fail to accomplish something. They could be counted on to find the hostiles and punish them wherever found. Moreover, as yet, there were only evil tidings to send, for so the wounding of Harris would be regarded, and the recapture of poor Mrs. Bennett without her children would hardly compensate. There was still another thing to be considered, but even Willett balked at saying this. He had said enough to induce Archer to hold his hand another day at least, so why use more ammunition until he had to?

Two days, therefore, had gone by without news from the field column or further message to Prescott. Then it was easy to persuade Archer that it was best to wait the return of Sanchez, and, for Willett, those two days, especially the long, exquisite evenings, had been full of­ sweet and thrilling interest. "I should be more with Harris, I suppose you are thinking," he had said to Lilian Archer, "and there I would be, but—I cannot rid myself of the feeling that he would rather be alone. He always was peculiar, and I seem to worry rather than to help him."

"But you were classmates," said she, "and I thought——"

"Classmates, yes," he answered, "but never much together. Even classmates, you know, are not always intimates."

"Still I should think that now—here——" she began again, her hand straying listlessly over the strings of her guitar, her slender fingers trying inaudible chords.

He glanced over his shoulder to where Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard, fast becoming warm friends, were in chat near the open doorway. Then his handsome head was lowered, and with it the deep, melodious voice.

"Can you not think that here, and now, I might have greater need of every moment? Any hour may bring my marching orders."

She drew back, just a little. This was only the evening after his return with the wounded. "You always welcome field orders," she ventured.

"I always have—hitherto."

The voice of Mrs. Archer was uplifted at this juncture, just a bit. "Lilian, dear, you and Mr. Willett would be wise to pull your chairs this way. I've never liked that corner since 'Tonio's discovery. Where is 'Tonio, Mr. Willett?"

"I wish I knew, Mrs. Archer," said Willett, rising and holding forth a hand to aid Miss Archer to her feet—something she did not need, yet took. "He was with Stannard when I left. He was with him when they rescued Mrs. Bennett. He was said to be all distress when he saw that Harris was hit—and then he disappeared. Stannard's last despatch said he had not rejoined."

It was another beautiful, moonlit evening, and the post was very still. The men of Archer's two infantry companies were clustered about their log barracks or wandering away by twos and threes to the trader's store on the flats. The general was pacing the parade in earnest and murmured talk with the post adjutant. Bentley, the surgeon, was busy with his charges, having left Harris in a fitful, feverish doze. Not since the night of the calamity at Bennett's had the sentries reported sign of signal fire in the hills, but this night, before the last filament of gold had died at the top of the peak, Number Four had caught a glimpse of a tiny blaze afar over to the east, and instantly passed the word. Only half an hour it was observed, and then, away toward the south-east, an answering gleam burned for a moment against the black background of the Sierras. Then both went out as suddenly as they started.

The general was dining at the moment, and, believing that the fires would not so soon be extinguished, the officer of the day had not at once reported them. He was at Archer's door as the veteran came forth, haranguing Willett, again his guest at dinner, but with anxious eyes turned at once to hear the report. "No matter what time it happens," he said, "hereafter, when signals are seen, let the guard notify me at once." And the officer retired musing over this bit of evidence that the commanding officer was growing a trifle irritable.

It was soon after guard mount next day that two runners from Sandy had come in, weary and hungry. "'Patchie sign—todas partes," said the leader, after delivering his despatch. But he, too, was half Apache and had squirmed through without mishap. For two hours after reading Archer kept the contents to himself. The adjutant-general wished to consult him at Prescott. Ninety miles north-west by buckboard, through a country infested by hostile Indians! It was a trip he little cared to take and leave his wife and daughter here! At noon he had had to tell them, and tell Willett, who was teaching Lilian a fandango he had heard on the Colorado. Mother and daughter looked anxiously at each other and said nothing. It was decided he should wait until night before arranging when to start. Surely this night should bring news of some kind.

And surely enough, at ten came the summons that took him, field-glass in hand, to the northward edge of the little mesa again. Somewhere in the direction of Diamond Butte, almost due east, one fire was brightly blazing. Over in the Mazatzal to the westward there were two, and even as they stood and studied them, Archer dropped his glasses at an exclamation of surprise from one of his officers, and there, gaunt and weary, yet erect and fearless, stood 'Tonio. Like a wraith he seemed to have blown in among them, and now patiently awaited the attention of the commander; yet, when accosted, all he would say in answer to question, for they knew not his native tongue, was "Capitan Chiquito!"

So they led him to the doctor's quarters, and Bentley tiptoed in to see what Harris was doing. He was awake, in pain and fever, but clear-headed. "Of course I'm able to see 'Tonio," said he. "I need to see him." Whereupon shufflings were heard in the hallway without, and presently in the dim lamplight 'Tonio knelt by the young chief's side, took the clutching white hand and laid it one instant on his head. To no other of their number had 'Tonio ever tendered such homage. Rising to his feet, he looked about him, his glittering eyes fixed one moment in mute appeal; another moment, and gloomily, they studied Willett's handsome face. Then he spoke, Harris half haltingly explaining. It began languidly on the latter's part. It quickly changed to excitement, then to vehement life. 'Tonio was telling of some sharp encounter wherein women and children had been slain, whereby the mountain tribes were all aroused, and then he had gone on to declare what Indian vengeance would demand. Impassioned, 'Tonio threw himself at the first pause on his knees by the side of the cot whereon lay his beloved Capitan, and it was to him he spoke. It was he who translated:

"No one," said 'Tonio, "should venture beyond sentry post either day or night. Even now the rocks and woods about the station were full of foemen. Get ready to fight them and to take care of the women and children. They mean revenge! They mean attack! Renegade Apaches!" said he, "all renegade! Apache-Mohave, no!"

CHAPTER IX.

The night was still young. The conference at the surgeon's house was brief, for Bentley, fearing for his patient, hustled all but 'Tonio out into the open air just as soon as the Indian signalled "I have spoken," which meant he would tell no more. Brief as it was, the interview had sent the wounded officer's pulse uphill by twenty beats, and Bentley knew what that meant. Still it had to be. 'Tonio brought tidings of ominous import, and the public safety demanded that his warning should be made known, and who was there to translate but Harris? "If it were only Chinook, now," said Willett, "I could have tackled it, but, except a few signs, Apache is beyond me."

So while the doctor was giving sedatives to his patient, and the doctor's servant giving food to 'Tonio, Archer gathered his few remaining officers about him in the moonlight and discussed the situation. From 'Tonio's description, the affray that had aroused the Apaches far and wide had occurred three days earlier, just at dawn, among the rocky fastnesses of the Mogollon, perhaps "two sleeps" to the north-east, the very direction in which Stannard was scouting. But it wasn't Stannard's command. 'Tonio said the soldiers were from up the Verde, and the scouts were Hualpais, and then Archer understood. Between the Hualpais, finest and northernmost of the Arizona tribesmen, and the Tonto Apache there had long been feud. It was evident from 'Tonio's description that a rancheria of the latter had been surprised—"jumped" in the vernacular—just about dawn; that the Hualpais, rushing in, rejoicing in abundant breechloaders and cartridges, had shot right and left, scattering the fugitives and slaying the stay-behinds, who, crippled by wounds or cumbered by squaws and pappooses, could not get away. The soldiers, though only a hundred yards or so behind, were slow climbers as compared with the scouts, and though the few officers and men did what they could to stop the wretched killing, a few women and children were found among the dead, and the word was going the length of the Sierra, far to the south-east, and would never stop till it reached Sonora and Chihuahua, that the white chief had ordered his soldiers to kill, so they might as well die fighting.

"If they were to concentrate now, first on Stannard, and then on Turner," said Archer—"ambuscade them in a cañon, say—I'm afraid we'd see few of their fellows again."

"Or if they only knew their strength," spoke up the only captain left at the post, "and were to concentrate, say, five hundred fighting men upon us here, it's little the rest of the world would ever see of us."

Archer turned half-angrily upon the speaker. "You never yet, Captain Bonner, have heard of Apaches attacking a garrisoned post, even though the garrison was smaller than ours, and I believe you never will. The question I have to settle is how to send warning to our two field columns."

For a moment there was none to offer suggestion. There were present only seven officers, all told, Bentley being still with his young patient. Anxious eyes were watching the little group, their white coats gleaming in the moonlight. Over at the barracks a score of soldiers, slipping from their bunks, clustered at the wide-open doors and windows. Over at the hospital two or three convalescents, with the steward and the nurse, sat gazing from the shaded piazza. Over at the commander's quarters Mrs. Archer, Mrs. Stannard and Lilian, sitting closer for comfort, murmured occasional words, but their eyes seldom quit their anxious scrutiny. To Mrs. Stannard it was no novel experience. To Mrs. Archer and her daughter, despite their longer years in the army, it was thrillingly new. In the utter silence on the line and throughout the garrison the rhythmic tramp of feet, muffled by distance, could not fail to catch their straining ears, and far over across the parade, behind the barracks, betrayed by the glint of the moonlight on sloping steel, a shadowy little detachment went striding away toward the nearest sentry post.

"They are doubling the guard," said Mrs. Stannard. Then the group at the flagstaff broke up. Three officers went with the commander toward the office, others toward the company quarters. One came swiftly, purposely, toward the waiting trio. Lilian knew it was Willett even before they could recognize his walk and carriage. Mrs. Archer rose to meet him. All they yet knew was that 'Tonio was in with tidings of some kind—Doyle had told them that.

"Tell us what you can," was all she said.

"The time-honored tale of Indian uprising," said Willett airily. "Something I've heard every six weeks, I should say, since they gave me a sword."

"But they've doubled the guard."

"Only changed it, I fancy. The general wants some few cavalrymen for a scout in the Mazatzal."

Mrs. Stannard knew better, but held her peace. The object at least was laudable, if not the lie. All three had risen now and were standing at the edge of the veranda, Mrs. Archer's gentle, anxious eyes following the soldierly form just vanishing within the shadows at the office, Lilian's gaze fixed upon the handsome features of the young soldier before her.

"'Tonio brought news, did he not?" asked Mrs. Stannard.

"'Tonio had to tell something, you know, to cover his mysterious movements. 'Tonio's story may be cock and bull for all we know. It is just such a yarn as I have heard told many a time and oft in the Columbia basin. Most Indians are born liars, and 'Tonio has everything to gain and nothing to lose in telling a believable whopper now. 'Tonio says his people are persecuted saints, and all others perjured sinners."

And just then, through the silence of the night, there rose upon the air, distant yet distinct, the prolonged, anguished, heart-broken wail of a woman in dire distress—a Rachel mourning for her children, and refusing to be comforted. There was instant scraping of chairs on the hospital porch, and one or two shadows vanished within the dimly lighted doorway. "Oh, poor Mrs. Bennett!" cried Mrs. Archer. "I'm going over a little while. Come, Lilian."

"Let me go with you," said Mrs. Stannard, ever sympathetic with young hearts and hopes. But Lilian had been well trained and—went, the two wives and mothers walking arm in arm in front, the other two, the girl of eighteen, the youth of twenty-five, gradually dropping behind. The elders entered the building, following the wife of the hospital steward; the juniors paced slowly onward to the edge of the low bluff overlooking the moonlit valley, with the shining stream murmuring over its shallows in the middle distance. Lilian's white hand still rested on the strong arm that drew it so closely to the soldier's side, and both were for the moment silent. He seemed strangely quiet and thoughtful, and she stood beside him now with downcast eyes and fluttering heart, for, as she would have followed her mother, he had bent his head and, almost in whisper, said:

"Come—one minute. It may be my last chance."

And the girl in her had yielded, as what girl would not?

Presently he began to speak, and now his head was bowing low; his eyes, though she saw them not, were drinking in the lily-like beauty of the sweet, downcast face. One quick look she flashed at him as he began, then the long lashes swept her cheek.

"I could not tell your mother the whole truth, just then," he began. "I've got to tell you something of it now. Until to-night I never knew what it was to—to shrink from news of action. Now—I know."

She wanted to hear "why," even when her own heart was telling her. She wanted him to say, yet coquetted with her own desire. "Is—it serious news?" she faltered.

"So serious that Stannard, or Turner, or both, may be in grave danger, and there's no one to go and warn them but—me!"

"You?" and up came the troubled, beautiful eyes.

"Yes. Ask yourself who else there is. The scouts are gone. Sanchez has not returned. There's but a baker's dozen of troopers and troop horses left at the post. The general needs to send a little party to explore the Mazatzal. 'Tonio can't be trusted. Harris has—practically—put himself out of it. Don't you know me well enough to know—I've got to go?"

She was only just eighteen. She had lived her innocent life at that fond mother's side. She had read of knightly deeds in many an hour, and her heroes were such as Ivanhoe and William Wallace, Bayard and Philip Sidney, the Black Prince and Henry of the snow-white plume. Four days agone her heart had first stood still, then thrilled with girlish admiration when they told her how Harris had met his serious wound, and, for just that day, that soldierly young trooper was the centre of her stage. Then Willett returned, with a different version, and other things to murmur to her listening ears. Then Willett had been at leisure two—three—long days, and, save that mournful tragedy at the ranch, casting its spell over the entire post, sufficient in itself to strike terror to a girlish soul, to inspire it to seek strength and protection of the stronger arm, what else was there to occupy the heart of a young maid here at sun-baked, mud-colored, monotonous old Almy? The one thing that would transform a desert into paradise had blossomed in her fair, innocent, girlish bosom, and he who had marked the symptoms many a time knew that the pretty bird was fluttering to his hand. The one precaution needful was—no sudden shock—no word or deed to bring rude awakening.

But even now she stood, trembling a bit, trying not to believe that he must leave the post—must leave her, and on so dangerous a mission. She was silent because she knew not what to say, yet knew that what he had said almost turned her cold with dread. He saw the hesitancy, and struck again:

"Must go—to-night."

"Oh, Mr. Willett!" And now the little face, uplifted suddenly, was piteous as he could wish. It fell again for shame at her self-betrayal, for sheer helplessness and dismay, for the sudden realization of what the long days now would be without him, for what life might be if he never came back. With all her pride and strength and maidenly reserve she was struggling hard to fight back the sob that was rising to her throat, the tears that came welling to her eyes, but he would have the tribute of both, and murmured again:

"Lilian, little girl, don't you know why I cannot bear to go—just yet?"

And then, shaking from head to foot, she bowed her face upon her hands, and Willett's arms were around her in the instant, and after one little struggle, she nestled in a moment, sobbing, on his heart. She did not even see the sentry coming slowly up the path, and when girl or woman is blind to all about her but just one man, her love is overwhelming.

It was he who whispered word of warning, as his lips pressed their kisses on her soft and wavy hair. It was he who calmly hailed the guardian of the night, asking if further sign had been seen, adding, "Runners may well be coming in to-night, just as did 'Tonio." It was he who promptly, cordially answered Mrs. Archer, calling Lilian from the angle of the hospital, kneeling instantly as though to fasten a loosened bootlace. And then, as he presently led his silent captive back toward the parade, talked laughingly of the sentry's broken English, imitating so well the accent of the Rhineland.

"No word of this just yet," he murmured, ere they reached the general's door, and saw that veteran hospitably awaiting them. "It is so sudden, so sweet a surprise. Come what may now, I shall not go until I have seen you again. What, general? Sangaree? I'd like it above all things!"

Two horsemen came trotting across the parade, threw themselves from saddle, and one stepped swiftly to the group, his hand at the hat brim in salute.

"Well, sergeant, you have been prompt!" the general was saying. "You have your letter for Captain Turner?—and Woodrow is to follow Captain Stannard? Good again! Do most of your trailing by night. The Apaches are cowards in the dark, and you can't miss the trail. God be with you, my men! Your names go to General Crook in my first report!"

Another moment and they were away, and two more had taken their place—two who waited while Mrs. Stannard pencilled a few hurried words to her "Luce," while Lilian, with a world of rapture, thanksgiving and rejoicing in her heart, was striving to regain self-control, and avoid her mother's eye, a thing she never before had done, nor would she now be doing but for that splendid, knightly, heroic, self-poised, soldierly fellow, standing so commandingly, gracefully there, conferring one minute with her soldier father, and the next—helping Mrs. Archer to more small talk and sangaree.

CHAPTER X.

The night had gone by without alarm. No further signals were seen. No runners came in. Poor Mrs. Bennett, under the influence of some soothing medicine, had fallen asleep. The doctor, coming in late from a visit to the hospital, found Harris still wakeful, but not so feverish, and 'Tonio, worn and wearied, stretched on a Navajo blanket, seemed sleeping soundly on the side piazza, just without the door. The general and Willett had sat and smoked, with an occasional toddy, until after the midnight call of the sentries, the former still expectant of the return of Sanchez; the latter pondering in mind certain theories of Wickham as to the Apache situation, to which at first he had paid little heed. If Wickham were right, then Sanchez might never have reached Prescott. If so, the general need never have to amend that report.

And that the matter troubled Archer more than a little Willett was not too pleased to see. Moreover, it was evident that not only Bentley, the surgeon, but Strong, the young adjutant, Bucketts, the veteran cavalry subaltern doing duty as post quartermaster, and the three company officers of Archer's regiment stationed at Almy—all were determined to consider Harris decidedly in the light of the hero of the recent episode. It was a matter Willett would not discuss with them, nor, when they somewhat pointedly referred to Harris and his part in the affair, was it Willett's policy to say aught in deprecation. As "the representative of the commanding general" temporarily at the post, and observing the condition of affairs, it was his proper function to give all men his ear and none his tongue, to hear everything and say nothing. But the adjutant knew, and had not been able to keep entirely to himself, the fact that Sanchez was the bearer of a report adverse to Lieutenant Harris—that no modification thereof had been prepared—even after Harris was brought in dangerously wounded, the result of his daring effort to rescue an unfortunate woman from a fearful fate. The adjutant had gone so far as to hint to that much-loved lieutenant-colonel of infantry, Brevet Brigadier-General Archer, that he should be glad to write at his dictation a report setting Harris right, as surely as the other had set him wrong, and for the first time Strong found his commanding officer petulant and testy. It was exactly what Archer himself thought it his duty to do, yet he was annoyed that any one else should think so. Moreover, he had taken counsel with Willett, and Willett had said that he would be the last man to deny a classmate and comrade any honor justly his due, nor would he stand in the way of General Archer's writing anything he saw fit, but, as the officer present on the spot and cognizant of all the circumstances connected with Harris's going, he had yet a report to make to the department commander.

"Frankly, general," said he, "I do not wish to say what I know unless I have to—and your changing your report might make it necessary."

This had occurred the night before 'Tonio's coming, and now, in the silence of midnight, as the two sat smoking on the veranda, while Lilian lay in her little white room listening in wordless rapture, in sweet unrest, to the murmurous sound of the deep voice that had enthralled her senses, while Mrs. Archer, wife and mother, slept the sleep of the just and the wearied, the old general turned again to that subject that weighed so heavily on his heart and soul.

"By heaven, Willett," he said, "here it is midnight and no Sanchez. If he isn't in by mail-time to-morrow I'll have to send a party—or else a courier—to Prescott."

"Does the mail usually reach you Sunday, sir?"

"Hasn't failed once since my coming! They send it by way of McDowell, over on the Verde. If Sanchez isn't here, or the mail either, I'll know that 'Tonio was right, that we're hemmed in, and that they have killed our messengers. And they are expecting to hear from me at head-quarters, and probably wondering at my silence. Another thing to be explained."

"Another?" said Willett.

"Another. Of course I must straighten out that matter about Harris. I own I sent it under wrong im—impressions. I thought at first he had ignored my authority, but that was unjust. The more I think of it, the more I blame myself."

"Then—how you must blame me!"

"Well—no! You doubtless feel that he did ignore you and your authority, though I own it wasn't my intention that you should assume command over him. You are both young and you perhaps judge more sharply than I, but I've learned to know the fallibility of human judgment. I've suffered too much from it myself, and the fact stares me in the face that Harris knew just what ought to be done, and went and did it. He rescued that poor creature at the risk of his life, and he—deserves the credit of it."

Willett was silent a moment. He seemed reluctant to speak. Finally and slowly he said:

"General Archer, it is an ungracious thing to pull down another man's reputation, especially when, as in this case, Harris and I are classmates and I, at least, am his friend. And, therefore, I still prefer to say nothing. I was in hopes that Captain Stannard and his fellows might be back by this time, with the Bennett boys for one thing, and with—the truth for another."

"What truth?" demanded Archer.

"The real truth—as I look upon it—the real credit of that rescue, you will find, sir, belongs to Stannard and his troop, with such little aid as they may have received from those who advised and guided them—the scouts. But for Stannard the hostiles would have gotten away, not only with Mrs. Bennett, but with Harris. Harris made a hare-brained attempt to rescue her single-handed. He only succeeded in running his own neck into a noose. Your wisdom, and God's mercy, sent Stannard just in the nick of time, and there's the whole situation in a nut shell."

For a moment Archer was silent. Who does not like to hear praise of his wisdom, especially when self-inclined to doubt it?

"But the doctor tells me Harris had the Indians on the run before ever Stannard was sighted—that he and his handful of scouts alone attacked, defeated and drove them, that his scouts were chasing them and were mistaken themselves for hostiles, and were fired at by Stannard's men at long range."

"Yes," said Willett, with calm deliberation. "That is just the story I should expect Harris to tell."

And sore at heart, and far from satisfied, the general suggested a nightcap, and Willett presently left him, though not, as it subsequently transpired, for the adjutant's quarters and for bed. It was late the following day before his next appearance near the Archers.

Sunday morning had come, as peaceful and serene as any that ever broke on New England village, and Sunday noon, hot and still, and many an hour since early sun up anxious eyes had scanned the old McDowell trail, visible in places many a mile before it disappeared among the foothills of the Mazatzal, but not a whiff of dust rewarded the eager watchers.

Archer's binocular hung at the south-west pillar of the porch, and another swung at the northward veranda of the old log hospital. The road to Dead Man's Cañon wound along the west bank of the stream, sometimes fording it for a short cut, and that road, the one by which Sanchez should have come, was watched wellnigh as closely as the other. Nothing up to luncheon time had been seen or heard of human being moving without the limits of the post; nothing by Lilian Archer of her gallant of the night before.

In times of such anxiety men gather and compare notes. The guard had been strengthened during the night, and its members sat long in the moonlight, chatting in low tone. The officer of the day, making the rounds toward two o'clock, noted that the lights were still burning at the store, and, sauntering thither, found a game going on in the common room—Dago seeking solace from his sorrows in limited monte with three or four employés and packers, while in the officers' room was still another, with only one officer present and participating. To Captain Bonner's surprise Lieutenant Willett, aide-de-camp, was "sitting in" with Bill Craney, the trader, Craney's brother-in-law and partner, Mr. Watts, Craney's bookkeeper, Mr. Case, a man of fair education and infirm character who had never, it was said, succeeded in holding any other position as long as six months. Here, as Craney admitted, he hadn't enough to occupy him three weeks out of the four, and, so long as he could tend to that much, he was welcome to "tank up" when he pleased. That clerk had been a gentleman, he said, and behaved himself like one now, even when he was drunk. The officers treated him with much consideration, but to no liquor. Willett, knowing nothing of his past, had been doing the opposite, and Mr. Case's monthly spree was apparently starting four days ahead of time. Moreover, Mr. Case seemed inspired by some further agent, for though unobtrusive, almost, as ever, he was possessed with a strange, feverish impulse to pit himself against Willett, and almost to ignore all others in the game. A fifth player was a stranded prospector whom Craney knew, and presumably vouched for. Luck must have been going Willett's way in violation of the adage, at the time of Bonner's entrance, for the table in front of him was stacked high with chips, and four men of the five were apparently getting excited.

Bonner seldom played anything stronger than casino and cribbage, nor did he often waste an hour, night or day, in the card room. This night, however, he was wakeful, and had seen that which even made him a trifle nervous. He had visited every sentry post, finding his men alert and vigilant. 'Tonio's words had already been communicated to the guard, and self-preservation alone prompted every man to keep a sharp lookout. Bonner had noted as he stepped out on the side porch of his quarters, where hung the big earthen olla in its swathing bands, that 'Tonio lay, apparently sound asleep, at the side door of the doctor's quarters, and Bonner found himself pondering over the undoubted devotion of this silent, lonely son of the desert to the young soldier lying wounded within. Bonner left him as he found him. 'Tonio had not stirred. Barely twenty minutes thereafter, as he finished examination of the two sentries on the north front, and came down along the bank at the rear of the officers' quarters, he found Number Five, a Civil War veteran and, therefore, not easily excited, kneeling at the edge, with his rifle at "ready," gazing steadily toward a clump of willows at the stream bed, some five hundred feet away, listening so intently that the officer halted, rather than mortify him by coming on his post unchallenged. The brilliant moonlight made surrounding objects almost as light as day, and Bonner could see nothing unusual or unfamiliar along the sandy flat to the east. So, finally, he struck his scabbard against a rock by way of attracting Number Five's attention, and instantly the challenge came.

"What was the matter, Five?" asked Bonner, after being advanced and recognized, and the answer threw little light upon the subject.

"I wish I knew, sir, but there was some one—crying—down there in the bush—not five minutes ago."

"Crying! You're crazy, Kerrigan!"

"That's what I said, sir, when first I heard it, but—whist now!"

Both men bent their ears—the veteran sentry, the veteran company commander. Both had spent years in service, in the South in the war days, in the West ever since, and neither was easily alarmed.

As sure as they stood there somebody was sobbing—a low, heart-breaking, half-stifled sound, down there somewhere among the willows, that for two hundred yards, at least, lined the stream. "Come with me," said the captain instantly, and together the two went plunging down the sandy slope and out over the flats beneath, and into the shadows at the brink, and up and down the low bank between the fords, and not a living being could they find.

"What first caught your ear?" asked Bonner, as together, finally, they came plodding back.

"Sure, I heard the captain come out on his side porch for a drink at the olla, sir, and saw him step over and look at the doctor's place before starting for the guard-house, and I knew he'd be around this way and was thinking to meet him up yonder where Number Four is, when I heard Six down here whistling to me, and when I went Six said as how the dogs way over at the store was barking a lot, and he said had I seen or heard anything in the willows—he's that young fellow that 'listed back at Wickenburg after the stage holdup—and while we was talkin' he grabbed me and said, 'Listen! There's Indians out on the bluff! I heard 'em singing.' I told him he was scared, but when I came back along the bank I could have sworn I saw something go flashing into the willows from this side, an' then came the cryin', and then you, sir."

Bonner turned straightway to his own quarters, to the side porch at the doctor's—and 'Tonio was gone. Peering within the open doorway, he saw the attendant nodding in his chair by the little table where dimly burned the nightlamp, close to the cot where Harris lay in feverish slumber. Next, the captain started for the post of Number Six, near the south-east corner of the rectangle, and there was the corporal and the relief, just marching away with "the young feller that 'listed in Wickenburg." A new sentry, another old soldier, had taken his place. There was nothing to do but tell him to keep a sharp lookout and report anything strange he saw or heard, particularly to be on lookout for 'Tonio. Then he pushed on after the relief, and then, catching sight of the lights at the trader's, strode briskly over there and stopped a few minutes, asking himself should he tell Willett what had been heard, and incidentally to watch the game. Willett, however, was engrossed. His eyes were dilated and his cheeks were flushed, albeit his demeanor was almost affectedly cool and nonchalant, and Bonner had not been there five minutes before a queer thing happened. Willett, playing in remarkable luck, had raised heavily before the draw. Case, with unsteady hand, had shoved forward an equal stack. The prospector and Craney shook their heads and dropped out. Only three were playing when Willett, dealing, helped the cards according to their demands, and for himself "stood pat." It was too much for the brother-in-law, but the bookkeeper, who had been playing mainly against Willett, and apparently foolishly, now just as foolishly bet his little stack, for without a second's hesitation Willett raised him seventy-five dollars. It was a play calculated to drive out a small-salaried clerk. It was neither a generous nor a gentleman's play. It was, moreover, the highest play yet seen at Almy, where men were of only moderate means. Even Craney looked troubled, and Watts and the prospector exchanged murmured remonstrance. Then all were amazed when Case drew forth a flat wallet from an inner pocket, tossed it on the table, and simply said, "See—and raise you."

Now there was audible word of warning. Watts looked as though he wished to interpose, but was checked instantly by Case himself. "Been saving that for—funer'l expenses," said he doggedly, "but I'm backin' this hand for double what's in that."

Craney lifted the wallet, shook it, and three fifty-dollar bills fluttered out upon the table. Willett looked steadily at Case one moment before he spoke:

"Isn't this a trifle high for a gentleman's game?" said he.

"That's what they said at Vancouver, two years ago, when you bluffed out that young banker's son."

Willett half rose from his chair. "I thought I'd seen your face before," said he.

"What I want to know," said the bookkeeper instantly, all deference to rank or station vanished from tone and manner, "is, do you see my raise now?"

There was a moment's silence, during which no man present seemed to breathe. Then slowly Willett spoke:

"No, a straight isn't worth it." Whereupon there was a moment of embarrassed silence as the stakes were swept across the blanket-covered table, then a guffaw of rejoiceful mirth from the prospector. Case, as though carelessly, threw down his cards, face upwards, and there was not so much as a single pair.

"The drinks are on me, oh, yes," said he, "but the joke's on the lieutenant."

Yet when Bonner left, five minutes later and the game again was going on, there was no mirth in it. Nor was there mirth when the sun came peeping over the eastward range this cloudless Sabbath morning, shaming the bleary night lights at the store—the bleary eyes at the table. Bonner found them at it still an hour after reveille, and ventured to lay a hand on Willett's shoulder. "Can I speak with you a moment?" he said.

Willett rose unsteadily, but with dignity unshaken by change of fortune. He had lost as heavily, by this time, as earlier he had won.

"May I be pardoned for suggesting that you would be wise to get out of this and—a few hours' sleep? The general is up and worried. 'Tonio is gone!"

CHAPTER XI.

The fact that the post was cut off from the rest of the world, that neither runner from the field columns, courier from Prescott, nor mail rider from McDowell had succeeded in getting in, while 'Tonio, head trailer, had easily succeeded in getting out, was a combination calculated to promote serious reflection on part of the garrison this ideal Sunday morning. Perhaps it did, but so far as talk was concerned a very different fact ruled as first favorite. It was known all over the barracks by breakfast time that Case, the bookkeeper, had bluffed out the young swell from the Columbia who had come down to teach them how to play poker and fight Apaches. "Willett stock" among the rank and file had not been too high at the start, had been sinking fast since the affair at Bennett's Ranch, and was a drug in the market when the command, as was then the custom of the little army, turned out for inspection under arms, while Willett was turning in for a needed nap. Strong, his official host, knew instinctively where Willett must be, when he tumbled up to receive the reports at morning roll call and found the spare bed untouched. He said nothing, of course, even at guard mounting, when, together, he and Captain Bonner walked over to the office, where sat the post commander anxiously awaiting them. It seems that even after Bonner's friendly hint the game had not ceased at once. Willett had played on another hour in hopes that luck would change, but by seven Craney called a halt, said that he and Watts must quit, and intimated that Willett ought to. Case, though well along in liquor, still kept his head and lead, and would have played, but by this time Willett was writing I.O.U.'s. The prospector's cash was gone. The hitherto modest, retiring, silent man of the desk and ledgers had won heavily from the officer, yet only a trifle from his employers, and Craney suggested a recess until night. "Then we'll meet again—and settle," said Willett, half extending his hand.

"You bet we'll settle," said Case, the bookkeeper, wholly ignoring it, and even then the fact was noted and thereafter remembered.

"I think I won't go up t­o the post just now," said Willett to Craney. "Perhaps you have——"

"Certainly, Mr. Willett. Come right in here," said the trader hospitably, leading the way into a darkened room. "Take a good nap; sleep as long as you want to. I'll send you in a tub if you like." The tub was gratefully accepted, and then they left him. At noon when the general asked Strong if Willett "wasn't feeling well," Strong said Willett had been up late and was probably still asleep. Bonner, it was known, had not turned in again after two o'clock, and the discovery that 'Tonio was missing. He was dozing on the porch in his easy-chair when first call sounded for reveille, and Lilian, like gentle-hearted Amelia, lay dreaming of her wearied knight as having kept vigil with the sentries to the break of day that she and those she loved might sleep in security, and now, of course, he must indeed be wearied.

Therefore there came a surprise to her, and to the fond and watchful mother, when toward four o'clock in the afternoon Mrs. Stannard dropped in to chat with them awhile, and to tell about Harris, by whose bedside she had been sitting and reading for nearly two hours. Mrs. Archer welcomed the news. The doctor had promised to let her know as soon as he considered it wise for her to go, and the general was so anxious and disturbed on Mr. Harris's account. It so happened that the general, with a small escort, had ridden over to search the valley with glasses from the peak, and then the first thing Mrs. Stannard said was, "I thought that Mr. Willett might have been glad to go with the general."

"And did he not?" asked Mrs. Archer, after one quick glance at Lilian's averted eyes.

"Why, no," and now Mrs. Stannard hesitated; "I saw, at least I think I saw, him coming up from the river a little while ago. He may have been following 'Tonio's trail, you know. It was easy enough in the sand, they said, but once it reached the rocks along the stream-bed they lost it." Then wisely Mrs. Stannard changed the subject.

But if she and they knew not where and how Willett had spent the night and hours of the day, they and Harris, by this time, were the only ones at Almy in such ignorance. Moreover, Almy was having a lot of fun out of it. No one had ever heard of Case's playing before in all the time he had silently, unobtrusively, gone about his daily doings at the post. Three weeks out of four he sat over the books and accounts, or some writing of his own, saying nothing to anybody unless addressed, then answering civilly, but in few words. The other week, just as quietly and unobtrusively, he was apt to be busy with his bottle, sometimes in the solitude of his little room, sometimes wandering by night down along the stream, sometimes stealing out to the herds, petting and crooning to the horses, sometimes slyly tendering the herd guard a drink, and always accompanied by a pack of the hounds, for by them he was held in reverence and esteem. He never accosted anybody, never even complained when a godless brace of soldier roughs robbed him of his bottle as he lay half-dozing to the lullaby of the babbling stream. He simply meandered a mile and got another.

From this plane of inoffensive obscurity Case had sprung in one night to fame and, almost, to fortune. A single field had turned the chance of war, and the placid Sunday found him the most talked of man at the post. Rumor had it that he had quit five hundred dollars ahead of the game, and the most conservative estimate could not reduce it more than half. For the first time Camp Almy awoke to the conclusion that an experienced gambler was in their midst—one who had spared the soldier and his scanty pay that he might feed fat, eventually, on the officer. Rumor had it that Case's trunk contained a roulette wheel and faro "layout." In fine, long before orderly call at noon, in the whimsical humor of the garrison, he was no longer Case, the bookkeeper, but "Book, the Case Keeper," and every frontiersman, civil or military, in those days knew what that meant.

And even as they exalted Case, who toward afternoon had disappeared from public gaze, refusing to be lionized, so would they have abased Willett, who likewise had concealed himself, on the plea of needed sleep, yet had done but little sleeping. Willett was haunted by a memory, and not pleasantly. The fact that he had lost over a month's pay troubled him less by far than that he had lost repute. He had suffered much in pocket, but more in prestige. He had been a successful player in the Columbia country, too much so for the good of scores of comrades, but especially himself. He could have found it in his heart to throttle that guffawing clown, whose rude bellow of rejoicing over Case's brilliant bluff and his own defeat, had brought even the dago and his fellows in staring wonderment to the open door. He would have pledged another month's pay could he have throttled the story he knew now would be going the rounds. He was even more humiliated—far more—than they knew. They all would have shouted had they seen the hand he laid down, but he had striven to carry it off jocosely, to say he had only been bluffing, and was very properly caught at his own game. Oh, he had shown a game, sportsman-like front, and had striven to pass it all off as a matter that worried him not in the least, but Craney, clear-headed, believed otherwise, and Case, muddle-headed as he was by noon, knew better, and had his reasons for knowing—reasons as potent as were those that moved him wholly to ignore Willett's half-proffered hand.

Case had nothing in particular to do all day, and could sleep if so minded. Willett, not knowing what moment he might be called upon to take active part in stirring service, should sleep, and so prepare himself, yet could not. Case's personality, and Case's one reference to Vancouver, two years previous, haunted and vexed him sorely. Where and under what circumstances had he seen the man? Only for three weeks had he been at the fine old post referred to, while a big court-martial was there in session, and he, with other subalterns, had come as witnesses. There had been dinners and dancing and fun and flirtation, both at the post and in Portland. There had been card-playing in which he was easy winner, and not a little of his winnings had gone for wine. There had been foolish things said in pink little ears, and even written in silly missives that now he would have been glad to recall, but—but no harm to him as yet had come from them. There had even been a girl whom he had never seen before nor since that visit, nor wanted to see again, nor hear from, yet from her he had heard, and more than once—piteous, imploring little letters they were. But, heavens! he was busy hunting Indians when they began to come, and then they had ceased to find him, rather to his relief, but none of these episodes or epistles in any way included Case, yet somewhere he had seen him, somewhere he had heard his voice, and somewhere Case had marked his method of play. Case said Vancouver, but though two or three steep games had there or thereabouts occurred—games in which his soldier comrades had withdrawn as too big for them—he, with his luck and brilliancy, had dared to pursue to the end and came out envied as a winner. And still this did not seem to point to Case.

Not two hours' sleep did Willett get that Sunday morning. He was awake, hot, feverish, and athirst at noon, craving ice, which could be seen in the mountains only a day's march away, but had never yet been made to last through the homeward journey. Craney brought him a cool and dripping canteen and some acetic acid, the best he could do, and had proffered bottled beer, cooled in the big olla and retailed at fifty cents, but Willett sought information rather than sleep, and indirectly inquired as to Case's antecedents. Inferentially, he wished Craney to understand that he believed Case to be a professional, and Craney blamable for permitting him to play. Craney saw the move and checkmated at once. "Case has had dozens of chances to play—dozens of 'em—since I brought him here from Prescott, and never before has he sat into anything bigger'n a dollar limit. He never would play in the other room. He came out as quartermaster's clerk, nearly two years ago. With whom? Why, Major Ballard brought him out and had to turn him loose for drinking. No, Ballard was never at Vancouver. Then my bookkeeper got shot in a pay-day row and left the books in a muddle. I had to hire Case to come and balance them—best accountant and bookkeeper I ever had—square to the marrow, though he wants one week off a month, and is absolutely stalwart t'other three, but he will not talk of his past. Ballard told me he came with tiptop letters from officers of rank in San Francisco, who said he was incorruptible, even when he drank, whereas my clerk, who had been a model of sobriety, robbed right and left. Case has gone off now, somewhere down among the willows, I reckon. He'll be drunk for three days, sobering three days, and straight the seventh. If you hadn't started him last night he'd be sober now. And if you hadn't come into it that family game would have stopped at one, with nobody the worse nor wiser. You said you had no use for a dollar limit game."

There was no comfort, therefore, in Craney's visit. Willett took another cool bath, dressed about two, and being shown the path Case generally followed, sauntered away, quite as though he had nothing on his mind, and was presently lost beyond that same willowy screen. He at that time, at least, was not thinking of 'Tonio and the lost trail.

At five the general, with Strong and Bonner, could be made out four miles away, riding back from the peak. "I'll go a moment and inquire for Mr. Harris," said Mrs. Archer, "and ask the doctor when we may visit him." So, leaving Lilian with Mrs. Stannard, and intending to be gone but a few minutes, the gentle, anxious-hearted woman, sunshade in hand, went forth from the shelter of the low veranda into the slanting, unclouded rays, and presently tapped lightly at the doctor's open door. There was no answer, yet from somewhere within came sound of masculine voices. Entering the dark hall, she tapped again at the entrance to the doctor's sitting-room, or den. A Navajo blanket hung like a portière across the open space, for door there was none, and, as no one came in answer to her modest signal, she ventured to push the curtain a bit to one side and peer within. The room was but dimly lighted, all windows but one on the north side being heavily draped. The doctor's reclining chair and reading table, the latter littered with books, pamphlets and pipes, were visible through a reminiscent haze of not too fragrant tobacco smoke, for the old predominated over the new. A rude sideboard stood over against her, between the northward windows, and thereon was stationed a demi-john of goodly proportions, with outlying pickets in the way of glasses. Bentley himself, though one of the old school, was an abstemious man, and therefore enabled to have at all times a supply of reliable stimulant for such of his callers as were of opposite faith. That some of that ilk had recently favored him was presumptively evident, no more by the sideboard display than by the sound of voices from an inner room, where two or three were uplifted in discussion, and neither was the doctor's.

Now, Mrs. Archer much wished to see young Harris, to assure him of their deep interest in his welfare, of their desire to be of service to him, and their reason for not earlier intruding. Gentle and unselfish though she was, there was distinct sense of chagrin that Mrs. Stannard, or any woman, should have anticipated her coming. The doctor had promised to say just how soon he could approve her seeing his patient, and it was the doctor's fault she had come no sooner. Not until days thereafter did she know that Harris had asked for Mrs. Stannard. Not for even a Christmas home-going would Mrs. Stannard have let her know it—but Mrs. Stannard was a rare, rare woman.

But if the doctor thought it unwise that his patient should receive the visits of ministering angels such as she and they, what, said Mrs. Archer to her stupefied self, could Dr. Bentley mean by permitting the visits of such disturbers as these whose angering words came distinctly to her ears? She stood, half-dazed, unable for a moment to determine what to do—whether to enter at once—enter, and in the name of her husband, the commanding officer, enter emphatic protest against such exciting language at such a time, in such a presence—or whether to retire at once and hear no more of it. One voice, at the moment low and guarded, was that of a stranger—she had never heard it before. The other, however, she knew instantly as that of Harold Willett. No wonder she stood amazed, never doubting they were addressed to Harris, at the first words—Willett's words—to reach her ears!

"You are in no condition now to talk to a gentleman, and I refuse to listen. You came here to lie about me—to undermine me, and I know it, and the quicker you go——"

"I came here to speak God's truth and you know it!" came the instant answer, and in instant relief she knew it was not the voice of Harris. "As to undermining—by God, it's to block your undermining another and a better man I've come! If that isn't enough for you—to block your doing here—what you did to that poor girl at Portland——"

But a rush and a scuffle, the sound of a blow, broke in upon the words, just as the attendant, affrighted, came running out, just as Dr. Bentley, astounded and indignant, came hurrying in. Mrs. Archer, in bewilderment, fell back into the sunshine, only presently to see Willett, flushed and furious, hasten forth from the rear door and turn straightway to the adjutant's quarters adjoining—only to be overtaken in a moment by the attendant, panting: "The doctor said would Mrs. Archer please come back one minute, he'd like to speak with her." And Mrs. Archer turned again and went.

CHAPTER XII.

Ten minutes later, when the general and his little escort came dustily into the garrison, his first question on dismounting was for Willett, and it was Lilian who had to answer that she believed he was at Mr. Strong's. So thither, with but brief, though kindly, word with Mrs. Stannard, and as brief an expression of his satisfaction that Mrs. Archer had gone to see Harris, the veteran took his way. The horses were led to stables. The other officers, hastening homeward, bowing in hurried, perfunctory fashion to the ladies, turned again at sound of his voice, and all three together entered the adjutant's house, an orderly remaining at the door. Lilian looked anxiously after them and Mrs. Stannard inquiringly. "They have seen something, I know," said the girl, "and something father is puzzled about. He would not have come and gone without a kiss." Already Mrs. Stannard had noted his fond custom, had marked its omission now when, ever since luncheon, he had been away, and she, too, divined that he was preoccupied, even perplexed. But once already she had too quickly spoken her thoughts, and there must be no more of that. In three minutes the little party came forth again, Willett with them now, and, field-glasses in hand, away they strode to the northward edge of the plateau and went speedily along toward a point at the back of the hospital where there stood a little platform, railed about with untrimmed pine, a rustic lookout much affected by the men in the long evenings, but seldom visited when the sun was up. It took no time at all for half the remaining garrison to turn out and, at respectful distance, stand curiously watching them, and little more for the other half to come flocking out of doors. "Seen somethin' from way up on the Picacho," explained the orderly, as he jogged by with the heated horses, "an' came back akiting!"

Two minutes more and the adjutant, Strong, came running from the platform. "Don't unsaddle," he shouted. "Bring those horses back and get some more! Send the escort up here at once!"

The officers at the lookout had not even unslung their pistol belts, and Willett now was seen to set down his binocular and start away. The general called to him and he half turned and hurriedly answered: "Back just as quick as I can get my Colt, sir." He was unfastening his blouse at the throat as he went, and even at the distance men could see how hot and flushed he looked, while the others seemed so hard, "tried out" and fit for anything. Presently the half dozen horsemen, who had been with their chief to the Picacho, came trotting forth from the corral, followed by two or three led horses. Strong mounted the first to reach him and sent another to his quarters for Lieutenant Willett. Then Captain Bonner came strolling back as though quite unconcerned. "May as well get the men under arms," said he to his alert first sergeant, and away went every man of Company "C" on a run for the barracks.

"Needn't wait for Willett," the general was heard calling to Strong, who, with a little party, sat in saddle eagerly awaiting orders. So down the slope they went, just as the doctor and Mrs. Archer, apprised in some way of the excitement, came forth and saw the dust cloud in their wake, and the snorting troop horse pawing the sand in front of Strong's. Old Bucketts, the quartermaster, came limping up the line, his florid features a deeper red, and all he could tell in answer to question was, "They see something beyond the Point. Who's that horse for, orderly?"

"Loot'nt Willett, sir—said he'd be out in a minute."

But the minutes proved long, and Bucketts went in to help, if need be, and to get information, if possible. Willett had kicked off his fine uniform trousers and ununiform Oxfords, and was cursing the striker who had hidden his scouting rig. "Why the devil didn't you go as you were?" asked Bucketts unsympathetically. "They're raising the dust far as the ford already. What's up, anyhow?"

"Can't tell! Don't know! Nobody knows! They send scouts out—couriers out—messengers out, and spend hours wishing somebody'd come with news, and then when somebody's seen coming get rattled and send half the garrison out to meet——"

But suddenly catching sight of the disapprobation on his caller's face, Willett broke off short. No wonder Buckett's looked astonished at such language from a staff officer. Nor was that veteran questioner long in sizing up the cause. It added nothing to his respect for Willett, and not a little to his concern. He knew by this time, as did almost every man except the post commander, how and where Willett spent the night and morning—knew that he had left the store only an hour or so previous, as though to follow and find the bookkeeper—knew that Case had been drinking, and saw now that Willett had been following suit. Without a word on that head, or another question as to the causes of the excitement, he stumped about the premises, busying himself in hunting for the missing items, and presently found them hanging under a calico curtain that Willett had already nearly torn down in unsuccessful, unseeing search. "Here you are," he said, tossing the garments on the bed. "Here's your pistol, Colt's 44; every chamber loaded and ready for business. You'll use a different belt when you've been a month in Arizona—and you'll shed top boots for 'Patchie moccasins. Let me help you, Willett. You're a bit blown. Here, douse your head in that——" and as he spoke Bucketts half filled a bowl and went limping out to the olla for more and cooler water, leaving Willett fussing at his riding breeches and damning Strong's striker for being away among the gaping, staring, empty-headed gang at the bluff at the moment he was most needed.

As Bucketts was lifting the vessel from the cool depths of the hanging reservoir, he heard his name faintly called, and there, at the side door of the doctor's quarters, pale and suffering, barefooted and mantled with a sheet, his arm and shoulder bandaged, stood Harris.

"Tell Willett to come out," he said. "I must see him before he goes."

"You go back to bed. I'll tell him," but Harris stood his ground despite the fact that the attendant had laid a hand upon his unbound shoulder, and was begging him to return. Bucketts set the pitcher inside the door. "Here's cooler water, Willett," he said, "and here's Harris at the door—says he must see you before you start."

Then, without waiting for answer, the quartermaster hurried along the path to the front in search of the doctor; saw him far over back of the hospital, heading for the platform; saw Mrs. Archer, on her own veranda by this time, in eager talk with Mrs. Stannard, and Lilian drooping at the corner pillar; hurried back to get his stick and to further rebuke Harris, when, afar down to the south-east came the sound of a shot, half-muffled by distance, and, gazing from the rear end of the little gallery, he saw, a mile or more away across the stream and skirting the willows, two horsemen coming at top speed; saw, emerging from the willows at the near side of the ford, a man who walked heavily through the yielding sand, holding his hand to his face. He, too, had heard the shot and was making, 'cross lots, for home. It was Case, the bookkeeper, disturbed, perhaps, said Bucketts, in his siesta among the willows and doing his best to gain shelter. Before Case could get a fourth of the way across the barren flat, tacking perceptibly among the cactus and grease wood, the riders burst in sight again and went lashing away to the store—two ranchmen or prospectors, said Bucketts, and they've been having the time of their life getting in. 'Tonio said the Tontos were all about them, and here was additional proof. The last Bucketts saw of Case he was lurching on toward the store, but, just then, buttoning his riding jacket and girding on his revolver belt, out came Willett.

"Well, what is it?" was his brief, almost sullen question. And then came his classmate's answer—one that Bucketts long remembered.

"You are going up the valley, I take it, and there is an alarm of some kind. Now, Willett, remember this: no matter what you have seen or suspect, the Apache-Mohaves had no part in the devil's work at Bennett's. I have 'Tonio's word for it, and will bring proofs."

"Damn 'Tonio's word! He's a renegade and a deserter himself! He's playing a deep, double game, and you yourself suspected it three days ago. Now he's proved it. I've no time to talk." And impatiently he turned away and sprang for his horse. A moment more and he was in saddle, had set spurs to his excited mount, and then, full gallop, went tearing to the edge of the mesa, lifted his hat in salutation to the general, and dove down the slope, across the lower bench, away through an upper ford of the sluggish winter stream, and out upon the sandy flats beyond.

"Rides well," said the general, looking after him.

"Rides very well," said the surgeon, looking after Strong. "Can you see anything yet, sir?"

"Could see two horses ten minutes ago, with some running figures far up the valley. Can't make 'em out at all. Strong'll fetch 'em—Strong and Willett. Good stock there, doctor!"

"Tiptop, where Strong is concerned," said the doctor grimly. The events of the earlier afternoon had tended to add to his disapprobation of the other. "There's something up at the store, sir, I think," he added, with a swift change of subject. "I saw men running that way just now. Here comes Bucketts!"

And Bucketts came, hobbling sturdily. "It's two ranchmen, I think, and there was a shot down toward the south-east ten minutes ago."

The general looked back. Down in front of the log barracks Bonner's company, in fatigue dress, had formed ranks, and the sergeants were distributing ammunition. Across the parade, the verandas of the Mess and office buildings were deserted, but one or two men stood staring toward the invisible plant of the trader. Close at hand, near the hospital and again lining the edge of the mesa, a score of yards farther to the left, a number of soldiers of the other company were eagerly watching developments. Even with the naked eye, two miles or more up the valley, Strong's little detachment, black dots of skirmishers, could occasionally be sighted pushing on northward, while, at heavy gallop, heading for the front, Willett was still in plain view; but, at the moment, nothing could be seen of the objects that were the original cause of the excitement.

From the Picacho, it seems, both Strong and Bonner had made out through their glasses two tiny black dots in the direction of Bennett's ruined ranch, coming slowly toward the post, but still five or six miles away. From the platform, forty minutes later, two horsemen had distinctly been seen moving swiftly about, close to the willows that lined, in places, the rocky stream bed. More than this, the general was sure he had caught sight of three or four figures afoot, skipping actively about when moving at all. What he and his advisers believed was that Sergeant Woodrow and his comrades were, for some reason, trying to make their way back to Almy and had found Apaches barring the way. Therefore had Strong and his little party been sent forth to meet, to aid, to bring them in. Therefore had Willett, of his own motion this time, and without the delegated authority he bore when following Harris, set forth at speed to overtake them, forgetful, in the eagerness of the moment and the possible over-excitement of his faculties, that he had promised Archer to be back just as soon as he'd got his Colt—that calibre 44 Colt now belted at his hip, with every chamber loaded.

And now as the eager watchers at the platform trained their glasses on the distant field, Bucketts, taking up the handsome binocular left by the aide-de-camp, had time to notice its fine silver mounting and the engraved "H. Willett, U.S.A.," in exactly the same script as that which adorned the revolver. Then, as he adjusted it to his eyes, it occurred to him to tell the doctor of Harris's coming to the side door, and of his most earnest language and manner, whereat the general turned sharply:

"What's that? Harris said no Apache-Mohaves?"

"No Apache-Mohaves in the affair at Bennett's Ranch, sir, on 'Tonio's authority, and Willett scoffed at both statement and 'Tonio."

"By heaven," said Archer, "'Tonio was right in saying we were cut off, isolated here, and if he hadn't slipped away in that mysterious fashion I'd rather take his word than—than Willett's impressions. Where has Willett been—all morning—anyhow? He never came near me!"

Everybody within earshot knew, and nobody answered. Archer looked queerly about him. Bonner and Briggs gazed fixedly through their glasses. Bucketts was absorbed in the adjustment of his. The doctor said he must go over and give Harris a rebuke for getting up, and started forthwith, and Archer, without further question, turned again to his survey. He was of the old army—and knew the signs.

For a moment every living object up the valley seemed to be shut from view. Bonner, by way of changing the subject, had so far "white-lied" as to exclaim "There they are again!—er—no," but the ruse was unnecessary; Archer understood. Almost at the moment, however, came a sound from the open windows of the matron's room, adjoining the hospital, against which all present would willingly have closed their ears—the prolonged, heart-breaking, moaning cry of a woman robbed of all she held dearest—poor Mrs. Bennett waking once more to her direful sorrows, and filling the air with her hopeless wail. For a moment it dominated all other sound. "For heaven's sake, doctor," cried Archer to the assistant, "can't you and Bentley devise something to still that poor creature? Has she lost her mind, too?"

"Sounds like it, sir. There's only one thing that will bring it back—that's those babies."

"If anybody can get 'em it will be Stannard," answered the general prayerfully. "This, whatever it is, up the valley may be news from him and of them! God grant it!"

"Look!" cried Bonner at the instant. "I see Willett! See him?—galloping up that—— Why, hell and blazes—I beg your pardon, general—he's 'way out beyond Strong's people! See 'em—down there by the willows? Where in—— Gad! d'ye see that? Why, his horse jumped and shied as if he'd—— Look! He's running away! He's gone!"

Gone he had. Not once again, before the going down of the sun, now just tangent to the western heights, did they catch sight of Willett or Willett's horse. One after another the watchers again found Strong within the field of vision and followed him down to and across the stream, and others of the mounted party were seen, some wearily following their officer, others moving about a point among the willows where last had been seen the two strangers whose odd movements led to the going forth of the searching party. But it was half an hour later, and light was growing dim in the valley, while the eastward crests of the Mogollon were all ablaze, when a single rider was made out coming homeward at speed. It was dusk at Almy when his panting horse struggled painfully up the slope and, dismounting, a weary rider saluted the post commander and handed him a note. By this time Mrs. Archer, Mrs. Stannard and Lilian, too, were on the platform, and the mother's arm stole instinctively about the daughter's slender waist, while every eye was on the general as he quickly opened, then slowly read aloud the pencilled words:

"We have the couriers safe. They are from up the Verde, badly scared and worn out. Say they have been chased by Indians ever since three o'clock, were almost out of ammunition. Lieutenant Willett, venturing too far on the east side, while we were to the west of the stream, must have encountered some of them. We heard firing, and followed. Found his horse dead among the rocks and Willett lying near, stunned, but certainly not shot. Could see nothing of his assailants. Ambulance needed. Respectfully,

"Strong."

Mrs. Archer's arm wound still closer about her daughter's trembling form. Lilian said no word, but her face was white, her soft lips were quivering. Mrs. Stannard sympathetically closed in on the other side, as the general gave brief directions, and presently, between the two, the girl walked slowly away, only the general following with his eyes. Bentley went back once again to quietly tell the news to Harris, but was ready when the ambulance stopped at his door. Lilian had been persuaded to go and lie down, said Mrs. Archer, when her grave-faced husband came home at dark. "That is best," was all he said, but he turned and took his fond wife's face between his hands and kissed it thrice, then went forth again to meet the coming couriers. It seems their orders were to deliver their despatch in person to the commander of Camp Almy, and, sending them on for refreshments, he read by the light of a lantern the message from the commander of the District of the Verde. Young warriors by the hundred were out, said the agent at the reservation, even the Apache-Mohaves. Mail messengers, ranch people and others had been murdered close to Camp Sandy. Friendly Indians report soldiers killed in Dead Man's Cañon in revenge for death of Comes Flying, accidentally shot. Captain Tanner and Lieutenant Ray are out from Camps Sandy and Cameron, with strong commands, and will try to communicate with Almy. "Nothing has been heard of Lieutenant Harris and his scouts," said the despatch, "but rumors are rife as to Indian depredations near you. It is feared that in your advanced position you may be surrounded, and communication cut off, but no fears are entertained as to your ability to take care of yourself. If you still have cavalry scouting in the Tonto basin, warn them of conditions and report when possible."

"So much for so much," said the general. "Now for Willett," and a mile farther out he met the ambulance coming in, Willett and the doctor aboard, the former with a broken collar-bone and a bad headache. Moreover, Willett was in vicious mood.

"General Archer," said he, "the shot that killed my horse was meant for me, and the Indian who fired the shot was Harris's paragon, 'Tonio."

CHAPTER XIII.

That was a stirring night at Almy. The general, contrary to habit, was very grave and quiet, saying little, drinking nothing, even the customary toddy being declined. The doctor, also contrary to habit, was drinking a little and thinking a lot, but saying nothing. An abstemious man, as a rule, and a temperate man at all times, he seemed inclined to sample his Monongahela more than once before midnight, when, having gotten his patients to sleep, he tried to do likewise. "They are on an even keel again," said Bonner, referring to the two casuals, "and I am not sorry to see it." Evidently there had been comparison of notes between Strong and Bonner, and an agreement of some kind, for both held that Willett had exceeded his authority, as well as his discretion, in conducting a single-handed charge on an outnumbering enemy, secretly hidden behind rocks and ridges. Strong's men said that Lieutenant Willett, spurring hard, had called across the stream for them to follow him, and three of those nearest the bank plunged through the shallows and were barely three hundred yards behind him when, from their right front among the rocks at the foot of a bluff, the shot was fired that wounded the lieutenant's horse, which veered at once and ran away down among the willows. No, they hadn't charged. They turned, too. For all they knew, there might have been a thousand Apaches in hiding there, and when the lieutenant turned they turned. It was not until Lieutenant Strong and the rest of the men came up with them that they pushed ahead and found the officer and his horse lying among the rocks by the stream. Willett had been hurled out of saddle when the frenzied beast went suddenly down, and there he lay, stunned and bleeding, while the poor brute was quivering in the agonies of death.

"Did you see anything of 'Tonio?" Strong was asked, as a matter of course.

"Not so much as a shred of his breechclout," said Strong, "nor of any other Indian nearer than a mile away, and they were running for the rocks. It was too dark to do any trailing." But for the shot that killed Willett's horse, and the tremendous tales of the courier scouts, Strong would have been inclined to say there were not a dozen Indians in the north valley. "If there were more," said he, "and if they were really hostile, even though afoot as they were, was it likely that two couriers on worn-out horses could have escaped them? No," said Strong. "There is something about it we don't understand, neither does Willett, for all he's so positive."

But Strong admitted that two things puzzled him. The horse was certainly shot, and Willett's Colt, the handsome revolver that he set such store by, was certainly gone. Willett, when he came to, had asked for it. He swore that he had drawn it from the holster, and was riding at "raise pistol" when the shot was fired—that he clutched it as his maddened horse tore blindly down the slope, and then, among the rocks, stumbled, staggered and fell. Now revolver, holster, "thimble belt" of cartridges—all were gone.

The couriers were made to tell their tale while the doctor and his assistants were getting Willett to bed, and Willett, from several conditions, was not easy to soothe and quiet. He had not been sparing of the spiritus frumenti that went with other medical supplies in the ambulance. Archer and the surgeon saw it, and said nothing. That was natural, possibly, under the circumstances, and could be controlled later. Archer cross-questioned the couriers at some length. They had not followed the Verde Valley southward. They had "lit out" along the Mesa road, toward Baker's Butte, until they found the trail by way of Hardscrabble and Granite Creek. They had succeeded in evading Apaches until the third day out, and after leaving the East Fork they saw smokes that made them wary, and once down in the Wild Rye Valley, and in sight of the old Picacho, they came upon recent Indian signs in the sand—moccasin tracks going down stream bed toward the post. Then they "chassayed," as they said, out into the open, midway to the foothills, so as to keep out of rifle range of both, and then Indians came a-running at them from the foothills, trying to head them off and take them alive, they supposed, and they had dismounted and fought and driven them back, and, oh, they must have killed three or four of 'em! and in fact had had to fight for their lives most of the afternoon. Archer listened, incredulous, puzzled. Frontiersmen's and fishermen's tales have much in common. These were men who had been employed three years, they said, by the agent at the upper reservation and had been detailed for courier duty with Colonel Pelham, commanding the district of the Verde. One was American, the other Mexican. Their story might be straight, but, with all the valor to which they laid claim, it seemed strange to Archer and his officers that two men could break their way through an encircling horde of hostiles such as they described, and hold a hundred fierce Apaches four long hours at bay.

Harris was awake, and in highly nervous condition, and begging that he might be allowed to see and question these couriers, but both doctors, regular and contract, said no, not this night. And so, toward midnight, the couriers were permitted to go to bed. The doubled sentries were cautioned to observe the utmost vigilance. The lights were extinguished at the store, by way of telling everybody that neither game nor glass was to be had before the morrow. The general was urged by his devoted adherents, Bonner, Bucketts and Strong, to get such sleep as was possible, and the post was committed to the charge of Lieutenant Briggs, officer of the day. The lights were still burning low at the hospital and in the doctor's quarters and Strong's, as, with a look about the moonlit valley and a word to his sergeant, Bonner rejoined his comrades at the quartermaster's veranda.

"Odd," said he, with a tilt of his head toward the quarters next beyond, "of all our little fighting force, so far the only casualties are with our two casuals."

That was at one o'clock in the morning. At three, by which time all but the guard were presumably in bed, Mrs. Archer, lying anxious and wakeful, listening for the sound of sigh or sob from Lilian's little room and praying that sorrow might be averted from that beloved child, felt sure at last that she heard a footstep, and, stealing softly across the narrow hallway, found Lilian kneeling at the curtained window and gazing out upon the brilliant night. There was no reproach in the mother's murmured words. Well she knew what it portended that her daughter should be at this hour sleepless and striving, perhaps, to see the light from the window where her young hero lay prostrate and suffering. Not one word had they yet exchanged about him, but many a woman, even with mother love brimming over in her heart, would have upbraided, and many another would have "nagged." What other word have we for that feminine method, the resort of so very many, the remedy of so very few? But Mrs. Archer simply circled a loving arm about the slender form. "We're all on guard to-night, aren't we, daughter?" she murmured, fondly kissing the tear-wet cheek. "It was so long before your father dropped to sleep. Have you—heard anything?"

Burying her face in the dear refuge of years, with her arms thrown instantly about her mother's neck, Lilian's sole answer was a shake of the bonny head. It was as much as saying, "You know that isn't the matter; yet, thank you for trying to think so—thank you for not asking me what is."

"Well, I did," murmured Mrs. Archer, slowly rising to her feet, and drawing Lilian with her. "I'm sure I heard low voices down there on the flat toward the ford. The sentries are more than usually watchful and taking note of everything. You know it was right out there Number Five heard the crying in the willows only last night." And all the time she was quietly leading her child back to the little white bed.

Then suddenly Lilian stopped and lifted her head. "I hear now," said she. "It's coming!" Across the hall stealthily they sped, and together were presently peering from the southward window in Mrs. Archer's room. Two dim figures could be seen crossing the flat from the direction of the ford, coming straight for the low point of the mesa whereon stood the quarters of the commanding officer. Then they began breasting the slope, but exchanging no word. As they reached the top Mrs. Archer caught Lilian's hand. "It's an Indian—a runner, I believe. See, that's the corporal of the guard with him! It's a despatch of some kind!"

And so it proved. Five minutes later, Briggs, officer of the day, was heard coming down the line; his sword clicked at the steps; his foot was on the veranda, but before he could knock, Mrs. Archer met him at the door.

"We saw them coming," said she. "Is it a despatch—for the general?"

"From Captain Turner," said he gravely. "I read it, hoping not to have to disturb the general, but—there's been a fight and some are wounded. Turner needs instructions."

The army-bred woman needed no further word. She knew at once what had to be done. "Wake father, Lilian, dear," she gently called from the foot of the stairs. "Will you come in, Mr. Briggs? I can light up in a moment."

"There's light in abundance out here, thank you, Mrs. Archer. Besides, I have our runner." And, turning back, he pointed to the steps where, still watched by Corporal Hicks, the dusky messenger squatted wearily. All Apaches looked alike to Hicks. His attitude was plainly indicative of a conviction that treachery of some kind was afoot, and this particular envoy had designs on his commander or that commander's wife. They could hear the veteran bustling about upstairs, hurriedly donning his uniform. Then came Strong, with his quick, bounding step, for Briggs had called him before disturbing the "Old Man." A moment later, by the clear light of the unclouded moon, Archer was hurriedly reading Turner's brief despatch.

Bivouac on Toronto Creek, November 24th, 187—.

Post Adjutant,
Camp Almy.

We have had two more brushes with Tonto Apaches, resulting in the breaking up of two rancheri­as and the scattering of the band, leaving several dead in each affair, also a few wounded bucks and squaws that I had to leave, as we had no means of sending them to the post or caring for them in any way. Sergeant Payne, Corporal Smith, G, and Troopers Schreiter and Wenzel, wounded, are doing as well as can be expected, but must remain at this point under a small guard while we follow the renegades. The scouts report many signs toward the Black Mesa, and we shall strike wherever we find the hostiles, but I shall have but twenty-five men with me now, and barely forty rounds per man. Instructions sent by bearer may reach me among the foothills toward Diamond Butte. Otherwise, we shall return by the way we came. Trooper Hanson, died of wounds in the affair previously reported, was buried here.

Respectfully,

Turner, Commanding.

"Then the other runner failed to get in," said Archer gravely. "There was a fight before this. Turner's found a raft of Indians. This despatch is two days old now. Have we nobody who can talk with this Indian?"

"Nobody, I fear, sir," answered Strong, bending over the scout and examining the brass identification tag worn by each of those regularly employed and mustered. "He's a Hualpai. No. 21. Even Harris doesn't know that tongue, sir."

"If anybody here does, it's one of those two that got in from Verde last evening," said Archer reflectively. "Turner evidently had no idea the hostiles were all about us, and he thinks the previous despatch must have reached us. Corporal, go find the couriers and fetch them here. Be seated, gentlemen," he continued, in his courtly way, then turning from everybody, stepped out on the sandy level between his quarters and the office building, and began pacing slowly up and down.

What was to be done? No word had come from Stannard. Stirring, yet disquieting news they now had from Turner, whose wounded lay in need of medical attention a long day's march through stony wilds, with jealous and savage eyes watching every trail. Here at Almy he had two companies of sturdy foot, capable of covering ground almost as fast as the cavalry, but wearing out shoe leather much faster. Twenty of these fellows could fight their way through to the Tonto, but might have just as many more wounded to care for, and be unable to transport them. Moreover, with so many hostiles on every side, was he justified in stripping the post of its defenders? It was no pleasant situation. It was more than perplexing. Presently he turned and, using such signs as he thought might be comprehensible, asked the impassive runner if he knew where the first fight took place, and the Hualpai, as would almost any Indian partially gathering the drift of a question, began a rambling reply, pointing as he spoke, with shifting finger, all over the range to the south-east.

"Bella, dear, have we anything that this incomprehensible creature could eat?" asked Archer. "It may help matters." And presently the lady of the house appeared at the hall door again, with a tray in her hands. Briggs ceremoniously took it, and set huge slices of bread and jam before the gaunt mountaineer, who found his feet in an instant; received a slice on the palm of his outspread hand; lifted it cautiously, his yellow teeth showing hungrily; smelled it suspiciously, thrust forth his tongue, and slowly tasted the strange mixture on the surface; then, with confidence established, finished it in four gulps, and, like a greyhound, looked eagerly for more. Briggs laughed and pointed to the tray on the steps, but the Hualpai shook his head and drew back shyly.

"You'll have to give it piece by piece, Briggs," said Strong. "His squaw would scoop the whole trayload into her skirt or blanket, but not a Hualpai brave."

Approached in accordance with Hualpai views of table etiquette, the Indian ate greedily, and was still eating when the corporal came and, with him, the sleepy and dishevelled courier, the American. And now in the radiant moonlight the strange war council was resumed.

"Ask him, if you can, where the first fight came off, and who was sent with the despatch," demanded the general of the new-comer, upon whom the Hualpai looked in recognition, but with neither light nor welcome in his piercing eyes. Question and answer in halting, uncanny speech progressed fitfully a moment. Then came the report:

"He says there was a fight the first day out; another when they struck Tonto Creek, and two soldiers were killed."

"And as to the first runner?"

"He says 'Patchie Mohave brought it all way safe. This buck met him going back. He said he gave it to 'scout capitan' out by Picacho."

"'Out by Picacho!''Scout capitan!' Who on earth does he mean?" asked Archer, with a sudden fear at heart.

Once again, stumbling question, much gesticulation, many words in strange gutturals—and a name. Then the final report:

"He means Apache-Mohave—'Tonio!"

CHAPTER XIV.

Three anxious, watchful days went by, with anxious, watchful nights intervening, with no further tidings of 'Tonio or Stannard or Turner, of friend or foe from the outside world, and with only one attempt on part of the invisibly, yet perceptibly, surrounded garrison to communicate with the field columns. "Hualpai 21," the only designation he would own to (the real name, in the absence of some tribesman to speak for him, one could rarely learn from an Indian), was given his fill of food and rest, then, with a despatch to Turner, was sent forth Monday night south-eastward, the way he came, and bidden if he reached the rugged height known as El Caporal, some twelve miles to the south-east, and deemed it safe to do so, to send at sunrise three quick mirror flashes toward the flagstaff, repeating twice or thrice to be sure of its attracting attention. Hualpai 21 took with him one of those cheap little disks of looking-glass, cased in pewter, at that time found at every frontier store. He took also the injunction to give his despatch to Captain Turner or one of his men, but to no Indian whomsoever—'Tonio in particular. It was the last attempt of the week.

For, from dawn until the sun was an hour high, the watchers watched in vain. Three signal glasses, telescope and binocular, were trained upon the heights and no one of them caught the faintest spark of reflected light. The nearest approach to a signal was seen by a corporal of the guard and sentry Number Six an hour after midnight, when, in quick succession, two faint, firefly flashes, unrepeated, were visible afar out due east of the Picacho, and they could have been caused in only two ways—somebody experimenting with a mirror and the moonbeams, the moon being then about three hours high and three-quarters full, or else, as they were ruddier than moonshine, somebody taking two quick shots, probably at somebody else. The corporal counted seconds up to twenty and more, and even in that breathless silence, heard not a sound to warrant the belief.

Yet a few hours later that sun-blistered morning, the bookkeeper Case "blew in for a bottle," as he expressed it; remarked with engaging frankness that he believed he had still a day or so in which to taper, and would be home and on deck if the Apaches didn't get him meantime; and, being delicately invited to state where he had spent the night, replied as frankly as before, "Down at José Sanchez's," meaning thereby the down-stream resort two miles distant, where prospectors, packers and occasionally men from the post, in peace times, at least, went for unlimited mescal and monte. Since the death of Comes Flying, the disappearance of 'Patchie Sanchez (the runner, half-brother to Sanchez, the gambler), and the general outbreak among the Indians, it had been shunned as utterly unsafe, and reported abandoned. When cautioned by Watts against returning thither, Mr. Case replied that now that the Indians spurned it, for not even 'Tonio would set foot anywhere about the ranch, the ghost of the brother was seen there every night. He had seen it and it was an honest ghost, and a convivial spirit, which was why last night's bottle had lasted no longer. Moreover, Case said that when he was drinking he was only at home in half-bred society and couldn't live up to the high tone of the post. When told of Mr. Willett's further mishap, Case sobered for a moment in manner, and said Mr. Willett was unwise taking so many chances, and Mr. Willett would be in big luck if he got away from Almy without further puncture. Somebody else had been shot at last night. He and the ghost had heard it.

This at the moment was regarded as semi-maudlin talk, but at morning office hour Watts was sent for, was told what the guard had seen, and asked what Case had really said, rumor being, as a rule, inaccurate. Then Archer rebuked Watts for letting Case go in his intoxicated condition, and it was decided to send a little party in search, in hopes of fetching him in and finding out more about the alleged shooting. The party found Case without any trouble. He sat singing to himself and swinging his legs from the table in the abandoned rookery, the half-emptied bottle on one side and a "monkey" of spring water on the other, scornful alike of danger or demands, but indomitably courteous. The party took a drink with him as promptly invited, but found him implacably bent on holding the position. Not until argument and whiskey both were exhausted would he listen to reason and the suggestion to return to the post. That being the only means to more whiskey, he started affably enough, but before going half a mile declared he had left or lent his revolver. "There's only one revolver at Camp Almy just like it," said he, with drunken dignity, and then, with sudden gravity, "an' that one—isn't at Camp Almy."

The infantry sergeant in command of the little party tried to wheedle Case out of his whim, but it was useless. Back he would go, and they, half supporting, had to go with him. From the drawer of the battered old table he drew the missing weapon to light, and it stood revealed—one of the famous Colt's 44, made soon after the Civil War to replace the percussion-capped "Navy" carried by most officers of the army until late in the '60's. In the hands of the cavalry at the moment, and for experimental purposes, were nickel-plated Smith and Wesson's of the same calibre, and nearly the same length of barrel, also one or two other patterns of the remodelled Colt. But, as Case said, this was a special make and model, differing slightly from any that Sergeant Joyce had ever yet seen; but not until later did the sergeant or his comrades attach any significance to Case's statement, "there's only one at Almy just like it."

His weapon recovered, his mental balance slightly restored, and with the further inspiration of replenished flask ahead, Case made the difficult essay to tramp the two sandy miles back to the store and the still more difficult task of there accounting for himself and explaining his enigmatical sayings. Strong, as directed, strove to keep him to the point, but the one more drink Case declared indispensable on his final arrival at dusk sent flitting the last filaments of reason, and the poor fellow maundered off to sleep on his little cot in the darkened room, where he was bolted in and left for the night.

"Only one pistol like it at the post, and that—isn't at the post," Strong found himself repeating again and again that night, as, after Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard had read their patient into a doze and taken their departure, the adjutant stood for a moment by Willet's bedside. "And now Willett has lost his, and presumably the Tontos, or perhaps the Apache-Mohaves, have got it!"

They had wandered away in the darkness together, those two brave and tender-hearted army women, each with a keen anxiety of her own, each striving to be helpful to the other. Three invalids were there now at Almy to whom they were giving many hours of care and nursing. Poor Mrs. Bennett gained little in mental or bodily health. The fearful scenes of that long night of horror and rapine still seemed vividly before her in her few hours of fitful slumber, and were this state of things to continue long, said the doctor, insanity would be a merciful refuge. An hour or so each day these ministering angels gave to the young officers. Harris, severely shot, was mending fast, his perfect physical condition lending itself admirably to his restoration. Willett, but slightly injured, should be sitting up, with his shoulder in a frame and his arm in a sling, but he was mending only slowly, and had not a little fever. Harris, accustomed to self-denial, seemed to require no physical comforts. Willett, something of a Sybarite, craved iced drinks and cooling applications that gave more trouble, said Strong, than twenty Harrises. Willett had even gone so far as to suggest that the ladies must be tired of reading aloud, possibly Miss Lilian might relieve one or other, and possibly, hope whispered, both. Harris, who would have welcomed that presence and possibility as he would no other, had ventured nothing beyond the expression of a hope that Miss Archer was quite well.

As for Miss Archer herself, what man can say just what thoughts, emotions, hopes and fears were rioting in that gentle and innocent, yet troubled heart. A very unheroic little heroine is this of ours. It was a time when she might well be thinking of the perils by which they and their defenders were encompassed round about, of the bereaved and broken-hearted woman crying to heaven for her murdered husband and her stolen children, of the scouts and couriers shot down from ambush in their efforts to reach them in their isolation or to creep through with messages to the columns afield, of the wounded lying with but scant attention and puny guard, weary marches away, of the comrades killed or died of wounds in fierce grapple with the warriors of the desert and the mountains—even of this young soldier within their gates, sore stricken in daring rescue of a helpless woman, he to whose coolness and command of self—and others—had saved her from the rattler's fang. Very possibly she did think of it—and often—and tried to think of them still oftener, but all the time, it must be owned, in her heart of hearts she was hearing again the soft, caressing tone of that deep, rich voice—"the words of love then spoken;" she saw again the lustrous eyes that shone and burned into hers despite their drooping lids, the graceful, gallant form of that picture of the knight and gentleman whose swift wooing had made such wondrous way. Lilian Archer was but a child in spite of years and schooling. She spent her earliest years within the shadow of the flag and the sound of the drum. She had seen nothing of garrison life from that morning in '61, when she had just passed her sixth birthday, when they were bundled aboard a wheezing river stern wheeler and floated for many a day and many and many a long mile down a muddy, twisting stream—her father so grave and anxious, and some of the officers with him so urgent and appealing. She could not understand why her mother should so often sit with tear-brimming eyes and clasp her to her bosom with the boy brother she so loved—and teased. Father's home was in a proud old border state, and they went there for a week or two, after that sorrowful day in St. Louis when three of father's old friends and comrades came for one last conference and then—a last good-by—two of them refusing his hand. They had resigned and followed their state. They had striven to take him with them to swell the ranks of the proud young army of the South. They had loved him well and he them, but there was something floating overhead, from the white staff at the stern, he held still dearer. One officer, who was most urgent in his pleadings, was her bonny "Uncle Barney," mother's own brother, and when he left, without kiss for her or handclasp for the sad-faced soldier in the worn uniform of blue, mother's heart seemed almost breaking. Father took them to his father's old home, and left them there while he went to drilling militiamen north of the Ohio, and was presently made a colonel of volunteers. But the people who lived about them were all for the South, and they could not forgive mother for his taking sides against them; so, throughout the long bitter struggle, while he was at the front or suffering in Southern prison, as happened once, and from Northern suspicion, as happened much more than once, they lived in lodgings in a quiet little country town, where brother and she went hand in hand to school and saw little of the outer world and nothing of the war. Then at last came peace, and in '66 the reorganization of the army, and father—in a general's uniform on a major's pay. Then in '69 General Grant appointed brother a cadet, and all were so proud and hopeful when he left them for the Point. He was the image of Uncle Barney, who was killed leading his splendid brigade in one of the earliest battles in Virginia, and, like Uncle Barney, brother was high-spirited and impatient. Mathematics and demerit set him back in '70 and dropped him out entirely in '71, when father was weeks away across the deserts of Arizona, and they were in lodgings at San Francisco, and poor mother was nearly distraught with grief and anxiety. Brother never came back to them. He went straight, it seems, to the Brooklyn Navy-Yard; enlisted in the Marines, and, within five months thereafter, jumped from the deck of the "Yantic" in a swift tideway at Amoy, striving to aid a drowning shipmate, and was never seen again. That was the saddest Christmas they ever knew. Father had to return to his post, and all that year of '72 they wore deep mourning and went nowhere. During the spring of '73 mother was rallying a little, and loving army friends from the Presidio and Angel Islands, who used to come to see them so often, now sought to have Lilian visit them; but wisely Mrs. Archer kept her at her studies and her music and away from possible fascination of the garrison, and except, therefore, for two dances given by the artillery, and one charming, rose-bowered afternoon reception at Angel Island, Lilian had seen nothing of army life and next to nothing of army beaux, until in all the ardor and innocence of sweet, winsome, wholesome girlhood—buoyant, beautiful and in exuberant health and spirits, she was suddenly landed here at this out of the way station in uttermost Arizona, and brought face to face with love and destiny.

For two days she had been hoping that mother would suggest that she, too, might come when they went for the afternoon visits to their wounded. But, though mother had twice taken her to sit a few minutes by the side of poor, frenzied Mrs. Bennett, there came no intimation that she might follow to the bedside of Lieutenant Willett, whose voice the child was longing to hear again, whose face she craved to see. No woman of heroic mould, perhaps, was Mrs. Archer. Hers was one of those fond, clinging natures, capable of any sacrifice for the husband or child she loved. She had turned her back on the home and the people so dear to her when unhesitatingly she followed the soldier husband she rapturously loved, and now, though she yearned to take her daughter to her heart and kiss away the wistful, pathetic, pleading look in the fond eyes that never before had appealed to her in vain, something told her it were best to let her fight it out, even to suffer, alone, than admit, even to her, the possibility of a growing love for this brilliant and dangerous young gallant, as to whom she had unwittingly heard such damning accusation. It had not taken Mrs. Archer long to learn that Case, nerved by drink, had appeared at Harris's bedside that Sunday afternoon, asking to speak with him alone, only to be speedily followed by Willett, and by the altercation she had overheard. Under the circumstances, as known to her, Mrs. Archer was thankful that, since he could not leave the post, Lieutenant Willett could not even leave his room. Not with her knowledge and consent should her gentle Lilian be again brought within the sphere of his influence.

But Love that laughs at locksmiths was yet to find his way, and that right soon.

CHAPTER XV.

Harris was up and fuming for action. With his wound unhealed and his arm utterly useless, he was insistent that he should be permitted to mount and ride. "What could you do?" asked Bentley. "The post is surrounded. Every trail and both roads are watched day and night. Your horse is all that's left you. 'Tonio is gone. 'Tonio has turned traitor!"

"That," said Harris, "I will not believe for an instant."

They brought General Archer to see him, and the grave-faced old soldier bent kindly over the impatient and incredulous junior. "It is even as Bentley tells you, lad," said he. "Only one messenger has been able to come or go through their lines since the demoralized pair that got in from Verde, and they can't be hired to try again. We are hemmed in and helpless until our cavalry return. Willett will tell you he saw 'Tonio fire the shot that killed his horse and was meant to kill him. 'Tonio has intercepted messengers between Turner and me, and killed, I believe, at least one messenger. You must be patient or you will throw yourself into a fever and set you back a month. We've simply got to act on the defensive, guard the post and the women until relief comes. By this time, of course, General Crook himself is somewhere in the field, and any moment may bring him; then our Apache friends, hereabouts, will have to hunt their holes."

"General Archer," said Harris, commanding himself with evident effort and striving to speak with his accustomed deliberation, "I have not seen Willett, but, if I had, I should refuse to believe that 'Tonio fired at him. The Apache-Mohaves may be with the hostiles at last, but not 'Tonio. There is some reason for his absence that we cannot fathom. They may have killed him for his loyalty to us, but loyal he is at heart, no matter how much appearances are against him."

"We'll hope so," said Archer, "but for the present, do as Bentley bids you and stay quiet," and the commander rose to go.

But Harris, too, was on his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the back of his chair. "You will pardon me, will you not, sir, if I ask a question? You say you have been unable to communicate with Stannard or Turner. Stannard is, probably, too far away, but if Turner's wounded are over on Tonto Creek, he can be reached. Have you tried signalling?"

"Signalling? We've got some flags and torches somewhere, but I believe that——"

"I don't mean that, sir. No one with Turner would understand if we had. I mean smoke signals—Indian."

"No," said Archer slowly. "No one but Indians could say what they meant, even if any one here knew their confounded code. Do you?"

"I know enough at least to call 'Tonio; and unless he is dead or spirited away, he'll answer. Then we can get word to Turner."

Archer turned back. He was almost at the door. "Do you mean he would answer—that he would come in here?"

"If I may give my word that no one shall touch or harm him, he'll come—if alive and able."

For a moment the general was silent. It was a grave question. In his eyes and those of his officers, 'Tonio stood attainted practically with treason. He had deserted in face of the enemy, joined forces with the enemy, shot as an enemy, conspired and acted as an enemy. He deserved to be hunted and shot down without trial, without mercy. Yet here was this young soldier, who had known him best and longest, full of boundless faith in him, demanding safe conduct for him on the honor of an officer and gentleman. If Archer gave his word it would be flying in the face of his entire command—what there was left of it, at least—and Archer's word was a thing not to be lightly given. "I must think of this awhile," said he. "It is a big proposition. You think you can reach him?"

"By night or day, sir, either; but it would have to be from the top of Squadron Peak."

It was then late on Friday afternoon, the fifth day of what might he called the siege. Not a signal had come from without, not a sign from either command, not a symptom of surrounding Indian; yet a little party sent to search the rookery down stream, where Case declared he'd been entertaining the ghost of 'Patchie Sanchez, came back reporting that fresh moccasin and mule tracks were plainly visible about the premises and at the neighboring ford, also that the mule tracks led away back of the Picacho, as everybody persisted in calling the peak—in spite of the fact that from the north it presented no sharp point to the skies, but rather a bold and rounded poll. Squadron Peak was more "sonorous and appropriate," said the trooper who so named it, but now that troopers were scarce at Almy, there were none to do it that reverence.

Old Sanchez—José—the former proprietor, had disappeared entirely, he and his brace of henchmen, after somewhere digging a treasure pit in the sand and therein "caching" their store of mescal, aguardiente, and certain other illicit valuables. It was conjectured that he had fled to the Verde Valley and taken refuge at McDowell until the storm blew over. But Craney was more than curious as to Case's guest, the ghost, and by Friday Case was sober and solemn and sick enough to be cross-questioned without show of resentment. Craney went so far as to ask Case wouldn't he like a little whiskey to steady his nerves—a cocktail to aid his appetite and stir his stomach? "Like it," said Case, "you bet I would—which is why I won't take it. Three days' liquor, two days' taper, one day suffer, then the water wagon for a spell. Thank you all the same, Mr. Craney. What can I do for you without the drink?"

But when Craney mentioned Sanchez, the ghost and the drinking bout by night at the rookery, Case said he must have been nigher to jimjams than he'd got in a year. "I never saw any ghost," said he, and Craney had to give it up, and report his failure to the commanding officer.

"Ever try threatening him with discharge?" asked Bucketts, by way of being helpful.

"Ever try? I don't have to try! The one time I started in on that lay he never let me finish; said all right, he'd go just as soon as he'd balanced the books. Then, by gad, it was all I could do to get him to stay. He is the most independent damn man I ever met. Says he knows he's a drunkard and nuisance one week out of four, and don't wonder I want to discharge him. Discharge him? I couldn't get along without him! Any time he wants a better job and plenty of society all he's got to do is go to Prescott. Discharge him! All I'm afraid of is he'll discharge himself!"

So Bucketts dropped the subject and he and Strong went to report non-success to Archer just as the sun was going down and the peak, in lone grandeur, loomed up dazzling above the black drapery about its base, and Bonner, pacing up and down with his much-honored chief, saw the gloom deepen in his deep-set eyes. Only Lilian seemed able to win a smile from him, as she came and took him by the arm and led him away to dinner.

Darkness settled down apace. The moon rose late and the stars were holding high carnival in consequence, for the skies were gorgeous in their deck of gold. Mrs. Stannard was dining with the Archers en famille, as she did now almost every evening, for the Archers would so have it, and Archer had been talking of Harris's proposition, and his determined stand for 'Tonio. Mrs. Archer shook her pretty head in negation. She could not see how any one who distrusted her general could himself be loyal. She had said the same of Secretary Stanton during the war, for one of that iron master's most masterly convictions was that every soldier, Southern born—even such as Thomas—must of necessity be a Southern sympathizer. 'Tonio must needs be a traitor since he avoided sight of, or speech with, her soldier who could do no wrong. And if Mrs. Archer believed in 'Tonio, on her husband's account, what must have been Lilian's conviction? she who had both father and lover—father and the husband soon to be, for of that Mrs. Archer had now no earthly doubt—the two men beyond all others combined who were dearest to Lilian on earth, both of them inimical to 'Tonio, one of them wellnigh his victim. It was Mrs. Stannard who listened in silence. She had longer known the Apache-Mohave, and as between 'Tonio and Willett it might well be a story with two sides.

They had finished their coffee and were just coming forth upon the veranda into the exquisite evening air, and, as bidden by her father, Lilian had just begun to tune her guitar, when across the parade among the men seated along the low front of the barracks there was sudden start, sudden rush, and, from up the line of officers' quarters not many doors away, came agonized cry for help. Archer sprang to his feet and started, but Mrs. Archer, in a paroxysm of fear, thinking only of Indians and treachery, seized him by the arm, clung to and held him. Mrs. Stannard sprang within the hall and back with Archer's revolver which, without a word, she thrust into his hand. Then all three together started, for while fifty men came tearing headlong across the sandy level, making straight for the adjutant's quarters, Lilian, their little Lilian—the silent, sad-eyed, anxious child of the days and days gone by—heading everybody, was flying like a white-winged bird, straight along the line, and when the father reached her she had thrown herself upon a heap of burning, smouldering bedding, thrashing it with a wet blanket snatched from the olla, and then, with her own fair, white hands, was beating out the few sparks that remained about the sleeve and shoulder of a soaked and dishevelled gown, and brushing others from the hair and face of an unheroic, swathed and dripping figure—Harold Willett in the midst of the wreck of his cot, while Blitz, the striker, aided by Wettstein and the doctor's man, were stamping and swearing and tearing things to bits in the effort to down other incipient blazes. Between them they had dragged Willett from the midst of the flames and drenched him with a cataract from the olla. The rush of the men from the barracks made short work of the fire, but when Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard, with throbbing hearts, bent over the scorched and smoking ruin on the south porch, a tousled brown head, with ghastly face, was clasped in Lilian's arms, pillowed on Lilian's fair, white bosom. Willett had fainted from fright, pain and reaction, and the unheroic, untried, unfearing girl had blistered her own fair hands, her own soft, rounded, clasping arms, yet saw and felt nothing but dread for his suffering and joy for his safety. Even the mother for a moment could not take her rescued darling from that fond, fearless, impassioned embrace. All in that desperate instant the veil of virgin shame had burned away. In the fierce heat and shock and peril the latent love force had burst its bonds, the budding lily had blossomed into womanhood.

And upon that picture, pallid, weak and suffering, another neighbor, another pain-stricken young soldier gazed in silence, then turned unobtrusively away. There was no one to help him back to the reclining chair from which he had been startled at the almost frenzied shriek of alarm. There was no further talk—no thought of signals that night; Archer had had enough of fire. They bore the reviving officer, presently, to a vacant room in Stannard's quarters, and Lilian was led to her own. There were bandages about both hands and arms when next morning she appeared upon the gallery. They hid the red ravages on the fair, white skin, but what was there to veil the radiant light that shone in her eyes, the burning blushes that mantled her soft and rounded cheeks? Archer took her to his heart and kissed her and turned to his duty with a sigh. Mrs. Archer clung to and hovered about her, silent, for what was there to say? Mrs. Stannard came over, all smiles and sunshine, to announce that "He" had passed a comfortable night, and "His" first waking thoughts and words were for her, as indeed they should have been, and, so far as audible words were concerned, they possibly were. What else could Mrs. Stannard have said when she saw that winsome, yet appealing little face?

And in such wise was our Lilian wooed; in such wise was she won. Contrary to Bentley's wishes, Willett had essayed to smoke, and so set his bed afire. Contrary to all convention, the love of the maiden had been the first to manifest itself to public eye, but Willett manfully rose to the occasion. In the midst of anxiety, uncertainty and danger there beamed one ray, at least, of radiant, unshadowed, buoyant hope and bliss and shy delight. Lilian Archer envied no girl on the face of the globe, no white-robed seraph in heaven; and for her sake others, too, strove hard to hope, to help, to shower good wishes and congratulation.

"But to think of my little girl in love," said Archer, with brimming eyes. "Why, you—you won't be nineteen!"

"And mother was but seventeen when she married you," softly laughed Lilian, snuggling to his side.

"And Mr. Willett so far from his captaincy," sighed her mother.

"Much nearer than father was to even a first lieutenancy when you married him," was the joyous answer. "He was only a second lieutenant by brevet."

"Well," said Mrs. Archer, "it seems different—somehow."

And so it seemed to us. "All too brief a wooing," said poor Archer. "God send her longer wedded bliss!"

CHAPTER XVI.

Moreover, as some one said in speaking of the sudden engagement, "It came about on a Friday evening, didn't it?" And then, too, when people were talking it over a few weeks later, as Mrs. Archer said, "it seemed different." Soldier folk sometimes have superstitions as surely as the sailor man is never without his, and a start on a voyage of love life, clearing port of a Friday evening, had its inauspicious side. But for the mishap that suddenly enveloped the happy man in flames at a moment when he was sprawled on his back with his whole right side, as it were, in a sling, Mr. Harold Willett might indeed have returned to duty and department headquarters with no other encumbrance than a mortgaged pay account, and it was not fair to Lilian to speak of her engagement as "announced" that Friday evening; but in her wondrous happiness she could find no fault with anything about it. It was all just perfect, just heavenly (where they neither give nor are given in marriage, which possibly accounts, as said our cynic, for so much that is heavenly about it). As an engagement, in fact, it did not exist until four days later, after other and equally important things had occurred, and we have merely taken Lilian's point of view, and left them out of that chapter and all consideration, as she did, so far as we are concerned, in order to have it all over and done with. But of course there had to be time for Willett to recover from the effects of the shock, to be clothed in his right mind and something less fragmentary than the relics of a robe de nuit, and a day in which to realize what had taken place. (I shrewdly suspect that our good friend Mrs. Stannard saw to it that Mr. Willett was informed of what Lilian had done and suffered on his account, if she did not dilate on what Lilian had betrayed.) And then came his very properly worded plea to be allowed to see her and thank her; and when there was equally proper demur on Mrs. Archer's part, Willett made his avowal in what even the mother held to be manly and convincing fashion, for, now that she knew that her darling's heart was gone—that it was too late to avert the inevitable—mother-like, she strove to see with her darling's eyes all that was good in him, and there was so very much that was good-looking. She never even hinted to her husband, much less to Lilian, that she had heard the paragon most vehemently accused of most unmanly and unbecoming conduct (for what was Mr. Case, after all, but an irresponsible inebriate?), and she saw that her daughter's happiness was wrapped up in this brilliant and most presentable young soldier. Willett certainly gave many a promise of eminence in his career and profession, so she set herself at once to work to talk the general into complaisance, and he, who loved her with all his heart, and believed her the best, the bravest, fondest, truest wife in all the army (as indeed she might have been without being the wisest), and who could deny Lilian nothing from the time she turned his best silken sash into a swing for herself and Wauwataycha Two Bears, her tiny Sioux playmate, till now that she had set her heart on one Harold Willett for a husband, broke down and surrendered as ordered. But there was that in the old soldier's face as he took Willett's hand that made the junior wince more than did the grip, which was mild enough. "She will be just such another wife as is her blessed mother," said Archer. "Be good and true to her, Willett."

"I will, so help me God!" said Willett solemnly, and then, at least, he meant it.

There had been an awkward little conference, an impromptu affair, at the mess the morning after the alarm of fire. Willett stock had been running down before that episode, and went "plumb out of sight" for several hours. It was held by Bonner, Bucketts, Briggs and Strong a most womanish thing on his part to have raised such a row and then "wilted." It was Bentley, the most disgusted man at the post, who now came to the rescue. "He was dumped on the porch like a sack of potatoes," said he, "and probably suffered exquisite pain, let alone the burns and the shock." Then, bunglingly, as bachelors will, and bachelors two of them were, they began to talk of the revelation that met their eyes and what it portended. No one, as yet, had told "the Old Man" of Willett's night at the store, and now no man would do it. Bygones were bygones. Willett would be up in a week or so, the better, perhaps, for enforced rest and abstinence, and now, of course, there could and would be no more of—of that sort of thing, and all his better traits would shine by contrast with his probably temporary lapse into frivolity. Even then, however, they wondered what Harris would think, and speculated as to what he would say. Bucketts had not guessed amiss when he said there was no love lost between the classmates. Bucketts, and all, had seen how much both the young men had been attracted by Lilian's grace and beauty, and the sweet, girlish freshness that proved such a charm. Bucketts, and all, had been in, as usual, to see Harris, and found him, as he said, a trifle set back by the excitement, and therefore rather more grave and quiet even than usual, but they said no word of Lilian and—possibilities. He knew. Strong had seen him when he came, and looked, and stood inert one moment there, unable to be of use, and had turned slowly back to his room under Bentley's roof. Everybody knew it could not be more than a day or two before the affair would be announced as an engagement, and while every man felt that Willett had won a prize far beyond his deserts, there was not one that felt like tendering congratulation.

But, as we said, there were other and important matters to claim the attention of the garrison, and just an hour before sunset that evening came the first. Case's week was up, and, sharp on time at noon on Saturday, Case came forth from his room, tubbed, trimmed and shaved, went silently to his desk and then turned to Mr. Craney to ask what had become of the mail.

"Nary mail," said Craney. "Not a cuss got in or out for over a week."

"Didn't Sanchez bring—anything from Prescott?"

"Nothing but his ghost has even been heard of. You told of that."

"I? Do you mean he hasn't been here—hasn't told you what's happened?" And Case's eyes were looking wild again.

"What has happened, Case? By gad, if you know, out with it, for no mother's son of us here has heard a thing for a week, and Sanchez has never set foot on the post."

"Then send for Mr. Strong, quick," said Case, sinking into a chair, the sweat of weakness and distress of mind showing instantly on his brow, rare symptom in Arizona. And then, while somebody ran up to the post to summon the adjutant, Case, pressing his hands to his head, began striding up and down the low-ceilinged, half-darkened room. "Wait," he said, as Craney and Watts, excited and anxious, would have pressed him to begin. "Wait. Give me just three fingers," and the whiskey was handed forthwith. He downed it in two gulps, and presently the color began to come back to his cheeks, and then Strong came hurrying in. "Is Mr. Harris still here?—and that other specimen—Mr. Willett?" Case demanded on the instant. "That's well, anyhow! And the cavalry still out? That's bad. We want 'em here, here, I tell you, and quick, too! Gentlemen, this is no cock-and-bull story. There's enough Apaches back of us here in the Mazatzal to head off everybody from Prescott or McDowell. They've killed three parties—a dozen soldiers, perhaps—already, and they've cut off Prescott and Date Creek and Sandy, and murdered every courier that tried to get through. They headed off and killed the runners sent to find General Crook and give him the news, but worse than all, they've been down here begging the Sierra Blancas, and the bands of Deltchay and Eskiminzin—nearly eight hundred they'd make—to come up here and get between Turner and the post, eat him up in the cañons—he's had a lot killed and wounded already—and then turn on us. How do I know it?" he demanded, in the midst of his excited harangue. "Sanchez told me—'Patchie Sanchez, the runner, last night. No—night before, or some night. Right here, I thought; right here where you all heard! He said they'd ordered him ironed in Prescott for telling the truth, and he said the sergeant had orders to flog him with a bull-whip, and he killed the man that tried to flog him. You mean you didn't hear this? You didn't know it? You didn't see him?—that I've been dreaming as well as drunk? By God, drunk or dreaming, it's so! and that's why José Sanchez and the others lit out for McDowell! They were afraid to stay. 'Patchie says Deltchay and Skim are coming, sure, whether the Sierra Blancas join or not. All the cavalry are up on the Black Mesa 'cept Turner's troop, and now's their turn. Call me drunk, crazy, mad, anything you like, but tell the general what I say! Tell him to get ready to fight like hell!"

And so it would seem Case, the bookkeeper, had "inside information," and so it happened that, within an hour after sunset, once again the gray-haired commander and the wounded subaltern were in conference, and Case's strange story was told in full. "There's more than enough in it to demand our warning Turner," said Harris. "Can you get me up to Squadron Peak—to-night?"

Just at tattoo the old-fashioned, yellow ambulance, drawn by a brace of mules, backed up at Bentley's quarters, and Harris was carefully lifted aboard. The general, with Strong and Bonner, stood at hand to say godspeed. "Promise him safe conduct," said the commander, as they drove away, and Harris touched his hat in acknowledgment. Briggs, with twenty stout foot soldiers, awaited them at the abandoned ranch. The doctor and two attendants accompanied him. The road for nearly four miles lay along the sandy flats, then went boring westward into the foothills, while a little worn branch turned off to the peak. Two-thirds of the way to the top the mules were able to pull the jolting vehicle, and from thence half a dozen brawny arms bore the young soldier on a stretcher to the summit. It was then after eleven, and the moon still behind the Mogollon, lowering black against the silvering skies full forty miles to the eastward. Already there was sufficient light to guide them, and a sergeant led on to a point where, surrounded by knee-high rocks, was a little blackened space where in bygone days many a signal fire had blazed, and here the men tossed the tinder, the pine cones and dead branches they had gathered on the climb. A match was applied. All crouched or stooped among the rocks, as the flames presently leaped on high, and gave ear to the quiet orders of the young soldier, practically in command. "Keep watch now, all round, especially east and south-east. It may be ten minutes before you get an answer, and there may come a dozen. More fuel may be needed," whereat half a dozen dark forms silently backed away down the slope, and all men waited and watched. Harris, with one arm and shoulder still bandaged, and obviously weak, sat grasping at the corner a folded blanket and busily coaching Briggs, who listened, absorbed. Ten, twelve, fourteen the minutes rolled by. The silvery sheen spread higher over the eastward sky. The crest of the distant Mesa was just fringing with dazzling white, when two voices at once exclaimed: "There you are, sir!" And afar over to the south-east, the direction of Tonto Creek, a little ruddy spark appeared through the gloom, and a moment later still another was made out, farther to the left. In twenty minutes three were in sight. "Anywhere from fifteen to twenty miles away," said Harris, as he studied them with the signal glass, "and," he continued, "I looked for one much nearer."

"There you have it, sir!" And almost opposite them, it seemed, and lower, straight away to the east, so near they could almost mark the waving of the flame, a fourth blaze burst into view.

"That's more like it!" said Harris. "Now the blanket. Give me a boost, corporal," and with that, supported by the strong arm of one of the soldiers, he stepped upon the nearest rock, the blanket in his left hand. Briggs grabbed the opposite corner with his right, and the next moment a woollen curtain swung flat between the fires.

"Now, Briggs, up!" and the hidden red eye was suddenly unmasked and glared out over the east. "Down!" and all toward the opposite fire was darkness again. Twice more was it raised and lowered. Then a five seconds' pause. Then twice again. "Thirty-two," said Harris. "'Tonio's old signal. Now watch for the answers!" From those at a distance there came no sign. The flare at each was steady. From the nearmost, almost instantly, came the desired response. It suddenly disappeared, and Harris, at second intervals, counted low, "One, two, three." Then came the red glow again, just a moment. Then darkness only for two seconds. Then light again. "It is 'Tonio," said he, "and that's his call to me. Now, Briggs, again! Slowly this time!"

And very slowly was the blanket raised and lowered twice. Then came two or three quicker movements. Then the blaze spoke untrammelled, and all eyes were on 'Tonio's torch, and they who had heard ill of him—had doubted him—found themselves oddly drawn to him across the intervening miles of darkness. Twice, thrice slowly his light, too, was curtained. Then for a moment it burned clearer; then seemed suddenly to sputter out. Within a few seconds, far more swiftly than it rose, the signal fire vanished from sight, and Harris stepped quietly down. "That's all," said he, yet the doctor, at least, could read the suppressed exultation in his tone. Then, seeing inquiry and disappointment, both, in the eager eyes about him, the young officer added, "He understands. He's coming, or sending, in."

"Did you promise him safe conduct?" asked Bentley.

"He did not ask it," was the answer.

Two hours later, once more safe at the post, the doctor had stowed his weary patient in bed, renewed the dressing and bandages, and was bidding him try to sleep, but Harris smiled. "You'll need me to translate," said he. "The general's message to Turner is being written now. Let us finish this while we're about it."

Sure enough. Toward half-past one the sentries on Numbers Six and Seven set up a shout for the corporal of the guard, and an Indian girl, trembling a bit, was led to the office, and half the garrison knew that word was in from 'Tonio. The general took his messenger kindly by the hand. Food and chocolate were in readiness at the Mess, but she shook her head. "Capitan Chiquito," she insisted, and then was conducted up the line, and, shrinking not a little, was led into the doctor's quarters. There, at sight of Harris, she instantly stepped to his bedside, knelt, and taking his weary hand, placed it on her head. He whom 'Tonio held in reverence, his followers could but blindly obey.

To his question in her own tongue, "Where is 'Tonio?" she answered, "Toward the moon, now two hands high. When it is straight above Pancha can reach him again." "Is 'Tonio well?" "'Tonio is well, but—others brought Pancha. They say they are afraid that soldiers shoot. They await Pancha's returning."

Evidently, despite the kindness in every face, the girl still feared the white man and wished to be gone. "He has sent her, general," said Harris. "Whatever you wish to send now to Turner will go through, if 'Tonio is not killed in the attempt."

And so, with unexpected burden of food and gifts and with a brief despatch to Turner, bidding him hasten with his entire force, the dusky, fleet-footed daughter of the mountain was led back to the stream, went bounding lightly across from stone to stone, and disappeared among the shadows toward the east.

"And now," said Harris, "Deltchay and Skiminzin may come as soon as they like. Turner will get here in time, and then—you may judge as to 'Tonio."

And this was Saturday night or rather Sunday morning, not yet one full week since Willett was brought in swearing he saw 'Tonio take deliberate aim at him, although only the horse was shot, and as matters stood in the gross and scope of garrison understanding, the weight of presumptive evidence was against the Apache, and there was more to come.

CHAPTER XVII.

As was to be expected, Lieutenant Harris was somewhat worse when time came for inspection Sunday morning, but Bentley said complete rest would soon restore him. The other interesting invalid, Lieutenant Willett, was correspondingly better, and was to sit up awhile later in the day. Inspection was held under arms and in fighting kit instead of full dress—the two companies looking like a pair of scanty platoons, so heavy was the drain for guard duty. From earliest dawn lookouts had been stationed on top of the adjutant's office at the south, and the hospital at the north edge of the parade, Bucketts having built for them a little wooden platform, with bench, shelf and sunshade, and there, with signal-service glasses, they scoured the barren wilds in every direction for sign of coming friend or foe.

It was eleven o'clock when Bentley came forth with Mrs. Stannard from his morning visit to Willett. "Oh, he's doing as well as an overfed, under-trained animal has any right to," said he, in response to the inquiry in her soft blue eyes. "I still think some men have too much luck in this world of ours. Here's Willett, who doesn't begin to deserve it, getting everything that is good, and Harris, who deserves all the good that the army affords, gets all the hard knocks and setbacks. Here's Willett swearing that 'Tonio's a renegade, hostile, spy and a traitor, and Harris convinced that he is stanch and loyal—that Willett must be mistaken in saying he shot at him, and though everything I know of the Apaches or ever heard, and every bit of evidence is overwhelmingly in favor of Willett's statement, just from what I've seen of these two men I'm deciding with Harris."

"You don't—feel confidence in Mr. Willett's—judgment?" she asked.

For a moment he hesitated, then turned and squarely faced her. "I don't feel confidence in Mr. Willett. There, Mrs. Stannard! There are not ten women in the army to whom I'd trust myself to speak of this—or five women out of it—but I am not happy over the way things are going."

"Don't you think he'll—learn to appreciate her?"

"He shouldn't have to learn! He should see it all at a glance, and thank God for the unmerited blessing."

"Perhaps he does," said she, ever gentle, helpful, hopeful. "It is lovely the way he speaks to her—and I'm quite eager to see them this afternoon."

What woman would not be? What man would not have been at his best at such a time, under such circumstances? The realization that he had won the fervent love of that fresh, pure, exquisite young heart was enough to thrill even a nature so utterly selfish as Willett's. It is the shallowest soul that most readily thrills, and what could be sweeter than the shy, yet rapturous love in the downcast eyes of Lilian Archer, when, as he had implored her mother, she was led that afternoon to the darkened room in which he sat, and, like knight of old, he took and bent over and kissed her trembling little hand. "I would kneel, too," he murmured, even as her mother stood beside her, with swimming eyes, and as he looked up into the blushing face his own eyes were filled with unfeigned homage, admiration, even love, his deep voice with emotion that was sweet to woman's ear. "Heaven never made a lovelier lover than Hal Willett," once said a famous belle and beauty. "That's why so many of us like to listen."

But these earnest, honest, inexperienced two—the whole-hearted army wife who had lived well-nigh quarter of a century in the undivided sunshine of an honest soldier's love, and this sweet, simple-hearted army girl who had never dreamed of or thought to know any love to compare with this—listened, spellbound, to Willett's almost eloquent avowal, and the last doubt or fear that Mrs. Archer entertained vanished like the morning mists before the sunshine.

"I declare," she said to Mrs. Stannard, "I'm almost as much in love as Lilian," and indeed it seemed so, and might well be so, for never was queen's courtier so exquisite in deference, homage, tact, as, in that blissful week of honeymooning, was Hal Willett to the mother of his dainty love. As for Lilian, the arid, breezeless day was soft with scented zephyrs; the unpeopled air was athrill with the melody of countless song birds; the unsightly desert flowered with exquisite millions of buds and blossoms that craved the caress of her dainty hand, the pressure of her pretty foot. The sunburned square of the lonely little garrison, environed with swarthy foemen, cut off from the world, was alive with heroic knights in glittering armor and ladies in lace and loveliness, and all were her loyal, devoted subjects, revelling in her happiness, rejoicing in her smiles, serving her in homage and on bended knee, their thrice-blessed, beautiful, beloved queen. God never made a more radiantly happy girl than was our fairy Lilian that wonderful week. God be thanked it was so utterly blissful, since it had to be so brief!

All day long the watchmen clung to their glaring stations, and Sunday went by without either alarm or excursion. All Sunday—Monday night, they scanned the dark depths of eastward basin, the lone reaches of the valley, the tumbling heights to the west. It was nine in the morning of the second day since the signalling from Squadron Peak when the cry went up from the roof of the office, "Signal smoke south-east!" and every glass at Almy was brought to bear within the minute, and half the garrison lined the lower edge of the mesa, and all men were listening for further tidings, when from the hospital came the stirring shout: "Smoke answer, west!" And there, plainly visible, and not five miles away among the pine-bearded foothills, in little puffs, singly and distinct, thick wreaths of gray-white smoke were sailing straight aloft. The waiting Apache of the Mazatzal was signalling the coming brother from the dark clefts of the Sierra Ancha. One hour later, just as ten was striking on the spiral of the office clock, two sudden shots were heard on the flats to the north-west, and the little herd of horses and mules, not two dozen in all, grazing under cover of the rifles of Sentries 3 and 4, came limping, lumbering in, fast as hoppled feet would permit and without sign of a herdsman. Number Three, a veteran of the war days, let drive with his fifty calibre Springfield, the gun of the day, and sent up a yell for "The Guard!"

"Join your companies, men," said the general, in his placid way, whereat most of them went with a rush. "The north side first, Bonner," he added, as the captain came hurrying to his chief. "They've sneaked up on the herd guard, I fancy. Send the picked shots out to the pits."

Out on the flats to the west of the Verde road, full five hundred yards away from rock, tree or shelter, other than mere clump of cactus, pumpkin size, or bunch of dirty weed, there was lying a little heap of dingy white and brown, with a cow pony kicking at empty air in a shallow ditch—what was left of the half-breed herd guard and his mount. With most of the cavalry gone, the quartermaster had supplied their place with such mounted men as he could make available, and in broad daylight, within long rifle-shot of the sentry lines, the Apaches had squirmed out, snake-like, on their bellies, unseen, unsuspected; had picked off one of two watchers and stampeded the other. The skirmish line stumbled over the survivor, quaking among the willows in the stream bed, and kicked him out into the open to help bear home his murdered brother; then pushed out as far as the first ridge in hopes of a shot, and were rewarded with nothing better than a glimpse of vanishing breech-clouts. Falling slowly back, toward noon, Bonner posted two men in each of a dozen rifle-pits, some fifty yards outside the sentry lines, as a rule, and wherever view of the approaches could be had. Two of these were on little knolls to the south of the store, and here were Craney & Co. in full force, every man armed with a Henry rifle and a war-model Colt, "Mr. Case-Keeper Book," as Sergeant Clancy jovially hailed him, quite as formidable as his fellows, and every whit as cool. Craney held that he and his men had a right to be counted in among those told off to hold the fort, and Bonner smilingly assented.

"You two seem to hit it off pretty well together," said he to Case and Clancy. "I reckon we'll Cossack you over yonder," and he pointed to a scooped-out little hummock nearest the stream, commanding much of the southward road and the trail along the willows, now facetiously termed the "Ghost Walk." It was an unusual assignment, or distribution, but it seemed to strike the fancy of both. In times of peril and at the fore-posts men think less of rank and more of repute. Clancy was known far and wide as a fearless Apache fighter, with a Gaines's Mill-Gettysburg record behind him. Case had never before been heard of afield, but his one exploit in the card room stamped him unerringly, said these frontier experts, as "a man of nerve." Clancy held out his big red hand. "Are ye with me?" said he. "Yours truly," said Case. "Then come on, Pitkeeper," said Clancy, "and we'll leave Book and Case behind."

The general came jogging down at the moment, bestriding one of Bucketts's general utility beasts, watching the posting of the post defenders, and he screwed his eyelids down to a slit as he glared from under the brim of his then unorthodox slouch hat, and squinted after the combination of soldier and civilian stalking away to the assigned station. "What have you there, Bonner?" he asked, as he reined in.

"'Erin go unum, E pluribus bragh,' sir, as Derby would have it." "The Celt and the Casekeeper," he added to himself. "Clancy and Case going gunning together as amicably as if they had never squabbled over a sutler's bill."

"Queer lot—that man Case!" said the commanding officer reflectively. "His face bothers me sometimes, as though I must have seen or known him before, yet he tells me that he did not come to Vancouver until after I had left that department. Is he all straight again?"

"Straight as the new toadsticker, general, and"—with a rueful look at that slender appendage—"a damned sight more useful. His ghost-herding spree was no end important. I've an idea Case can handle a gun as well as"—another sotto voce now—"he can play a worthless hand."

"Well," said Archer, as he glanced about him, "I don't believe, as a rule, in putting any but soldiers on post, but," as he considered the slender rank of infantry standing patiently at ease, barely a dozen all told, and then smiled at Craney and his belligerent force, only four in number, but each man a walking arsenal with two weapons and five shots to the soldiers' one, "there are no non-combatants in Indian warfare. Every man, woman and child may have to fight."

Yet Archer felt no measure whatever of apprehension. One hundred good men and true, at least, were left to guard the post, and many of them battle-tried veterans. Not since the war days had the Apaches mustered in sufficient force and daring to attack a garrison. Still, Archer knew that if they only realized their strength in point of numbers, their skill in creeping close to their prey, their swiftness of foot, and the ease with which they could escape, all they needed was dash, determination and a leader, to enable them to creep upon the post in the darkness, and in one terrific moment swoop upon the officers' quarters, massacre every soul, and be off across the stream before the men in the barracks could rush to the rescue. They had talked it over at officers' mess—the general and Bonner and Bucketts and all, and figured out just how fifty white desperadoes could plan and accomplish the feat. It would be no trick at all to come up the valley in the screen of the willows, creep to the west bank, divide into six different squads, one for each set of quarters, crawl to the post of the drowsy sentry, shoot him full of arrows before he could cry out or load, then, all together, charge up the slope and into the flimsy houses, pistols in hand and knives in their teeth, and simply butcher the occupants as they lay in their beds. Doors, even if closed or bolted, which rarely happened, could be smashed in an instant—matches would light their way. It would be all over in much less time than it takes to tell it, and it might well happen but for two things—the Apache's dread of the dark and his fear of a possible hand-to-hand fight.

Yet if Deltchay and Eskiminzin, with all their warriors were to reëforce these about them, with five hundred braves to the garrison's one hundred, even that dread might be overcome.

And by Monday's sundown it was known that numbers of Apaches had crossed the valley ten miles away to the south—the telescope had told that—and not a word or sign had been vouchsafed by Turner, and Tuesday brought no better news. Then 'Tonio, said many a man, had played them false.

Just at four o'clock Archer had arranged the dispositions for the night. Mrs. Stannard, with Mrs. Archer and Lilian, were to occupy the ground floor, north-west, room of his quarters—the one least exposed to flying bullets in case of attack. Mrs. Bennett and the matron were moved into a little room in the hospital. The soldiers' wives and children were to assemble in the barracks in case of alarm. The men in the outlying posts and pits were to be doubled at dusk—Bonner's company attending to that, while Briggs and his fellows were to sleep on their arms within the post. It now lacked but a few minutes of sunset. No further demonstration had occurred. Not an Indian had been seen within a radius of six miles, when, all on a sudden, there came a shot—then two, almost together, then a quick crackle and sputter of small-arms afar down the stream. "By Jove!" cried Bonner, from a perch by the lookout at the office. "They've opened on Case and Clancy!"

And that was but the opening, for within a minute, from on every side, from far out among the rocks to the west, from the sandhills across the stream, from little heaps of brush and weed and cactus in the flats, from the distant screen of the willows in the stream bed, little puffs of white sulphur smoke jutted into the slanting sunshine, and the pulseless air of declining day was suddenly set to stir and throb by the crackle of encircling musketry. And then was seen the wisdom of the veteran's defence. Few of the hostiles, as yet, had other than old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifles, and few that they owned were effective over six hundred yards. By stationing his better shots in rifle pits well forward from the buildings on every side, Archer easily held the foe at a distance so long as they dare not "rush" his outposts. Only on the east side were there pits less than three hundred yards from the mesa, but here there was a dismal flat beyond the creek, affording a minimum of cover, and hardly a bullet whistled in from any direction so as to reach the quarters. Once in a while a little puff of dust flew up from the sandy slope without, but even that was enough to demand that the women folk should keep under shelter, and at the moment the firing began Lilian and her mother were seated by Willett's reclining chair, and then Mrs. Stannard joined them, and, the windows being shaded, they never saw, among the first to reach the general at the mesa edge, Harris, the wounded officer, revolver in his unfettered hand.

The first volleying over, only in single and scattered shots, as they reloaded, came the Indian fire. If the hope had been to strike dismay with a volume of sound such as native ears had not heard, the Apache was doomed to disappointment. Men who had heard the crash of Spottsylvania and Cold Harbor laughed at the puny crackle of two hundred muskets. Then presently the Springfields began deliberate reply, only an occasional shot, for only very rarely did so much as the tip of a turban appear, and then the sun had dropped below the Mazatzal and the valley was in shadow, and old Archer stood with grim, whimsical smile on his weather-beaten face, as, field-glass to his eyes, he scanned his outposts at the south where the firing seemed heaviest. It was a moment or two before he noticed Harris at all. When he did it was to utter a mild rebuke. "You should not be here, lad. You need rest. This is only fun."

Yet not all fun. Strong came presently thumping back from beyond the store. He had borrowed Craney's Pinto pony and had been visiting the southward posts, and Pinto had been clipped by a bullet and was half frantic with the smart and scare combined. Moreover, Strong's fighting face was red and mad, as he thrashed the lagging pony up the slope.

"It's Deltchay, sir, easy enough," said he, with sweeping salute, "and that isn't all"—this with almost challenging glance at Harris, who had dropped his pistol and was gazing intently through his binocular at an open, slanting space far out to the south-east, still blazing in the rays of the setting sun. "The man of all others that oughtn't to be there stood at that point of rocks not ten minutes ago—the man we sent for Turner, general—'Tonio himself!"

Then both men, the gray-mustached commander, the angering adjutant, turned on the silent little subaltern, who stood there without having so much as changed his attitude or lowered his glass.

"You hear that, Harris?" demanded Archer. And with calm respect, yet almost exasperating drawl, came the unlooked-for answer:

"I was about to mention it—myself, sir. 'Tonio was certainly there—and Turner close behind him. Look for yourself, sir!"

Look, indeed! Riding steadily down into the valley, still a long four miles away, came the extended line of half a cavalry troop in skirmish order, with the supports and reserves dotting the slope to their rear. "Turner, as sure as shooting," said the general—"and 'Tonio as his guide!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

The attack had ended almost as suddenly as it began. Darkness descended upon the valley and every vestige of the Apache was gone with the twilight. Long before time for tattoo the eager watchers in the down-stream posts could hear muffled hoofbeats and low-toned words of command along the still cautious skirmish line, and Turner came but slowly, first because he could see that there was no occasion for hurry; second, because, with his wounded to protect, there was every objection to haste. Between that steadily advancing array and these fire-spitting heaps of sand toward the post the Indians slid soundless away into the gloom of the foothills, and presently shouts of greeting and welcome re-echoed among the rocks, and Turner's men rode sturdily up to the fords. By ten the last litter had been shouldered through the swift waters and borne to the ready hospital, where Bentley and his assistants went busily to work. Six of the men and two Hualpai scouts had been more or less severely wounded, four of them being borne from Tonto Creek on improvised stretchers made from saplings and blankets. Shelter tents, or tentage of any kind, our men had no use for, save as sunshades, in Arizona.

And with Turner came the first tidings to reach the beleaguered post since the couriers were brought in, with their belated tales, from up the Verde. Turner looked a trifle surprised at the warmth of his greeting. Turner had had little idea of their being so closely invested. Turner had sent two runners in with reports, and they both returned safely, saying, "Almy all right, but plenty Tonto everywhere!" One of them said he gave his despatch to 'Tonio, as he dare go no farther. One of them brought his back with him, and the third—Hualpai 21, he supposed—had finally reached the post, as only two nights since an Apache-Mohave boy found his way to the Tonto Creek camp with the despatch recalling the cavalry. They started at dawn, wounded and all; had a long range fight with Tontos toward evening, and another next morning, but forged slowly and steadily ahead with only slight loss, and came in sight of the flag and the fracas late the second afternoon. Turner was glad to get back, he said, since it seems he was needed, but was no sooner back than he was eager to launch out again. Hadn't they heard? Why, there had been great doings up on the Mogollon. Old Gray Fox himself had taken the field and was out with all the horsemen from Whipple and Sandy, and Stannard had joined them, and they were ripping up the Tonto country in a way that bade fair to wind up the war. How had he heard? Why, runners—Apache-Mohaves—'Tonio's people. Kwonahelka and some of his ilk had managed to keep going between them, slipping through or skipping round the Tontos like so many "ghost goats." It was only here, round about Almy, the hostiles were too many for them!"

"D'you mean you didn't know the Apache-Mohaves were just as hostile as the rest?" asked Archer.

"Apache-Mohaves!" exclaimed Turner, looking up in amaze from the hot supper set for him in the mess room. "Why, general, I couldn't have got along without 'em!"

"This beats me!" said the chief, looking at the faces about him for support, and finding it in every one, for Harris had been remanded to bed. "Up here they have chased our couriers, blocked the runners, and 'Tonio himself shot at Willett and killed his horse!"

For a moment Turner was too much surprised to speak. Suddenly he called to the orderly at the doorway to send his sergeant, who was then at the adjutant's office adjoining. "I beg your pardon, general," he said, "but this seems incredible in view of our experiences. Why, some of them joined us and stayed with us day and night." Then as a bearded, sun-blistered face appeared at the doorway, and a sturdy form in hunting shirt of deerskin and long Apache leggings stood attention before them: "Sergeant, send 'Tonio here, and you come with him. You and he seem to understand each other."

"'Tonio didn't come in, sir, nor the few that were with him. They hung back and quit at the Point."

"Quit! Do you know what's the trouble?"

"No, sir." But the soldier was obviously embarrassed. "I gather, though, from what I could understand, that 'Tonio thinks he's mistrusted. He says he will not come in till Big Chief comes himself. He means General Crook, sir."

There was silence a moment. It was for the post commander to speak if anybody, and Archer sat studying the veteran trooper before him. Officers of experience knew the value of expert opinion to be had for the asking among sergeants with war records behind them, and Turner's right bower, into whose sanctum at barracks only his intimates ventured, save with cap in hand and "sir" on their lips, was a man of mark in the regiment.

"Sergeant Malloy," said Archer, "did 'Tonio tell you why he was mistrusted?"

"I think he was trying to, sir, but I am new at his language and none too good at signs."

Again did it seem as though Malloy had understood more readily than he cared to admit, or would presume to say. It was very late. The day had been long and trying. With all its matter-of-fact, nonchalant ease of manner during the few hours under fire, the personnel of Camp Almy, officer and man, had been subjected to something of a strain night and day for nearly a week, and now was ready to turn in and sleep, but Archer and those with him were convinced that in Sergeant Malloy there lived a witness who, better even than Lieutenant Harris, could throw light on 'Tonio's singular and inexplicable behavior. There was not one of their number who did not believe, and in the absence of Harris would hesitate to say, that Willett had seen 'Tonio taking deliberate aim when the shot was fired that downed both his horse and himself. This was enough to warrant their doubt of 'Tonio's loyalty. All that was lacking was something to establish a motive—an explanation—for a murderous and treasonable deed. An unwilling witness was Sergeant Malloy, therefore the more persistent should be the examination, and after a moment's reflection Archer spoke again:

"Sergeant, you have formed an impression, I think, and I should be glad to have the benefit of it. Did—he mean that—Lieutenant Harris distrusted him?"

"No, sir." On this point the sergeant was confident.

"Did he mention any one—in particular?"

"I gathered that he thought that all the officers of the post, from the general down, with perhaps two exceptions, distrusted him."

"And these two—were?"

"Captain Stannard, sir, and Captain Turner."

"I see," said Archer gravely. "Now, had anything happened—had anything been said or done to account for his—sensitiveness, we will call it?"

Malloy hesitated. "The general understands, I hope, that I am answering only as to impressions. I might be mistaken as to his meaning, and he might have been mistaken as to the meaning of the officer in the case."

"Then there has been a case? When and where?"

There was impressive silence in the dimly lighted mess room as the impromptu council sat about the table, Turner, with the relics of his hearty supper, at the other end of it. Every man present seemed to feel that here at last the clew to 'Tonio's double dealing was to be found. The answer came readily enough:

"At Bennett's Ranch, sir, the night it was burnt."

"Why—what happened there?" And Archer was evidently surprised.

"'Tonio said he was insulted before his own people—called a liar—struck with a gauntlet."

"Struck? 'Tonio? A chief, and a son of a chief—of a line of chiefs, in fact! Why, what man could have been—mad enough to do that?"

There was just a suspicion of satire, of humor, of possible malice in the answer, yet every one familiar with the traditions and the vocabulary—the nomenclature—of the old army of the old days, knew well the sergeant was well within his rights. Respect and regret intermingled were in tone and word as in his answer, all unwittingly, Malloy furnished the missing motive for 'Tonio's crime:

"It wasn't one of the men, sir. It was Lieutenant—Lieutenant Willett."

Then for a moment there was another silence. Bonner, Briggs and Strong exchanged quick glances. Archer's fine, clear-cut face took on a deeper shade, then he turned his chair to squarely face the sergeant.

"Did he explain—how it came about?"

"'Tonio said that he wished to go, and ought to go, with Lieutenant Harris—the lieutenant was his chief. Lieutenant Willett forbade, as I understand, and ordered him to stay, and he had to get Lieutenant Harris himself to explain the order before 'Tonio would obey. Then 'Tonio says the lieutenant ordered him to do something, I could not tell what. 'Tonio answered by telling Lieutenant Willett not to step on some moccasin tracks, and the lieutenant surely couldn't have understood him, for he grew very angry and—but, indeed, general, it's more than I know that I've been telling——"

But Archer had one more question to ask, and asked it, and when it was answered the council broke up with no man dissenting from the general belief in 'Tonio's attempted, yet baffled, revenge.

"Did 'Tonio tell you of what happened later—of his attempt to shoot at Lieutenant Willett?"

"Not a word or sign of that, sir!"

And yet it was 'Tonio's people who kept the faith as to bearing messages and giving safe conduct to Archer's people in the field. It was all past Archer's comprehension and that of the officers present. There was no Gray Fox there who knew Indians as they knew themselves. There was no genial, straightforward "Big Chief Jake," the fearless soldier leader from the lower reservation, from Camp Apache and the San Carlos, the man on whom the Gray Fox leaned, the man whom the hostiles dreaded, the "friendlies" trusted, and all frontiersmen, soldier or civilian, swore by. They could have fathomed it. Even blunt old Stannard, had he been there, could have thrown some needed light on the vexed and gloomy question. But in all Camp Almy that night there was only one officer who, knowing few of these facts, nevertheless knew 'Tonio so well, and so repented him of his own brief suspicion, that he would have called a halt to the order given Captain Turner within the hour—to send Sergeant Malloy, with a dozen men, as soon as the coast was clear of the hostile Apaches, to run down 'Tonio wherever he might be, to secure and bring him in, a prisoner bound, and if he sought to escape, to shoot him dead.

CHAPTER XIX.

An atmosphere of peace ineffable surrounded old Camp Almy. The Indians lately infesting the neighborhood seemed to have gone away into the mountain fastnesses. Turner had pushed little scouting parties cautiously into the foothills to the west and the rugged country eastward across the stream. Others had ventured down to the Peak and scaled it in search of signal smokes or fires. Others still had explored the valley toward Dead Man's Cañon, and back by way of Bennett's, without finding so much as a moccasin print. Even the Apache-Mohaves seemed to have gone from the neighborhood. Malloy with his chosen ten was still out, and a rumor was prevalent that their orders might keep them away some days, so no apprehension was felt at their continued absence.

Another week was nearing an end. A runner, Hualpai, had come in from the far north-east, with despatches from Stannard. He was with General Crook and their comrades from the northward camps and stations. They had abundant supplies, had scattered and driven the Tontos, had made some prisoners of squaws and pappooses, who, even to the general, declared they knew not where the Bennett children had been hidden. The general was expecting to work southward along the Black Mesa to meet the column out from the Upper San Carlos under Major Randall ("Big Chief Jake," the aforementioned) and between them they meant to leave no stone unturned in the effort to find the boys. Stannard enclosed a letter for his bonny wife, and closed with a word by way of postscript over which Archer and the three B's found themselves pondering not a little.

"Wish we had Harris and 'Tonio with us. Hope they are doing well. The general is anxious to meet and know them both."