Byrne looked at the post commander without speaking. The color had mounted one moment to the major's face, then left him pallid as before. The hunted, haggard, weary look about his eyes had deepened. That was all. The longer he lived, the longer he served about this woebegone spot in mid Arizona, the more he realized the influence for evil that handmaid of Shaitan seemed to exert over his vain, shallow, yet beautiful and beloved wife. Against it he had wrought and pleaded in vain. Elise had been with them since her babyhood, was his wife's almost indignant reply. Elise had been faithful to her—devoted to her all her life. Elise was indispensable; the only being that kept her from going mad with home-sickness and misery in that God-forsaken clime. Sobs and tears wound up each interview and, like many a stronger man, Plume had succumbed. It might, indeed, be cruel to rob her of Elise, the last living link that bound her to the blessed memories of her childhood, and he only mildly strove to point out to her how oddly, yet persistently, her good name had suffered through the words and deeds of this flighty, melodramatic Frenchwoman. Something of her baleful influence he had seen and suspected before ever they came to their exile, but here at Sandy, with full force he realized the extent of her machinations. Clarice was not the woman to go prowling about the quarters in the dead hours of the night, no matter how nervous and sleepless at home. Clarice was not the woman to be having back-door conferences with the servants of other households, much less the "striker" of an officer with whose name hers, as a maiden, had once been linked. He recalled with a shudder the events of the night that sent the soldier Mullins to hospital, robbed of his wits, if not of his life. He recalled with dread the reluctant admissions of the doctor and of Captain Wren. Sleep-walking, indeed! Clarice never elsewhere at any time had shown somnambulistic symptoms. It was Elise beyond doubt who had lured her forth for some purpose he could neither foil nor fathom. It was Elise who kept up this discreditable and mysterious commerce with Downs,—something that had culminated in the burning of Blakely's home, with who knows what evidence,—something that had terminated only with Downs's mad desertion and probable death. All this and more went flashing through his mind as Miss Wren finished her brief and significant story, and it dawned upon him that, whatever it might be to others, the death of Downs—to him, and to her whom he loved and whose honor he cherished—was anything but a calamity, a thing to mourn. Too generous to say the words, he yet turned with lightened heart and met Byrne's searching eyes, then those of Miss Wren now fixed upon him with austere challenge, as though she would say the flight and fate of this friendless soldier were crimes to be laid only at his door.

Byrne saw the instant distress in his comrade's face, and, glancing from him to her, almost in the same instant saw the inciting cause. Byrne had one article of faith if he lacked the needful thirty-nine. Women had no place in official affairs, no right to meddle in official matters, and what he said on the spur of his rising resentment was intended for her, though spoken to him. "So Downs skipped eastward, did he, and the Apaches got him! Well, Plume, that saves us a hanging." And Miss Wren turned away in wrath unspeakable.

That Downs had "skipped eastward" received further confirmation with the coming day, when Wales Arnold rode into the fort from a personally conducted scout up the Beaver. Riding out with Captain Stout's party, he had paid a brief visit to his, for the time, abandoned ranch, and was surprised to find there, unmolested, the two persons and all the property he had left the day he hurried wife and household to the shelter of the garrison. The two persons were half-breed Jose and his Hualpai squaw. They had been with the Arnolds five long years, were known to all the Apaches, and had ever been in highest favor with them because of the liberality with which they dispensed the largesse of their employer. Never went an Indian empty-stomached from their door. All the stock Wales had time to gather he had driven in to Sandy. All that was left Jose had found and corraled. Just one quadruped was missing—Arnold's old mustang saddler, Dobbin. Jose said he had been gone from the first and with him an old bridle and saddle. No Indian took him, said he. It was a soldier. He had found "government boot tracks" in the sand. Then Downs and Dobbin had gone together, but only Dobbin might they ever look to see again.

It had been arranged between Byrne and Captain Stout that the little relief column should rest in a deep canon beyond the springs from which the Beaver took its source, and, later in the afternoon, push on again on the long, stony climb toward the plateau of the upper Mogollon. There stood, about twenty-five miles out from the post on a bee line to the northeast, a sharp, rocky peak just high enough above the fringing pines and cedars to be distinctly visible by day from the crest of the nearest foothills west of the flagstaff. Along the sunset face of this gleaming picacho there was a shelf or ledge that had often been used by the Apaches for signaling purposes; the renegades communicating with their kindred about the agency up the valley. Invisible from the level of Camp Sandy, these fires by night, or smoke and flashes by day, reached only those for whom they were intended—the Apaches at the reservation; but Stout, who had known the neighborhood since '65, had suggested that lookouts equipped with binoculars be placed on the high ground back of the post. Inferior to the savage in the craft, we had no code of smoke, fire, or, at that time, even sun-flash signal, but it was arranged that one blaze was to mean "Unmolested thus far." Two blazes, a few yards apart, would mean "Important news by runner." In the latter event Plume was to push out forty or fifty men in dispersed order to meet and protect the runner in case he should be followed, or possibly headed off, by hostile tribesmen. Only six Indian allies had gone with Stout and he had eyed them with marked suspicion and disfavor. They, too, were Apache Yumas. The day wore on slowly, somberly. All sound of life, melody, or merriment had died out at Camp Sandy. Even the hounds seemed to feel that a cloud of disaster hung over the garrison. Only at rare intervals some feminine shape flitted along the line of deserted verandas—some woman on a mission of mercy to some mourning, sore-troubled sister among the scattered households. For several hours before high noon the wires from Prescott had been hot with demand for news, and with messages from Byrne or Plume to department headquarters. At meridian, however, there came a lull, and at 2 P. M. a break. Somewhere to the west the line was snapped and down. At 2.15 two linesmen galloped forth to find and repair damages, half a dozen "doughboys" on a buckboard going as guard. Otherwise, all day long, no soldier left the post, and when darkness settled down, the anxious operator, seated at his keyboard, was still unable to wake the spirit of the gleaming copper thread that spanned the westward wilderness.

All Sandy was wakeful, out on the broad parade, or the officers' verandas, and gazing as one man or woman at the bold, black upheaval a mile behind the post, at whose summit twinkled a tiny star, a single lantern, telling of the vigil of Plume's watchers. If Stout made even fair time he should have reached the picacho at dusk, and now it was nearly nine and not a glimmer of fire had been seen at the appointed rendezvous. Nine passed and 9.15, and at 9.30 the fifes and drums of the Eighth turned out and began the long, weird complaint of the tattoo. Nobody wished to go to bed. Why not sound reveille and let them sit up all night, if they chose? It was far better than tossing sleepless through the long hours to the dawn. It was nearly time for "taps"—lights out—when a yell went up from the parade and all Sandy started to its feet. All on a sudden the spark at the lookout bluff began violently to dance, and a dozen men tore out of garrison, eager to hear the news. They were met halfway by a sprinting corporal, whom they halted with eager demand for his news. "Two blazes!" he panted, "two! I must get in to the major at once!" Five minutes more the Assembly, not Taps, was sounding. Plume was sending forth his fifty rescuers, and with them, impatient for tidings from the far front, went Byrne, the major himself following as soon as he could change to riding dress. The last seen of the little command was the glinting of the starlight on the gun barrels as they forded the rippling stream and took the trail up the narrow, winding valley of the Beaver.

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

But midnight came without a sign. Long before that hour, as though by common impulse, almost all the women of the garrison had gathered about Truman's quarters, now the northernmost of the row and in plain view of the confluence of the Sandy and the Beaver. Dr. Graham, who had been swinging to and fro between the limits of the Shaughnessys' and the hospital, stopped to speak with them a moment and gently drew Angela to one side. His grave and rugged face was sweet in its tenderness as he looked down into her brimming eyes. "Can you not be content at home, my child?" he murmured. "You seem like one of my own bairns, Angela, now that your brave father is afield, and I want to have his bonnie daughter looking her best against the home-coming. Surely Aunt Janet will bring you the news the moment any comes, and I'll bid Kate Sanders bide with you!"

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

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

"BIVOUAC AT PICACHO, 9 P. M.

"C. O. CAMP SANDY:

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

(Signed) "STOUT, Commanding."

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

"November —th.

"C. O. CAMP SANDY:

"Through a friendly Apache who was with me at the reservation I learned that Captain Wren was lying wounded, cut off from his troop and with only four of his men, in a canon southwest of Snow Lake. With Indian for guide we succeeded reaching him second night, but are now surrounded, nearly out of ammunition and rations. Three more of our party are wounded and one, Trooper Kent, killed. If not rushed can hold out perhaps three days more, but Wren sorely needs surgical aid.

(Signed) "BLAKELY."

That was all. The Bugologist with his one orderly, and apparently without the Apache Yuma scouts, had gone straightway to the rescue of Wren. Now all were cut off and surrounded by a wily foe that counted on, sooner or later, overcoming and annihilating them, and even by the time the Indian runner slipped out (some faithful spirit won by Blakely's kindness and humanity when acting agent), the defense had been reduced just one-half. Thank God that Stout with his supplies and stalwart followers was not more than two days' march away, and was going straightway to the rescue!

It was nearly two when Plume and his half-hundred came drifting back to the garrison, and even then some few of the watchers were along the bluff. Janet Wren, having at last seen pale-faced, silent Angela to her room and bed, with Kate Sanders on guard, had again gone forth to extract such further information as Major Plume might have. Even at that hour men were at work in the corrals, fitting saddles to half a dozen spare horses,—about all that were left at the post,—and Miss Wren learned that Colonel Byrne, with an orderly or two, had remained at Arnold's ranch,—that Arnold himself, with six horsemen from the post, was to set forth at four, join the colonel at dawn, and together all were to push forward on the trail of Stout's command, hoping to overtake them by nightfall. She whispered this to sleepless Kate on her return to the house, for Angela, exhausted with grief and long suspense, had fallen, apparently, into deep and dreamless slumber.

But the end of that eventful night was not yet. Arnold and his sextette slipped away soon after four o'clock, and about 4.50 there came a banging at the major's door. It was the telegraph operator. The wire was patched at last, and the first message was to the effect that the guard had been fired on in Cherry Creek canon—that Private Forrest was sorely wounded and lying at Dick's deserted ranch, with two of their number to care for him. Could they possibly send a surgeon at once?

There was no one to go but Graham. His patients at the post were doing fairly well, but there wasn't a horse for him to ride. "No matter," said he, "I'll borrow Punch. He's needing exercise these days." So Punch was ordered man-saddled and brought forthwith. The orderly came back in ten minutes. "Punch aint there, sir," said he. "He's been gone over half an hour."

"Gone? Gone where? Gone how?" asked Graham in amaze.

"Gone with Miss Angela, sir. She saddled him herself and rode away not twenty minutes after Arnold's party left. The sentries say she followed up the Beaver."



CHAPTER XIX

BESIEGED

Deep down in a ragged cleft of the desert, with shelving rock and giant bowlder on every side, without a sign of leaf, or sprig of grass, or tendril of tiny creeping plant, a little party of haggard, hunted men lay in hiding and in the silence of exhaustion and despond, awaiting the inevitable. Bulging outward overhead, like the counter of some huge battleship, a great mass of solid granite heaved unbroken above them, forming a recess or cave, in which they were secure against arrow, shot, or stone from the crest of the lofty, almost vertical walls of the vast and gloomy canon. Well back under this natural shelter, basined in the hollowed rock, a blessed pool of fair water lay unwrinkled by even a flutter of breeze. Relic of the early springtime and the melting snows, it had been caught and imprisoned here after the gradually failing stream had trickled itself into nothingness. One essential, one comfort then had not been denied the beleaguered few, but it was about the only one. Water for drink, for fevered wounds and burning throats, they had in abundance; but the last "hardtack" had been shared, the last scrap of bacon long since devoured. Of the once-abundant rations only coffee grains were left. Of the cartridge-crammed "thimble belts," with which they had entered the canon and the Apache trap, only three contained so much as a single copper cylinder, stopped by its forceful lead. These three belonged to troopers, two of whom, at least, would never have use for them again. One of these, poor Jerry Kent, lay buried beneath the little cairn of rocks in still another cavelike recess a dozen yards away, hidden there by night, when prowling Apaches could not see the sorrowing burial party and crush them with bowlders heaved over the precipice above, or shoot them down with whistling lead or steel-tipped arrow from some safe covert in the rocky walls.

Cut off from their comrades while scouting a side ravine, Captain Wren and his quartette of troopers had made stiff and valiant fight against such of the Indians as permitted hand or head to show from behind the rocks. They had felt confident that Sergeant Brewster and the main body would speedily miss them, or hear the sound of firing and turn back au secours, but sounds are queerly carried in such a maze of deep and tortuous clefts as seamed the surface in every conceivable direction through the wild basin of the Colorado. Brewster's rearmost files declared long after that never the faintest whisper of affray had reached their ears, already half deadened by fatigue and the ceaseless crash of iron-shod hoofs on shingly rock. As for Brewster himself, he was able to establish that Wren's own orders were to "push ahead" and try to make Sunset Pass by nightfall, while the captain, with such horses as seemed freshest, scouted right and left wherever possible. The last seen of Jerry Kent, it later transpired, was when he came riding after them to say the captain had gone into the mouth of the gorge opening to the west, and the last message borne from the commander to the troop came through Jerry Kent to Sergeant Dusold, who brought up the rear. They had passed the mouths of half a dozen ravines within the hour, some on one side, some on the other, and Dusold "passed the word" by sending Corporal Slater clattering up the canon, skirting the long drawn-out column of files until, far in the lead, he could overtake the senior sergeant and deliver his message. Later, when Brewster rode back with all but the little guard left over his few broken-down men and mounts in Sunset Pass, Dusold could confidently locate in his own mind the exact spot where Kent overtook him; but Dusold was a drill-book dragoon of the Prussian school, consummately at home on review or parade, but all at sea, so to speak, in the mountains. They never found a trace of their loved leader. The clefts they scouted were all on the wrong side.

And so it happened that relief came not, that one after another the five horses fell, pierced with missiles or crushed and stunned by rocks crashing down from above, that Kent himself was shot through the brain, and Wren skewered through the arm by a Tonto shaft, and plugged with a round rifle ball in the shoulder. Sergeant Carmody bound up his captain's wound as best he could, and by rare good luck, keeping up a bold front, and answering every shot, they fought their way to this little refuge in the rocks, and there, behind improvised barricades or bowlders, "stood off" their savage foe, hoping rescue might soon reach them.

But Wren was nearly wild from wounds and fever when the third day came and no sign of the troop. Another man had been hit and stung, and though not seriously wounded, like a burnt child, he now shunned the fire and became, perforce, an ineffective. Their scanty store of rations was gone entirely. Sergeant Carmody and his alternate watchers were worn out from lack of sleep when, in the darkness of midnight, a low hail in their own tongue came softly through the dead silence,—the voice of Lieutenant Blakely cautioning, "Don't fire, Wren. It's the Bugologist," and in another moment he and his orderly afoot, in worn Apache moccasins, but equipped with crammed haversacks and ammunition belts, were being welcomed by the besieged. There was little of the emotional and nothing of the melodramatic about it. It was, if anything, rather commonplace. Wren was flighty and disposed to give orders for an immediate attack in force on the enemy's works, to which the sergeant, his lips trembling just a bit, responded with prompt salute: "Very good, sir, just as quick as the men can finish supper. Loot'nent Blakely's compliments, sir, and he'll be ready in ten minutes," for Blakely and his man, seeing instantly the condition of things, had freshened the little fire and begun unloading supplies. Solalay, their Indian guide, after piloting them through the woodland southwest of Snow Lake, had pointed out the canon, bidden them follow it and, partly in the sign language, partly in Spanish, partly in the few Apache terms that Blakely had learned during his agency days, managed to make them understand that Wren was to be found some five miles further on, and that most of the besieging Tontos were on the heights above or in the canon below. Few would be encountered, if any, on the up-stream side. Then, promising to take the horses and the mules to Camp Sandy, he had left them. He dared go no farther toward the warring Apaches. They would suspect and butcher him without mercy.

But Solalay had not gone without promise of further aid. Natzie's younger brother, Alchisay, had recently come to him with a message from her, and should be coming with another. Solalay thought he could find the boy and send him to them to be used as a courier. Blakely's opportune coming had cheered not a little the flagging defense, but, not until forty-eight hours thereafter, by which time their condition had become almost desperate and the foe almost daring, did the lithe, big-eyed, swarthy little Apache reach them. Blakely knew him instantly, wrote his dispatch and bade the boy go with all speed, with the result we know. "Three more of our party are wounded," he had written, but had not chosen to say that one of them was himself.

A solemn sight was this that met the eyes of the Bugologist, as Carmody roused him from a fitful sleep, with the murmured words, "Almost light, sir. They'll be on us soon as they can see." Deep in under the overhang and close to the pool lay one poor fellow whose swift, gasping breath told all too surely that the Indian bullet had found fatal billet in his wasting form. It was Chalmers, a young Southerner, driven by poverty at home and prospect of adventure abroad to seek service in the cavalry. It was practically his first campaign, and in all human probability his last. Consciousness had left him hours ago, and his vagrant spirit was fast loosing every earthly bond, and already, in fierce dreamings, at war with unseen and savage foe over their happy hunting grounds in the great Beyond. Near him, equally sheltered, yet further toward the dim and pallid light, lay Wren, his strong Scotch features pinched and drawn with pain and loss of blood and lack of food. Fever there was little left, there was so little left for it to live upon. Weak and helpless as a child in arms he lay, inert and silent. There was nothing he could do. Never a quarter hour had passed since he had been forced to lie there that some one of his devoted men had not bathed his forehead and cooled his burning wounds with abundant flow of blessed water. Twice since his gradual return to consciousness had he asked for Blakely, and had bidden him sit and tell him of Sandy, asking for tidings of Angela, and faltering painfully as he bethought himself of the last instructions he had given. How could Blakely be supposed to know aught of her or of the household bidden to treat him practically as a stranger? Now, he thought it grand that the Bugologist had thrown all consideration of peril to the wind and had hastened to their aid to share their desperate fortunes. But Wren knew not how to tell of it. He took courage and hope when Blakely spoke of Solalay's loyalty, of young Alchisay's daring visit and his present mission. Apaches of his band had been known to traverse sixty miles a day over favorable ground, and Alchisay, even through such a labyrinth of rock, ravine, and precipice, should not make less than thirty. Within forty-eight hours of his start the boy ought to reach the Sandy valley, and surely no moment would then be lost in sending troops to find and rescue them. But four days and nights, said Blakely to himself, was the least time in which they could reasonably hope for help, and now only the third night had gone,—gone with their supplies of every kind. A few hours more and the sun would be blazing in upon even the dank depths of the canon for his midday stare. A few minutes more and the Apaches, too, would be up and blazing on their own account. "Keep well under shelter," were Blakely's murmured orders to the few men, even as the first, faint breath of the dawn came floating from the broader reaches far down the rocky gorge.

In front of their cavelike refuge, just under the shelving mass overhead, heaped in a regular semicircle, a rude parapet of rocks gave shelter to the troopers guarding the approaches. Little loopholes had been left, three looking down and two northward up the dark and tortuous rift. In each of these a loaded carbine lay in readiness. So well chosen was the spot that for one hundred yards southeastward—down stream—the narrow gorge was commanded by the fire of the defense, while above, for nearly eighty, from wall to wall, the approach was similarly swept. No rush was therefore possible on part of the Apaches without every probability of their losing two or three of the foremost. The Apache lacks the magnificent daring of the Sioux or Cheyenne. He is a fighter from ambush; he risks nothing for glory's sake; he is a monarch in craft and guile, but no hero in open battle. For nearly a week now, day after day, the position of the defenders had been made almost terrible by the fierce bombardment to which it had been subjected, of huge stones or bowlders sent thundering down the almost precipitous walls, then bounding from ledge to ledge, or glancing from solid, sloping face diving, finally, with fearful crash into the rocky bed at the bottom, sending a shower of fragments hurtling in every direction, oft dislodging some section of parapet, yet never reaching the depths of the cave. Add to this nerve-racking siege work the instant, spiteful flash of barbed arrow or zip and crack of bullet when hat or hand of one of the defenders was for a second exposed, and it is not difficult to fancy the wear and tear on even the stoutest heart in the depleted little band.

And still they set their watch and steeled their nerves, and in dogged silence took their station as the pallid light grew roseate on the cliffs above them. And with dull and wearied, yet wary, eyes, each soldier scanned every projecting rock or point that could give shelter to lurking foe, and all the time the brown muzzles of the carbines were trained low along the stream bed. No shot could now be thrown away at frowsy turban or flaunting rag along the cliffs. The rush was the one thing they had to dread and drive back. It was God's mercy the Apache dared not charge in the dark.



Lighter grew the deep gorge and lighter still, and soon in glorious radiance the morning sunshine blazed on the lofty battlements far overhead, and every moment the black shadow on the westward wall, visible to the defense long rifle-shot southeastward, gave gradual way before the rising day god, and from the broader open reaches beyond the huge granite shoulder, around which wound the canon, and from the sun-kissed heights, a blessed warmth stole softly in, grateful inexpressibly to their chilled and stiffened limbs. And still, despite the growing hours, neither shot nor sign came from the accustomed haunts of the surrounding foe. Six o'clock was marked by Blakely's watch. Six o'clock and seven, and the low moan from the lips of poor young Chalmers, or the rattle of some pebble dislodged by the foot of crouching guardian, or some murmured word from man to man,—some word of wonderment at the unlooked for lull in Apache siege operations,—was the only sound to break the almost deathlike silence of the morning. There was one other, far up among the stunted, shriveled pines and cedars that jutted from the opposite heights. They could hear at intervals a weird, mournful note, a single whistling call in dismal minor, but it brought no new significance. Every day of their undesired and enforced sojourn, every hour of the interminable day, that raven-like, hermit bird of the Sierras had piped his unmelodious signal to some distant feathered fellow, and sent a chill to the heart of more than one war-tried soldier. There was never a man in Arizona wilds that did not hate the sound of it. And yet, as eight o'clock was noted and still no sight or sound of assailant came, Sergeant Carmody turned a wearied, aching eye from his loophole and muttered to the officer crouching close beside him: "I could wring the neck of the lot of those infernal cat crows, sir, but I'll thank God if we hear no worse sound this day."

Blakely rose to his feet and wearily leaned upon the breastworks, peering cautiously over. Yesterday the sight of a scouting hat would have brought instant whiz of arrow, but not a missile saluted him now. One arm, his left, was rudely bandaged and held in a sling, a rifle ball from up the cliff, glancing from the inner face of the parapet, had torn savagely through muscle and sinew, but mercifully scored neither artery nor bone. An arrow, whizzing blindly through a southward loophole, had grazed his cheek, ripping a straight red seam far back as the lobe of the ear, which had been badly torn. Blakely had little the look of a squire of dames as, thus maimed and scarred and swathed in blood-stained cotton, he peered down the deep and shadowy cleft and searched with eyes keen, if yet unskilled, every visible section of the opposite wall. What could their silence mean? Had they found other game, pitifully small in numbers as these besieged, and gone to butcher them, knowing well that, hampered by their wounded, these, their earlier victims, could not hope to escape? Had they got warning of the approach of some strong force of soldiery—Brewster scouting in search of them, or may be Sanders himself? Had they slipped away, therefore, and could the besieged dare to creep forth and shout, signal, or even fire away two or three of these last precious cartridges in hopes of catching the ear of searching comrades?

Wren, exhausted, had apparently dropped into a fitful doze. His eyes were shut, his lips were parted, his long, lean fingers twitched at times as a tremor seemed to shoot through his entire frame. Another day like the last or at worst like this, without food or nourishment, and even such rugged strength as had been his would be taxed to the utmost. There might be no to-morrow for the sturdy soldier who had so gallantly served his adopted country, his chosen flag. As for Chalmers, the summons was already come. Far from home and those who most loved and would sorely grieve for him, the brave lad was dying. Carmody, kneeling by his side, but the moment before had looked up mutely in his young commander's face, and his swimming, sorrowing eyes had told the story.

Nine o'clock had come without a symptom of alarm or enemy from without, yet death had invaded the lonely refuge in the rocks, claiming one victim as his tribute for the day and setting his seal upon still another, the prospective sacrifice for the dismal morrow, and Blakely could stand the awful strain no longer.

"Sergeant," said he, "I must know what this means. We must have help for the captain before this sun goes down, or he may be gone before we know it."

And Carmody looked him in the face and answered: "I am strong yet and unhurt. Let me make the try, sir. Some of our fellows must be scouting near us, or these beggars wouldn't have quit. I can find the boys, if anyone can."

Blakely turned and gazed one moment into the deep and dark recess where lay his wounded and the dying. The morning wind had freshened a bit, and a low, murmurous song, nature's AEolian, came softly from the swaying pine and stunted oak and juniper far on high. The whiff that swept to their nostrils from the lower depths of the canon told its own grewsome tale. There, scattered along the stream bed, lay the festering remains of their four-footed comrades, first victims of the ambuscade. Death lurked about their refuge then on every side, and was even invading their little fortress. Was this to be the end, after all? Was there neither help nor hope from any source?

Turning once again, a murmured prayer upon his lips, Blakely started at sight of Carmody. With one hand uplifted, as though to caution silence, the other concaved at his ear, the sergeant was bending eagerly forward, his eyes dilating, his frame fairly quivering. Then, on a sudden, up he sprang and swung his hat about his head. "Firing, sir! Firing, sure!" he cried. Another second, and with a gasp and moan he sank to earth transfixed; a barbed arrow, whizzing from unseen space, had pierced him through and through.



CHAPTER XX

WHERE IS ANGELA?

For a moment as they drew under shelter the stricken form of the soldier, there was nothing the defense could do but dodge. Then, leaving him at the edge of the pool, and kicking before them the one cowed and cowering shirker of the little band, Blakely and the single trooper still unhit, crept back to the rocky parapet, secured a carbine each and knelt, staring up the opposite wall in search of the foe. And not a sign of Apache could they see.

Yet the very slant of the arrow as it pierced the young soldier, the new angle at which the bullets bounded from the stony crest, the lower, flatter flight of the barbed missiles that struck fire from the flinty rampart, all told the same story. The Indians during the hours of darkness, even while dreading to charge, had managed to crawl, snake-like, to lower levels along the cliff and to creep closer up the stream bed, and with stealthy, noiseless hands to rear little shelters of stone, behind which they were now crouching invisible and secure. With the illimitable patience of their savage training they had then waited, minute after minute, hour after hour, until, lulled at last into partial belief that their deadly foe had slipped away, some of the defenders should be emboldened to venture into view, and then one well-aimed volley at the signal from the leader's rifle, and the vengeful shafts of those who had as yet only the native weapon, would fall like lightning stroke upon the rash ones, and that would end it. Catlike they had crouched and watched since early dawn. Catlike they had played the old game of apparent weariness of the sport, of forgetfulness of their prey and tricked their guileless victims into hope and self-exposure, then swooped again, and the gallant lad whose last offer and effort had been to set forth in desperate hope of bringing relief to the suffering, had paid for his valor with his life. One arrow at least had gone swift and true, one shaft that, launched, perhaps, two seconds too soon for entire success, had barely anticipated the leader's signal and spoiled the scheme of bagging all the game. Blakely's dive to save his fallen comrade had just saved his own head, for rock chips and spattering lead flew on every side, scratching, but not seriously wounding him.

And then, when they "thought on vengeance" and the three brown muzzles swept the opposite wall, there followed a moment of utter silence, broken only by the faint gasping of the dying man. "Creep back to Carmody, you," muttered Blakely to the trembling lad beside him. "You are of no account here unless they try to charge. Give him water, quick." Then to Stern, his one unhurt man, "You heard what he said about distant firing. Did you hear it?"

"Not I, sir, but I believe they did—an' be damned to them!" And Stern's eyes never left the opposite cliff, though his ears were strained to catch the faintest sound from the lower canon. It was there they last had seen the troop. It was from that direction help should come. "Watch them, but don't waste a shot, man. I must speak to Carmody," said Blakely, under his breath, as he backed on hands and knees, a painful process when one is sore wounded. Trembling, whimpering like whipped child, the poor, spiritless lad sent to the aid of the stricken and heroic, crouched by the sergeant's side, vainly striving to pour water from a clumsy canteen between the sufferer's pallid lips. Carmody presently sucked eagerly at the cooling water, and even in his hour of dissolution seemed far the stronger, sturdier of the two—seemed to feel so infinite a pity for his shaken comrade. Bleeding internally, as was evident, transfixed by the cruel shaft they did not dare attempt to withdraw, even if the barbed steel would permit, and drooping fainter with each swift moment, he was still conscious, still brave and uncomplaining. His dimmed and mournful eyes looked up in mute appeal to his young commander. He knew that he was going fast, and that whatever rescue might come to these, his surviving fellow-soldiers, there would be none for him; and yet in his supreme moment he seemed to read the question on Blakely's lips, and his words, feeble and broken, were framed to answer.

"Couldn't—you hear 'em, lieutenant?" he gasped. "I can't be—mistaken. I know—the old—Springfield sure! I heard 'em way off—south—a dozen shots," and then a spasm of agony choked him, and he turned, writhing, to hide the anguish on his face. Blakely grasped the dying soldier's hand, already cold and limp and nerveless, and then his own voice seemed, too, to break and falter.

"Don't try to talk, Carmody; don't try! Of course you are right. It must be some of our people. They'll reach us soon. Then we'll have the doctor and can help you. Those saddle-bags!" he said, turning sharply to the whimpering creature kneeling by them, and the lad drew hand across his streaming eyes and passed the worn leather pouches. From one of them Blakely drew forth a flask, poured some brandy into its cup and held it to the soldier's lips. Carmody swallowed almost eagerly. He seemed to crave a little longer lease of life. There was something tugging at his heartstrings, and presently he turned slowly, painfully again. "Lieutenant," he gasped, "I'm not scared to die—this way anyhow. There's no one to care—but the boys—but there's one thing"—and now the stimulant seemed to reach the failing heart and give him faint, fluttering strength—"there's one thing I ought—I ought to tell. You've been solid with the boys—you're square, and I'm not—I haven't always been. Lieutenant—I was on guard—the night of the fire—and Elise, you know—the French girl—she—she's got most all I saved—most all I—won, but she was trickin' me—all the time, lieutenant—me and Downs that's gone—and others. She didn't care. You—you aint the only one I—I—"

"Lieutenant!" came in excited whisper, the voice of Stern, and there at his post in front of the cave he knelt, signaling urgently. "Lieutenant, quick!"

"One minute, Carmody! I've got to go. Tell me a little later." But with dying strength Carmody clung to his hand.

"I must tell you, lieutenant—now. It wasn't Downs's fault. She—she made—"

"Lieutenant, quick! for God's sake! They're coming!" cried the voice of the German soldier at the wall, and wrenching his wrist from the clasp of the dying man, Blakely sprang recklessly to his feet and to the mouth of the cave just as Stern's carbine broke the stillness with resounding roar. Half a dozen rifles barked their instant echo among the rocks. From up the hillside rose a yell of savage hate and another of warning. Then from behind their curtaining rocks half a dozen dusky forms, their dirty white breechclouts streaming behind them, sprang suddenly into view and darted, with goatlike ease and agility, zigzagging up the eastward wall. It was a foolish thing to do, but Blakely followed with a wasted shot, aimed one handed from the shoulder, before he could regain command of his judgment. In thirty seconds the cliff was as bare of Apaches as but the moment before it had been dotted. Something, in the moment when their savage plans and triumph seemed secure, had happened to alarm the entire party. With warning shouts and signals they were scurrying out of the deep ravine, scattering, apparently, northward. But even as they fled to higher ground there was order and method in their retreat. While several of their number clambered up the steep, an equal number lurked in their covert, and Blakely's single shot was answered instantly by half a dozen, the bullets striking and splashing on the rocks, the arrows bounding or glancing furiously. Stern ducked within, out of the storm. Blakely, flattening like hunted squirrel close to the parapet, flung down his empty carbine and strove to reach another, lying loaded at the southward loophole, and at the outstretched hand there whizzed an arrow from aloft whose guiding feather fairly seared the skin, so close came the barbed messenger. Then up the height rang out a shrill cry, some word of command in a voice that had a familiar tang to it, and that was almost instantly obeyed, for, under cover of sharp, well-aimed fire from aloft, from the shelter of projecting rock or stranded bowlder, again there leaped into sight a few scattered, sinewy forms that rushed in bewildering zigzag up the steep, until safe beyond their supports, when they, too, vanished, and again the cliff stood barren of Apache foemen as the level of the garrison parade. It was science in savage warfare against which the drill book of the cavalry taught no method whatsoever. Another minute and even the shots had ceased. One glimpse more had Blakely of dingy, trailing breechclouts, fluttering in the breeze now stirring the fringing pines and cedars, and all that was left of the late besiegers came clattering down the rocks in the shape of an Indian shield. Stern would have scrambled out to nab it, but was ordered down. "Back, you idiot, or they'll have you next!" And then they heard the feeble voice of Wren, pleading for water and demanding to be lifted to the light. The uproar of the final volley had roused him from an almost deathlike stupor, and he lay staring, uncomprehending, at Carmody, whose glazing eyes were closed, whose broken words had ceased. The poor fellow was drifting away into the shadows with his story still untold.

"Watch here, Stern, but keep under cover," cried Blakely. "I'll see to the captain. Listen for any shot or sound, but hold your fire," and then he turned to his barely conscious senior and spoke to him as he would to a helpless child. Again he poured a little brandy in his cup. Again he held it to ashen lips and presently saw the faint flutter of reviving strength. "Lie still just a moment or two, Wren," he murmured soothingly. "Lie still. Somebody's coming. The troop is not far off. You'll soon have help and home and—Angela"—even then his tongue faltered at her name. And Wren heard and with eager eyes questioned imploringly. The quivering lips repeated huskily the name of the child he loved. "Angela—where?"

"Home—safe—where you shall be soon, old fellow, only—brace up now. I must speak one moment with Carmody," and to Carmody eagerly he turned. "You were speaking of Elise and the fire—of Downs, sergeant ——" His words were slow and clear and distinct, for the soldier had drifted far away and must be recalled. "Tell me again. What was it?"

But only faint, swift gasping answered him. Carmody either heard not, or, hearing, was already past all possibility of reply. "Speak to me, Carmody. Tell me what I can do for you?" he repeated. "What word to Elise?" He thought the name might rouse him, and it did. A feeble hand was uplifted, just an inch or two. The eyelids slowly fluttered, and the dim, almost lifeless eyes looked pathetically up into those of the young commander. There was a moment of almost breathless silence, broken only by a faint moan from Wren's tortured lips and the childish whimpering of that other—the half-crazed, terror-stricken soldier.

"Elise," came the whisper, barely audible, as Carmody strove to lift his head, "she—promised"—but the head sank back on Blakely's knee. Stern was shouting at the stone gate—shouting and springing to his feet and swinging his old scouting hat and gazing wildly down the canon. "For God's sake hush, man!" cried the lieutenant. "I must hear Carmody." But Stern was past further shouting now. Sinking on his knees, he was sobbing aloud. Scrambling out into the daylight of the opening, but still shrinking within its shelter, the half-crazed, half-broken soldier stood stretching forth his arms and calling wild words down the echoing gorge, where sounds of shouting, lusty-lunged, and a ringing order or two, and then the clamor of carbine shots, told of the coming of rescue and new life and hope, and food and friends, and still Blakely knelt and circled that dying head with the one arm left him, and pleaded and besought—even commanded. But never again would word or order stir the soldier's willing pulse. The sergeant and his story had drifted together beyond the veil, and Blakely, slowly rising, found the lighted entrance swimming dizzily about him, first level and then up-ended; found himself sinking, whither he neither knew nor cared; found the canon filling with many voices, the sound of hurrying feet and then of many rushing waters, and then—how was it that all was dark without the cave, and lighted—lantern-lighted—here within? They had had no lantern, no candle. Here were both, and here was a familiar face—old Heartburn's—bending reassuringly over Wren, and someone was ——. Why, where was Carmody? Gone! And but a moment ago that dying head was there on his knee, and then it was daylight, too, and now—why, it must be after nightfall, else why these lanterns? And then old Heartburn came bending over him in turn, and then came a rejoiceful word:

"Hello, Bugs! Well, it is high time you woke up! Here, take a swig of this!"

Blakely drank and sat up presently, dazed, and Heartburn went on with his cheery talk. "One of you men out there call Captain Stout. Tell him Mr. Blakely's up and asking for him," and, feeling presently a glow of warmth coursing in his veins, the Bugologist roused to a sitting posture and began to mumble questions. And then a burly shadow appeared at the entrance, black against the ruddy firelight in the canon without, where other forms began to appear. Down on his knee came Stout to clasp his one available hand and even clap him on the back and send unwelcome jar through his fevered, swollen arm. "Good boy, Bugs! You're coming round famously. We'll start you back to Sandy in the morning, you and Wren, for nursing, petting, and all that sort of thing. They are lashing the saplings now for your litters, and we've sent for Graham, too, and he'll meet you on the the way, while we shove on after Shield's people."

"Shield—Raven Shield?" queried Blakely, still half dazed. "Shield was killed—at Sandy," and yet there was the memory of the voice he knew and heard in this very canon.

"Shield, yes; and now his brother heads them. Didn't he send his card down to you, after the donicks, and be damned to him? You foregathered with both of them at the agency. Oh, they're all alike, Bugs, once they're started on the warpath. Now we must get you out into the open for a while. The air's better."

And so, an hour later, his arm carefully dressed and bandaged, comforted by needed food and fragrant tea and the news that Wren was reviving under the doctor's ministrations, and would surely mend and recover, Blakely lay propped by the fire and heard the story of Stout's rush through the wilderness to their succor. Never waiting for the dawn, after a few hours' rest at Beaver Spring, the sturdy doughboys had eagerly followed their skilled and trusted leader all the hours from eleven, stumbling, but never halting even for rest or rations, and at last had found the trail four miles below in the depths of the canon. There some scattering shots had met them, arrow and rifle both, from up the heights, and an effort was made to delay their progress. Wearied and footsore though were his men, they had driven the scurrying foe from rock to rock and then, in a lull that followed, had heard the distant sound of firing that told them whither to follow on. Only one man, Stern, was able to give them coherent word or welcome when at last they came, for Chalmers and Carmody lay dead, Wren in a stupor, Blakely in a deathlike swoon, and "that poor chap yonder" loony and hysterical as a crazy man. Thank God they had not, as they had first intended, waited for the break of day.

Another dawn and Stout and most of his men had pushed on after the Apaches and in quest of the troop at Sunset Pass. By short stages the soldiers left in charge were to move the wounded homeward. By noon these latter were halted under the willows by a little stream. The guards were busy filling canteens and watering pack mules, when the single sentry threw his rifle to the position of "ready" and the gun lock clicked loud. Over the stony ridge to the west, full a thousand yards away, came a little band of riders in single file, four men in all. Wren was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Blakely, feverish and excited, was wide awake. Mercifully the former never heard the first question asked by the leading rider—Arnold, the ranchman—as he came jogging into the noonday bivouac. Stone, sergeant commanding, had run forward to meet and acquaint him with the condition of the rescued men. "Got there in time then, thank God!" he cried, as wearily he flung himself out of saddle and glanced quickly about him. There lay Wren, senseless and still between the lashed ribs of his litter. There lay Blakely, smiling feebly and striving to hold forth a wasted hand, but Arnold saw it not. Swiftly his eyes flitted from face to face, from man to man, then searched the little knot of mules, sidelined and nibbling at the stunted herbage in the glen. "I don't see Punch," he faltered. "Wh-where's Miss Angela?"



CHAPTER XXI

OUR VANISHED PRINCESS

Then came a story told in fierce and excited whisperings, Arnold the speaker, prompted sometimes by his companions; Stone, and the few soldiers grouped about him, awe-stricken and dismayed. Blakely had started up from his litter, his face white with an awful dread, listening in wordless agony.

At six the previous morning, loping easily out from Sandy, Arnold's people had reached the ranch and found the veteran colonel with his orderlies impatiently waiting for them. These latter had had abundant food and coffee and the colonel was fuming with impatience to move, but Arnold's people had started on empty stomachs, counting on a hearty breakfast at the ranch. Jose could have it ready in short order. So Byrne, with his men, mounted and rode ahead on the trail of the infantry, saying the rest could overtake him before he reached the rocky and dangerous path over the first range. For a few miles the Beaver Valley was fairly wide and open. Not twenty minutes later, as Arnold's comrades sat on the porch on the north side of the house, they heard swift hoof-beats, and wondered who could be coming now. But, without an instant's pause, the rider had galloped by, and one of the men, hurrying to the corner of the ranch, was amazed to see the lithe, slender form of Angela Wren speeding her pet pony like the wind up the sandy trail. Arnold refused to believe at first, but his eyes speedily told him the same story. He had barely a glimpse of her before she was out of sight around a grove of willows up the stream. "Galloping to catch the colonel," said he, and such was his belief. Angela, he reasoned, had hastened after them to send some message of love to her wounded father, and had perhaps caught sight of the trio far out in the lead. Arnold felt sure that they would meet her coming back, sure that there was no danger for her, with Byrne and his fellows well out to the front. They finished their breakfast, therefore, reset their saddles, mounted and rode for an hour toward the Mogollon and still the pony tracks led them on, overlying those of the colonel's party. Then they got among the rocks and only at intervals found hoof-prints; but, far up along the range, caught sight of the three horsemen, and so, kept on. It was after ten when at last they overtook the leaders, and then, to their consternation, Angela Wren was not with them. They had neither seen nor heard of her, and Byrne was aghast when told that, alone and without a guide, she had ridden in among the foothills of those desolate, pathless mountains. "The girl is mad," said he, "and yet it's like her to seek to reach her father."

Instantly they divided forces to search for her. Gorges and canons innumerable seamed the westward face of this wild spur of the Sierras, and, by the merest luck in the world, one of Arnold's men, spurring along a stony ridge, caught sight of a girlish form far across a deep ravine, and quickly fired two shots in signal that he had "sighted" the chase. It brought Arnold and two of his men to the spot and, threading their way, sometimes afoot and leading their steeds, sometimes in saddle and urging them through the labyrinth of bowlders, they followed on. At noon they had lost not only all sight of her, but of their comrades, nor had they seen the latter since. Byrne and his orderlies, with three of the party that "pulled out" from Sandy with Arnold in the morning, had disappeared. Again and again they fired their Henrys, hoping for answering signal, or perhaps to attract Angela's attention. All doubt as to her purpose was now ended. Mad she might be, but determined she was, and had deliberately dodged past them at the Beaver, fearing opposition to her project. At two, moreover, they found that she could "trail" as well as they, for among the stunted cedars at the crest of a steep divide, they found the print of the stout brogans worn by their infantry comrades, and, down among the rocks of the next ravine, crushed bits of hardtack by a "tank" in the hillside. She had stopped there long enough at least to water Punch, then pushed on again.

Once more they saw her, not three miles ahead at four o'clock, just entering a little clump of pines at the top of a steep acclivity. They fired their rifles and shouted loud in hopes of halting her, but all to no purpose. Night came down and compelled them to bivouac. They built a big fire to guide the wanderers, but morning broke without sign of them; so on they went, for now, away from the rocks the trail was often distinct, and once again they found the pony hoof-prints and thanked God. At seven by Arnold's watch, among the breaks across a steep divide they found another tank, more crumbs, a grain sack with some scattered barley, more hardtack and the last trace of Angela. Arnold's hand shook, as did his voice, as he drew forth a little fluttering ribbon—the "snood" poor Wren so loved to see binding his child's luxuriant hair.

They reasoned she had stopped here to feed and water her pony, and had probably bathed her face and flung loose her hair and forgotten later the binding ribbon. They believed she had followed on after Stout's hard-marching company. It was easy to trail. They counted on finding her when they found her father, and now here lay Wren unconscious of her loss, and Blakely, realizing it all—cruelly, feverishly realizing it—yet so weakened by his wounds as to be almost powerless to march or mount and go in search of her.

No question now as to the duty immediately before them. In twenty minutes the pack mules were again strapped between the saplings, the little command was slowly climbing toward the westward heights, with Arnold and two of his friends scouting the rough trail and hillsides, firing at long intervals and listening in suspense almost intolerable for some answering signal. The other of their number had volunteered to follow Stout over the plateau toward the Pass and acquaint him with the latest news.

While the sun was still high in the heavens, far to the northward, they faintly heard or thought they heard two rifle shots. At four o'clock, as they toiled through a tangle of rock and stunted pine, Arnold, riding well to the front, came suddenly out upon a bare ledge from which he could look over a wild, wide sweep of mountain side, stretching leagues to north and south, and there his keen and practiced eye was greeted by a sight that thrilled him with dread unspeakable. Dread, not for himself or his convoy of wounded, but dread for Angela. Jutting, from the dark fringe of pines along a projecting bluff, perhaps four miles away, little puffs or clouds of smoke, each separate and distinct, were sailing straight aloft in the pulseless air—Indian signals beyond possibility of doubt. Some Apaches, then, were still hovering about the range overlooking the broad valley of the Sandy, some of the bands then were prowling in the mountains between the scouting troops and the garrisoned post. Some must have been watching this very trail, in hopes of intercepting couriers or stragglers, some must have seen and seized poor Angela.

He had sprung from saddle and leveled his old field glass at the distant promontory, so absorbed in his search he did not note the coming of the little column. The litter bearing Blakely foremost of the four had halted close beside him, and Blakely's voice, weak and strained, yet commanding, suddenly startled him with demand to be told what he saw, and Arnold merely handed him the glass and pointed. The last of the faint smoke puffs was just soaring into space, making four still in sight. Blakely never even took the binocular. He had seen enough by the unaided eye.



With uplifted hand the sergeant had checked the coming of the next litter, Wren's, and those that followed it. One of the wounded men, the poor lad crazed by the perils of the siege, was alert and begging for more water, but Wren was happily lost to the world in swoon or slumber. To the soldier bending over him he seemed scarcely breathing. Presently they were joined by two of Arnold's party who had been searching out on the left flank. They, too, had seen, and the three were now in low-toned conference. Blakely for the moment was unnoted, forgotten.

"That tank—where we found the ribbon—was just about two miles yonder," said Arnold, pointing well down the rugged slope toward the southwest, where other rocky, pine-fringed heights barred the view to the distant Sandy. "Surely the colonel or some of his fellows must be along here. Ride ahead a hundred yards or so and fire a couple of shots," this to one of his men, who silently reined his tired bronco into the rude trail among the pine cones and disappeared. The others waited. Presently came the half-smothered sound of a shot and a half-stifled cry from the rearmost litter. Every such shock meant new terror to that poor lad, but Wren never stirred. Half a minute passed without another sound than faint and distant echo; then faint, and not so distant, came another sound, a prolonged shout, and presently another, and then a horseman hove in sight among the trees across a nearly mile-wide dip. Arnold and his friends rode on to meet him, leaving the litters at the crest. In five minutes one of the riders reappeared and called: "It's Horn, of the orderlies. He reports Colonel Byrne just ahead. Come on!" and turning, dove back down the twisted trail.

The colonel might have been just ahead when last seen, but when they reached the tank he was far aloft again, scouting from another height to the northward, and while the orderly went on to find and tell him, Arnold and his grave-faced comrade dismounted there to await the coming of the litters. Graver were the faces even than before. The news that had met them was most ominous. Two of those who searched with Colonel Byrne had found pony tracks leading northward—leading in the very direction in which they had seen the smoke. There was no other pony shoe in the Sandy valley. It could be none other than Angela's little friend and comrade—Punch.

And this news they told to Blakely as the foremost litter came. He listened with hardly a word of comment; then asked for his scouting notebook. He was sitting up now. They helped him from his springy couch to a seat on the rocks, and gave him a cup of the cold water. One by one the other litters were led into the little amphitheater and unlashed. Everyone seemed to know that here must be the bivouac for the night, their abiding place for another day, perhaps, unless they should find the captain's daughter. They spoke, when they spoke at all, in muffled tones, these rough, war-worn men of the desert and the mountain. They bent over the wounded with sorrowing eyes, and wondered why no surgeon had come out to meet them. Heartburn, of course, had done his best, dressing and rebandaging the wounds at dawn, but then he had to go on with Stout and the company, while one of the Apache Yumas was ordered to dodge his way in to Sandy, with a letter urging that Graham be sent out to follow the trail and meet the returning party.

Meanwhile the sun had dropped behind the westward heights; the night would soon be coming down, chill and overcast. Byrne was still away, but he couldn't miss the tank, said one of the troopers who had ridden with him. Twice during the morning they had all met there and then gone forth again, searching—searching. Punch's little hoof-tracks, cutting through a sandy bit in the northward ravine, had drawn them all that way, but nothing further had been found. His horse, too, said the orderly, was lame and failing, so he had been bidden to wait by the water and watch for couriers either from the front or out from the post. Byrne was one of those never-give-up men, and they all knew him.

Barley was served out to the animals, a little fire lighted, lookouts were stationed, and presently their soldier supper was ready, and still Blakely said nothing. He had written three notes or letters, one of which seemed to give him no little trouble, for one after another he thrust two leaves into the fire and started afresh. At length they were ready, and he signaled to Arnold. "You can count, I think, on Graham's getting here within a few hours," said he. "Meantime you're as good a surgeon as I need. Help me on with this sling." And still they did not fathom his purpose. He was deathly pale, and his eyes were eloquent of dread unspeakable, but he seemed to have forgotten pain, fever, and prostration. Arnold, in the silent admiration of the frontier, untied the support, unloosed the bandages, and together they redressed the ugly wound. Then presently the Bugologist stood feebly upon his feet and looked about him. It was growing darker, and not another sound had come from Byrne.

"Start one of your men into Sandy at once," said Blakely, to the sergeant, and handed him a letter addressed to Major Plume. "He will probably meet the doctor before reaching the Beaver. These other two I'll tell you what to do with later. Now, who has the best horse?"

Arnold stared. Sergeant Stone quickly turned and saluted. "The lieutenant is not thinking of mounting, I hope," said he.

Blakely did not even answer. He was studying the orderly's bay. Stiff and a little lame he might be, but, refreshed and strengthened by abundant barley, he was a better weight-carrier than the other, and Blakely had weight. "Saddle your horse, Horn," said he, "and fasten on those saddle-bags of mine."

"But, lieutenant," ventured Arnold, "you are in no shape to ride anything but that litter. Whatever you think of doing, let me do."

"What I am thinking of doing nobody else can do," said Blakely. "What you can do is, keep these two letters till I call for them. If at the end of a week I fail to call, deliver them as addressed and to nobody else. Now, before dark I must reach that point younder," and he indicated the spot where in the blaze of the westering sun a mass of rock towered high above the fringing pine and mournful shadows at its base, a glistening landmark above the general gloom at the lower level and at that hour of the afternoon. "Now," he added quietly, "you can help me into saddle."

"But for God's sake, lieutenant, let some of us ride with you," pleaded Arnold. "If Colonel Byrne was here he'd never let you go."

"Colonel Byrne is not here, and I command, I believe," was the brief, uncompromising answer. "And no man rides with me because, with another man, I'd never find what I'm in search of." For a moment he bent over Wren, a world of wordless care, dread, and yet determination in his pale face. Arnold saw his wearied eyes close a moment, his lips move as though in petition, then he suddenly turned. "Let me have that ribbon," said he bluntly, and without a word Arnold surrendered it. Stone held the reluctant horse, Arnold helped the wounded soldier into the saddle. "Don't worry about me—any of you," said Blakely, in brief farewell. "Good-night," and with that he rode away.

Arnold and the men stood gazing after him. "Grit clean through," said the ranchman, through his set teeth, for a light was dawning on him, as he pondered over Blakely's words. "May the Lord grant I don't have to deliver these!" Then he looked at the superscriptions. One letter was addressed to Captain, or Miss Janet, Wren—the other to Mrs. Plume.



CHAPTER XXII

SUSPENSE

Sandy again. Four of the days stipulated by Lieutenant Blakely had run their course. The fifth was ushered in, and from the moment he rode away from the bivouac at the tanks no word had come from the Bugologist, no further trace of Angela. In all its history the garrison had known no gloom like this. The hospital was filled with wounded. An extra surgeon and attendants had come down from Prescott, but Graham was sturdily in charge. Of his several patients Wren probably was now causing him the sorest anxiety, for the captain had been grievously wounded and was pitiably weak. Now, when aroused at times from the lassitude and despond in which he lay, Wren would persist in asking for Angela, and, not daring to tell him the truth, Janet, Calvinist that she was to the very core, had to do fearful violence to her feelings and lie. By the advice of bluff old Byrne and the active connivance of the post commander, they had actually, these stern Scotch Presbyterians, settled on this as the deception to be practiced—that Angela had been drooping so sadly from anxiety and dread she had been taken quite ill, and Dr. Graham had declared she must be sent up to Prescott, or some equally high mountain resort, there to rest and recuperate. She was in good hands, said these arch-conspirators. She might be coming home any day. As for the troop and the campaign, he mustn't talk or worry or think about them. The general, with his big field columns, had had no personal contact with the Indians. They had scattered before him into the wild country toward the great Colorado, where Stout, with his hickory-built footmen, and Brewster, with most of Wren's troop, were stirring up Apaches night and day, while Sanders and others were steadily driving on toward the old Wingate road. Stout had found Brewster beleaguered, but safe and sound, with no more men killed and few seriously wounded. They had communicated with Sanders's side scouts, and were finding and following fresh trails with every day, when Stout was surprised to receive orders to drop pursuit and start with Brewster's fellows and to scout the west face of the mountains from the Beaver to the heights opposite the old Indian reservation. There was a stirring scene at bivouac when that order came, and with it the explanation that Angela Wren had vanished and was probably captured; that Blakely had followed and was probably killed. "They might shoot Blakely in fair fight," said Stout, who knew him, and knew the veneration that lived for him in the hearts of the Indian leaders, "but they at least would never butcher him in cold blood. Their unrestrained young men might do it." Stout's awful dread, like that of every man and woman at Sandy, and every soldier in the field, was for Angela. The news, too, had been rushed to the general, and his orders were instant. "Find the chiefs in the field," said he to his interpreter and guide. "Find Shield's people, and say that if a hair of her head is injured I shall hunt them down, braves, women, and children—I shall hunt them anyhow until they surrender her unharmed."

But the Apaches were used to being hunted, and some of them really liked the game. It was full of exhilaration and excitement, and not a few chances to hunt and hit back. The threat conveyed no terror to the renegades. It was to the Indians at the reservation that the tidings brought dismay, yet even there, so said young Bridger, leaders and followers swore they had no idea where the white maiden could be, much less the young chief. They, the peaceable and the poor servants of the great Father at Washington, had no dealings with these others, his foes.

About the post, where gloom and dread unspeakable prevailed, there was no longer the fear of possible attack. The Indian prisoners in the guard-house had dropped their truculent, defiant manner, and become again sullen and apathetic. The down-stream settlers had returned to their ranches and reported things undisturbed. Even the horse that had been missing and charged to Downs had been accounted for. They found him grazing placidly about the old pasture, with the rope halter trailing, Indian-knotted, from his neck, and his gray hide still showing stains of blood about the mane and withers. They wondered was it on this old stager the Apaches had borne the wounded girl to the garrison—she who still lay under the roof of Mother Shaughnessy, timidly visited at times by big-eyed, shy little Indian maids from the reservation, who would speak no word that Sudsville could understand, and few that even Wales Arnold could interpret. All they would or could divulge was that she was the daughter of old Eskiminzin, who was out in the mountains, and that she had been wounded "over there," and they pointed eastward. By whom and under what circumstances they swore they knew not, much less did they know of Downs, or of how she chanced to have the scarf once worn by the Frenchwoman Elise.

Then Arnold's wife and brood had gone back to their home up the Beaver, while he himself returned to the search for Angela and for Blakely. But those four days had passed without a word of hope. In little squads a dozen parties were scouring the rugged canons and cliffs for signs, and finding nothing. Hours each day Plume would come to the watchers on the bluff to ask if no courier had been sighted. Hours each night the sentries strained their eyes for signal fires. Graham, slaving with his sick and wounded, saw how haggard and worn the commander was growing, and spoke a word of caution. Something told him it was not all on account of those woeful conditions at the front. From several sources came the word that Mrs. Plume was in a state bordering on hysteric at department headquarters, where sympathetic women strove vainly to comfort and soothe her. It was then that Elise became a center of interest, for Elise was snapping with electric force and energy. "It is that they will assassinate madame—these monsters," she declared. "It is imperative, it is of absolute need, that madame be taken to the sea, and these wretches, unfeeling, they forbid her to depart." Madame herself, it would seem, so said those who had speech with her, declared she longed to be again with her husband at Sandy. Then it was Elise who demanded that they should move. Elise was mad to go—Elise, who took a turn of her own, a screaming fit, when the news came of the relief of Wren's little force, of the death of their brave sergeant, of the strange tale that, before dying, Carmody had breathed a confession to Lieutenant Blakely, which Blakely had reduced to writing before he set forth on his own hapless mission. It was Mrs. Plume's turn now to have to play nurse and comforter, and to strive to soothe, even to the extent of promising that Elise should be permitted to start by the very next stage to the distant sea, but when it came to securing passage, and in feverish, nervous haste the Frenchwoman had packed her chosen belongings into the one little trunk the stage people would consent to carry, lo! there came to her a messenger from headquarters where Colonel Byrne, grim, silent, saturnine, was again in charge. Any attempt on her part to leave would result in her being turned over at once to the civil authorities, and Elise understood and raved, but risked not going to jail. Mullins, nursed by his devoted Norah, was sitting up each day now, and had been seen by Colonel Byrne as that veteran passed through, ten pounds lighter of frame and heavier of heart than when he set forth, and Mullins had persisted in the story that he had been set upon and stabbed by two women opposite Lieutenant Blakely's quarters. What two had been seen out there that night but Clarice Plume and her Gallic shadow, Elise?

Meantime Aunt Janet was "looking ghastly," said the ladies along that somber line of quarters, and something really ought to be done. Just what that something should be no two could unite in deciding, but really Major Plume or Dr. Graham ought to see that, if something wasn't done, she would break down under the awful strain. She had grown ten years older in five days, they declared—was turning fearfully gray, and they were sure she never slept a wink. Spoken to on this score, poor Miss Wren was understood to say she not only could not sleep, but she did not wish to. Had she kept awake and watched Angela, as was her duty, the child could never have succeeded in her wild escapade. The "child," by the way, had displayed rare generalship, as speedily became known. She must have made her few preparations without a betraying sound, for even Kate Sanders, in the same room, was never aroused—Kate, who was now well-night heartbroken. They found that Angela had crept downstairs in her stockings, and had put on her riding moccasins and leggings at the kitchen steps. There, in the sand, were the tracks of her long, slender feet. They found that she had taken with her a roomy hunting-pouch that hung usually in her father's den. She had filled it, apparently, with food,—tea, sugar, even lemons, for half a dozen of this precious and hoarded fruit had disappeared. Punch, too, had been provided for. She had "packed" a half-bushel of barley from the stables. There was no one to say Miss Angela nay. She might have ridden off with the flag itself and no sentry would more than think of stopping her. Just what fate had befallen her no one dare suggest. The one thing, the only one, that roused a vestige of hope was that Lieutenant Blakely had gone alone on what was thought to be her trail.

Now here was a curious condition of things. If anyone had been asked to name the most popular officer at Sandy, there would have been no end of discussion. Perhaps the choice would have lain between Sanders, Cutler, and old Westervelt—good and genial men. Asked to name the least popular officer, and, though men, and women, too, would have shrunk from saying it, the name that would have occurred to almost all was that of Blakely. And why? Simply because he stood alone, self-poised, self-reliant, said his few friends, "self-centered and selfish," said more than Mrs. Bridger, whereas a more generous man had never served at Sandy. That, however, they had yet to learn. But when a man goes his way in the world, meddling with no one else's business, and never mentioning his own, courteous and civil, but never intimate, studying a good deal but saying little, asking no favors and granting few, perhaps because seldom asked, the chances are he will win the name of being cold, indifferent, even repellent, "too high, mighty, and superior." His very virtues become a fault, for men and women love best those who are human like themselves, however they may respect. Among the troopers Blakely was as yet something of an enigma. His manner of speaking to them was unlike that of most of his fellows—it was grave, courteous, dignified, never petulant or irritable. In those old cavalry days most men better fancied something more demonstrative. "I like to see an officer flare up and—say things," said a veteran sergeant. "This here bug-catcher is too damned cold-blooded." They respected him, yes; yet they little understood and less loved him. They had known him too short a time.

But among the Indians Blakely was a demi-god. Grave, unruffled, scrupulously exact in word and deed, he made them trust him. Brave, calm, quick in moments of peril, he made them admire him. How fearlessly he had stepped into the midst of that half-frenzied sextette, tiswin drunk, and disarmed Kwonagietah and two of his fellow-revelers! How instant had been his punishment of that raging, rampant, mutinous old medicine man, 'Skiminzin, who dared to threaten him and the agency! (That episode only long years after reached the ears of the Indian Advancement Association in the imaginative East.) How gently and skillfully he had ministered to Shield's younger brother, and to the children of old Chief Toyah! It was this, in fact, that won the hate and envy of 'Skiminzin. How lavish was Blakely's bounty to the aged and to the little ones, and Indians love their children infinitely! The hatred or distrust of Indian man or woman, once incurred, is venomous and lasting. The trust, above all the gratitude, of the wild race, once fairly won, is to the full as stable. Nothing will shake it. There are those who say the love of an Indian girl, once given, surpasses that of her Circassian sister, and Bridger now was learning new stories of the Bugologist with every day of his progress in Apache lore. He had even dared to bid his impulsive little wife "go slow," should she ever again be tempted to say spiteful things of Blakely. "If what old Toyah tells me is true," said he, "and I believe him, Hualpai or Apache Mohave, there isn't a decent Indian in this part of Arizona that wouldn't give his own scalp to save Blakely." Mrs. Bridger did not tell this at the time, for she had said too much the other way; but, on this fifth day of our hero's absence, there came tidings that unloosed her lips.

Just at sunset an Indian runner rode in on one of Arnold's horses, and bearing a dispatch for Major Plume. It was from that sturdy campaigner, Captain Stout, who knew every mile of the old trail through Sunset Pass long years before even the ——th Cavalry,—the predecessors of Plume, and Wren, and Sanders,—and what Stout said no man along the Sandy ever bade him swear to.

"Surprised small band, Tontos, at dawn to-day. They had saddle blanket marked 'W. A.' [Wales Arnold], and hat and underclothing marked 'Downs.' Indian boy prisoner says Downs was caught just after the 'big burning' at Camp Sandy [Lieutenant Blakely's quarters]. He says that Alchisay, Blakely's boy courier, was with them two days before, and told him Apache Mohaves had more of Downs's things, and that a white chief's daughter was over there in the Red Rocks. Sanders, with three troops, is east of us and searching that way now. This boy says Alchisay knew that Natzie and Lola had been hiding not far from Willow Tank on the Beaver trail—our route—but had fled from there same time Angela disappeared. Against her own people Natzie would protect Blakely, even were they demanding his life in turn for her Indian lover, Shield's. If these girls can be tracked and found, I believe you will have found Blakely and will find Angela."

That night, after being fed and comforted until even an Indian could eat no more, the messenger, a young Apache Mohave, wanted papel to go to the agency, but Plume had other plans. "Take him down to Shaughnessy's," said he to Truman, "and see if he knows that girl." So take him they did, and at sight of his swarthy face the girl had given a low cry of sudden, eager joy; then, as though reading warning in his glance, turned her face away and would not talk. It was the play of almost every Apache to understand no English whatever, yet Truman could have sworn she understood when he asked her if she could guess where Angela was in hiding. The Indian lad had shaken his head and declared he knew nothing. The girl was dumb. Mrs. Bridger happened in a moment later, coming down with Mrs. Sanders to see how the strange patient was progressing. They stood in silence a moment, listening to Truman's murmured words. Then Mrs. Bridger suddenly spoke. "Ask her if she knows Natzie's cave," said she. "Natzie's cave," she repeated, with emphasis, and the Indian girl guilelessly shook her head, and then turned and covered her face with her hands.



CHAPTER XXIII

AN APACHE QUEEN

In the slant of the evening sunshine a young girl, an Indian, was crouching among the bare rocks at the edge of a steep and rugged descent. One tawny little hand, shapely in spite of scratches, was uplifted to her brows, shading her keen and restless eyes against the glare. In the other hand, the right, she held a little, circular pocket-mirror, cased in brass, and held it well down in the shade. Only the tangle of her thick, black hair and the top of her head could be seen from the westward side. Her slim young body was clothed in a dark-blue, well-made garment, half sack, half skirt, with long, loose trousers of the same material. There was fanciful embroidery of bead and thread about the throat. There was something un-Indian about the cut and fashion of the garments that suggested civilized and feminine supervision. The very way she wore her hair, parted and rolling back, instead of tumbling in thick, barbaric "bang" into her eyes, spoke of other than savage teaching; and the dainty make of her moccasins; the soft, pliant folds of the leggins that fell, Apache fashion, about her ankles, all told, with their beadwork and finish, that this was no unsought girl of the tribespeople. Even the sudden gesture with which, never looking back, she cautioned some follower to keep down, spoke significantly of rank and authority. It was a chief's daughter that knelt peering intently over the ledge of rocks toward the black shadows of the opposite slope. It was Natzie, child of a warrior leader revered among his people, though no longer spared to guide them—Natzie, who eagerly, anxiously searched the length of the dark gorge for sign or signal, and warned her companion to come no further.

Over the gloomy depths, a mile away about a jutting point, three or four buzzards were slowly circling, disturbed, yet determined. Over the broad valley that extended for miles toward the westward range of heights, the mantle of twilight was slowly creeping, as in his expressive sign language the Indian spreads his extended hands, palms down, drawing and smoothing imaginary blanket, the robe of night, over the face of nature. Far to the northward, from some point along the face of the heights, a fringe of smoke was drifting in the soft breeze sweeping down the valley from the farther Sierras. Wild, untrodden, undesired of man, the wilderness lay outspread—miles and miles of gloom and desolation, save where some lofty scarp of glistening rock, jutting from among the scattered growth of dark-hued pine and cedar, caught the brilliant rays of the declining sun.

Behind the spot where Natzie knelt, the general slope was broken by a narrow ledge or platform, bowlder-strewn—from which, almost vertically, rose the rocky scarp again. Among the sturdy, stunted fir trees, bearding the rugged face, frowned a deep fissure, dark as a wolf den, and, just in front of it, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, crouched Lola—Natzie's shadow. Rarely in reservation days, until after Blakely came as agent, were they ever seen apart, and now, in these days of exile and alarm, they were not divided. Under a spreading cedar, close to the opening, a tiny fire glowed in a crevice of the rocks, sending forth no betraying smoke. About it were some rude utensils, a pot or two, a skillet, an earthen olla, big enough to hold perhaps three gallons, two bowls of woven grass, close plaited, almost, as the famous fiber of Panama. In one of these was heaped a store of pinons, in the other a handful or two of wild plums. Sign of civilization, except a battered tin teapot, there was none, yet presently was there heard a sound that told of Anglo-Saxon presence—the soft voice of a girl in low-toned, sweet-worded song—song so murmurous it might have been inaudible save in the intense stillness of that almost breathless evening—song so low that the Indian girl, intent in her watch at the edge of the cliff, seemed not to hear at all. It was Lola who heard and turned impatiently, a black frown in her snapping eyes, and a lithe young Indian lad, hitherto unseen, dropped noiselessly from a perch somewhere above them and, filling a gourd at the olla, bent and disappeared in the narrow crevice back of the curtain of firs. The low song ceased gradually, softly, as a mother ceases her crooning lullaby, lest the very lack of the love-notes stir the drowsing baby brain to sudden waking.

With the last words barely whispered the low voice died away. The Indian lad came forth into the light again, empty-handed; plucked at Lola's gown, pointed to Natzie, for the moment forgotten, now urgently beckoning. Bending low, they ran to her. She was pointing across the deep gorge that opened a way to the southward. Something far down toward its yawning mouth had caught her eager eye, and grasping the arm of the lad with fingers that twitched and burned, she whispered in the Apache tongue:

"They're coming."

One long look the boy gave in the direction pointed, then, backing away from the edge, he quickly swept away a Navajo blanket that hung from the protruding branches of a low cedar, letting the broad light into the cavelike space beyond. There, on a hard couch of rock, skin, and blanket, lay a fevered form in rough scouting dress. There, with pinched cheeks, and eyes that heavily opened, dull and suffused, lay the soldier officer who had ridden forth to rescue and to save, himself now a crippled and helpless captive. Beside him, wringing out a wet handkerchief and spreading it on the burning forehead, knelt Angela. The girls who faced each other for the first time at the pool—the daughter of the Scotch-American captain—the daughter of the Apache Mohave chief—were again brought into strange companionship over the unconscious form of the soldier Blakely.



Resentful of the sudden glare that caused her patient to shrink and toss complainingly, Angela glanced up almost in rebuke, but was stilled by the look and attitude of the young savage. He stood with forefinger on his closed lips, bending excitedly toward her. He was cautioning her to make no sound, even while his very coming brought disturbance to her first thought—her fevered patient. Then, seeing both rebuke and question in her big, troubled eyes, the young Indian removed his finger and spoke two words: "Patchie come," and, rising, she followed him out to the flat in front.

Natzie at the moment was still crouching close to the edge, gazing intently over, one little brown hand nervously grasping the branch of a stunted cedar, the other as nervously clutching the mirror. So utterly absorbed was she that the hiss of warning, or perhaps of hatred, with which Lola greeted the sudden coming of Angela, seemed to fall unnoted on her ears. Lola, her black eyes snapping and her lips compressed, glanced up at the white girl almost in fury. Natzie, paying no heed whatever to what was occurring about her, knelt breathless at her post, watching, eagerly watching. Then, slowly, they saw her raise her right hand, still cautiously holding the little mirror, face downward, and at sight of this the Apache boy could scarcely control his trembling, and Lola, turning about, spoke some furious words, in low, intense tone, that made him shrink back toward the screen. Then the wild girl glared again at Angela, as though the sight of her were unbearable, and, with as furious a gesture, sought to drive her, too, again to the refuge of the dark cleft, but Angela never stirred. Paying no heed to Lola, the daughter of the soldier gazed only at the daughter of the chief, at Natzie, whose hand was now level with the surface of the rock. The next instant, far to the northwest flashed a slender beam of dazzling light, another—another. An interval of a second or two, and still another flash. Angela could see the tiny, nebulous dot, like will-'o-the-wisp, dancing far over among the rocks across a gloomy gorge. She had never seen it before, but knew it at a glance. The Indian girl was signaling to some of her father's people far over toward the great reservation, and the tale she told was that danger menaced. Angela could not know that it told still more,—that danger menaced not only Natzie, daughter of one warrior chief, and the chosen of another now among their heroic dead—it threatened those whom she was pledged to protect, even against her own people.