Once more the detachment gathered near the ruins of the Arnold home, and began preparations for returning to Whipple. The remains of the dead wife and mother were lifted from beneath the charred timbers and deposited in a grave near by. While the burial was taking place, the two scouts, Weaver and Cooler, were absent, looking for the Apache trail. Day was dawning, and as it was probable when they returned that the command could start, I ordered the horses fed from the loose forage scattered about, and the men to prepare their breakfast.

The scouts returned as the men were dispersing from their meal, and Cooler placed in my hand a dainty lock of flaxen hair, wound around the middle with a strand of the same.

"I found it," said the scout, "beside the ravine yonder, a little more than two miles from here. The young miss is alive, and dropped it for a 'sign.' The redskins all left in that direction."

Whatever Brenda's three cousins may have lacked in education and cultivation, they wanted nothing in affection. They gathered about the little tress, took it daintily in their palms, kissed it again and again, and moistened it with tears. Low sobs and endearing names for the brave darling who had been willing to sacrifice her life to preserve theirs fell from their lips. Poor, rude, frontier maids, they had shown an equal bravery all through the defence, and proved themselves to be worthy descendants of the race that lived through the colonial struggles with the Indians of the Mohawk Valley. The three girls gathered about me, and, clinging to my arms, besought me to go to the rescue of their cousin.

"Yes, yes, girls," I replied; "everything shall be done that possibly can be. We will start at once, and I hope to bring her back to you." Turning to the father, I said, "Mr. Arnold, I will leave you a luncheon for the road, and you must try to make the distance to Prescott on foot."

"Yes, sir; we can do it easy, thank you."

"I would leave you some of the men as escort, but in such an expedition I need more than I have."

"That's all right, Mr. Dunkin; 'f I had a beast I'd go with ye. There'll be no Apaches round these parts agin for a considerable spell," and his eyes ran sadly over the ruins of his home, the wreck of his property, resting finally on the grave of his wife.

Yes, Brenda was alive, and a prisoner of the Apaches, spared by them, probably, as children sometimes are after such raids, for adoption. It was plainly our duty to rescue her from the fate of a continued life with her captors.



XVIII

ON THE TRAIL OF THE APACHES

After a further delay, to allow the scouts and their broncos to breakfast, the party mounted and turned to the west. Calling Paul Weaver to ride by my side, I questioned him about the region before us.

"I suppose you are familiar with this part of the country, Paul?"

"Ought t' be. Trapped and hunted here since I was twenty, and I'm nigh on to sixty-five now."

"Have these Apaches a camping-place near here?"

"Yes; they spend a part of every year here-abouts, gatherin' mezcal. From the direction they've took, I b'lieve they're goin' to Santy Maree Creek."

"That flows into Bill Williams Fork, does it not?"

"Yes, an' 't has a northern and southern branch. One of th' favorite campin'-places of th' Mezcalleros 's on th' southern branch."

"How far is it from here?"

"'Bout fifty mile."

"Easy of approach?"

"Toler'ble; good ridin' all th' way, 'cept a bit of bowlder country on a divide."

"Is the camp open to attack?"

"Wide open arter yer git into th' valley. There's a waterfall, or, rather, a piece of rips ther' that 'll drown th' n'ise of our comin'."

"Isn't it strange Indians should camp in such a place?"

"They're Mezcallero 'Paches, and the'r food, th' mezcal, grows thick round ther'. 'Sides, ther's no other place on th' stream combinin' grazin' and waterin', and they've never been hunted into that region yit."

"Well, Paul, they will be now."

I urged the men on as fast as possible, taking care not to exhaust the horses and unfit them for a long pursuit. The soldiers were animated by a strong desire to punish the Indians for their treatment of the family in Skull Valley, and were excited by the fear that the gentle and beautiful young girl in their hands might fall a victim to some barbaric cruelty before they could be overtaken, so that the animals were constantly urged close to their powers of endurance.

Near the middle of the forenoon, as the soldiers were riding up a canon, on each side of which rose rugged sandstone precipices, we came to a fork in the trail and the canon. Not only the track parted, but, judging from footprints, most of the captured stock had passed to the right. Weaver said the right-hand path led to the northern branch of the Santa Maria, and the left to the southern.

I halted the detachment, perplexed. To divide my party of twenty-nine in order to follow both trails seemed to me to be inviting disaster. To take the whole number over a wrong trail and not rescue Brenda was a course to be dreaded. I called up the scouts, Weaver and Cooler, for a consultation.

"Don't you think it is probable," I asked, "that a girl who was thoughtful enough to drop a 'sign' to show she is alive and a captive, would be likely to give a hint here as to which trail she was taken over?"

"That's prob'ble, liftinint," replied Weaver. "'F you'll hold th' boys here a bit, George an' I'll ride up th' two trails a piece an' look for signs."

"Go quite a distance, too. She might not get an opportunity to drop anything for some time after leaving the fork."

"That's true, sir," said Cooler; "the redskins would naturally be watching her closely. Which way will you go, Paul?"

"Let the liftinint say," answered the elder scout, tightening his belt and readjusting his equipments for resuming his riding.

"All ready, then," said I. "You take the right, Weaver, and George the left. While you are gone we'll turn out the stock."

The scouts departed, and a few moments later the horses of the command were cropping the rich grass of the narrow valley, sentinels were placed to watch them and look for the return of the guides, and the rest of the men threw themselves upon the turf to rest.

An hour passed away, when Weaver was seen returning from the northern trail. As he approached he held something above his head. Directing the horses to be made ready, I walked forward to meet him, and received from his hand a small bow of blue ribbon, which I at once recognized to be the property of Brenda.

It now appeared certain the girl captive had been taken over the road to the right; so, without waiting for the return of Cooler, the men were ordered into their saddles, and we started along the northern trail. Our march had not long continued, however, when Private Tom Clary, who was riding in the rear, called to me. Looking back, I saw the young scout galloping rapidly forward and waving his hat in a beckoning manner.

A halt was ordered, and Cooler rode up to me and placed in my hand a lock of flaxen hair, bound with a thread of the same. Placed by the other they were twin tresses, except that the last was slightly singed by fire.

Well, tears glistened on the eyelids of some of the bronzed veterans at the sight of the tiny lock of hair. We had barely escaped taking the wrong trail.

"God bliss the darlint," said grizzled Tom Clary. "There's not a ridskin can bate her with their tricks. We'll bring her back to her frinds, b'ys, or it'll go hard wid us."

Clary's remarks were subscribed to by many hearty exclamations on the part of his fellow-soldiers. We had no difficulty in understanding that the Apaches had expected to be pursued and had dropped the ribbon to mislead us, and that Brenda had dropped her "sign" to set her friends right.

I asked the guides if it was not probable the Apaches had set a watch on the overlooking heights to see which road we should take at this point.

"It's sartin', liftinint," answered Weaver; "they're watchin' us sharp jest now."

"Then we had better continue on the northern trail awhile and mislead them, you think?"

"That's it, liftinint. That's th' best thing to do. We needn't reach their camp until after midnight, an' we might 's well spend th' time misleadin' em."

"Yes, and it'll be better to reach them a few hours after midnight, too," added Cooler; "they sleep soundest then."

"Then we will go on as we began for some time longer," I replied, and the soldiers again moved at a brisk canter over the northern trail.

An hour passed, and a halt was made in a grassy nook, where the horses were turned out to graze until dusk. Our route was then retraced to the fork and the march resumed over the southern branch.

Night overtook us on a high ridge covered with loose, rounded bowlders, over which it was necessary to lead the horses slowly, with considerable clatter and some bruises to man and beast. The rough road lasted until a considerable descent was made on the western side, and ended on the edge of a grassy valley.

At this point Weaver advised that the horses should be left and the command proceed on foot; for if the Indians were in camp at the rapids it would be impossible to approach mounted without alarming them, while if on foot the noise of the rushing water would cover the sound of all movements.

Six men were sent back to a narrow defile to prevent the attacking party from being surprised by the detachment of Indians which had taken the northern trail, should they intend to rejoin their friends at the rapids. Upon the recommendation of the scouts I determined to defer making an attack until after three o'clock, for they assured me that at that time the enemy would be feeling quite secure from pursuit and be in their deepest sleep.

The horses were picketed, guards posted, and a lunch distributed, and all not on duty lay down to wait. Time dragged slowly. About one o'clock a noise on the opposite side of the creek attracted attention, and Cooler crept away in the darkness to ascertain its cause. In half an hour he returned with the information that the party of Mezcalleros who had taken the northern trail had rejoined their friends and turned their animals into the general herd. Upon learning this I despatched a messenger to call in the six men sent to guard the defile.

When the time for starting arrived one man only was left with the picketed horses, and the rest of us slipped down the slope to the river-bottom, taking care not to rattle arms and equipments, and began a slow advance along a narrow pathway, the borders of which were lined with the spiked vegetation of the country.

Moving on for some time, I judged from the sound of flowing water that we were nearing the camp, and, halting the party, sent the scouts to reconnoitre. They returned with the information that the camp was close at hand, and contained thirteen mat and skin covered tents, or huts, and that the stolen stock and Indian ponies were grazing on a flat just beyond. No guards were visible.

The flat about the encampment was covered with Spanish-bayonet, soapweed, and cacti, with here and there a variety of palmetto, which attains a height of about twenty-five feet, the trunks shaggy with a fringe of dead spines left by each year's growth. Cooler suggested that at a given signal the trunks of two of these trees should be set on fire to light up the camp, and enable the soldiers to pick off the Apaches as they left their shelter when our attack should begin. He also proposed that we yell, saying: "If you out-yell 'em, lieutenant, you can out-fight 'em."

Although I seriously doubted whether twenty-five white throats could make as much noise as half a dozen red ones, I consented to the proposition. I sent nine men to the flat upon which the ponies and cattle were grazing, with orders to place themselves between the creek and herd, and when the firing began drive the animals into the hills.

When these instructions had been given, Surgeon Coues asked me if the firing would be directed into the tents.

"Yes, doctor," I replied.

"Of course, Miss Brenda is in one of them," he observed.

"Yes, and if we shoot into them indiscriminately we are quite as likely to hit her as any one."

"Can you think of any way of locating her?"

"No; I am at a dead loss. We will try Cooler's plan of yelling, and perhaps that will bring the Indians out."

I sent Clary, who had been directed to remain near me, for Sergeant Rafferty, and when the sergeant appeared directed him to forbid any one to fire a shot until ordered to do so.



XIX

THE ATTACK ON THE APACHE CAMP

Orders were passed and dispositions so made that one-half the force was placed on each flank of the camp. All movements were made at a considerable distance from the place to be attacked, and the utmost care taken not to make a sound that would alarm the sleeping foe. Once on the flanks, the men were to creep up slowly and stealthily to effective rifle range. When the trunks of the palmettos were lighted all were to yell as diabolically as possible, and fire at every Indian that showed himself.

The front of the camp looked towards the creek, which flowed over bowlders and pebbles with a great rush and roar. The Indians were expected in their flight to make a dash for the stream, and attempt to pass through the shoal rapids to the wooded bluffs beyond. My instructions were for the men to screen themselves on the flanks, behind the yuccas, Spanish-bayonet, emole, and cacti. Accompanied by Tom Clary and Paul Weaver, I selected a clump of vegetation on the northern side, from which the front of the tents could be observed. Sergeant Rafferty, with George Cooler, was on the opposite flank, and the lighting of a tree on my side was to be the signal for one to be lighted on the other, and for the yelling to begin.

This plan was carried out. The flash of one match was followed promptly by the flash of another. Two flames burst forth, and rapidly climbed the shaggy trunks of the little palms, lighting up the whole locality. At the same instant an imitation war-whoop burst from vigorous lungs and throats.

Every one held his rifle in readiness to shoot the escaping Apaches, but not a redskin showed his jetty head. The soldiers yelled and yelled, practising every variation ingenuity could invent in the vain attempt to make their tame white-man utterances resemble the blood-curdling, hair-raising, heart-jumping shrieks of their Indian foes, now so strangely silent. Not a savage responded vocally or otherwise.

But for the presence of the captive girl in one of the thirteen tents the attack would have begun by riddling the thinly covered shelters with bullets at low range.

The two burning trees had gone out and two others had been lighted, and it soon appeared evident that if something was not done to bring out the foe the supply of torches would soon be exhausted and nothing accomplished. In the darkness the advantage might even turn to the side of the redman.

Surgeon Coues, who reclined near me, asked: "Do you think any of those fellows understand English?"

"Perhaps a few common phrases. They know Spanish fairly well from living for some centuries near the Mexicans."

"Are they quite as old as that, lieutenant?"

"You know what I mean, doctor."

"Why not speak to Brenda in English, and ask her to try to show us where she is? The Apaches will not understand—will think you are talking to your men."

"An excellent idea, doctor. I'll try it."

Private Tom Clary was sent along both flanks with orders for all yelling to cease and for perfect quiet to be maintained. Then, acting upon the surgeon's suggestion, I called, in a clear, loud voice:

"Brenda, we are here—your friends from the fort. Your relatives are safe. Try to make a signal, or do something by which we can learn where you are. Take plenty of time, and do nothing to endanger your life."

A long silence ensued, during which two more pillars of fire burned out. I was beginning to fear I should be obliged to offer terms to the Indians, leaving them unhurt if they would yield up their captive and the stolen stock; but before I had fully considered this alternative Clary, who was returning along the rear of the line of tents from his recent errand, approached and said: "Liftinint, as I was crapin' along behoind th' wiggies I saw somethin' loike a purty white hand stickin' out from undher th' edge of th' third from this ind."

"Show it to me," said I. "I'll go with you."

Making a slight detour to the rear, the soldier and I crept up to the back of the tent indicated, pausing at a distance of twenty feet from it.

Nothing definite could be made out in the darkness. A narrow, white object was visible beneath the lower edge. Sending Clary back a few yards to light up a palm, I fixed my eyes on the object mentioned, and as the flames leaped up the trunk perceived by the flaring light a small, white hand, holding in its fingers the loose tresses of Brenda's hair. The question was settled. The captive girl was in the third tent from the right of the line.

Waiting until the fire went out, Clary and I made our way back to our former station.

"Go around the lines again, Clary, and tell Sergeant Rafferty to move his men to a point from which he can cover the rear of the camp, and open fire on all the tents except the third from the right."

"All roight, sor; th' b'ys 'll soon mak' it loively for th' rids."

"Tell the sergeant to light up some trees."

"Yes, sor."

I then crept slowly back to my own flank, and ordered a disposition of my half of the party so as to command the space in front of the line of tents. In another instant the flames were ascending two tree-trunks, and the rapid cracking of rifles broke our long reserve. With the first scream of a bullet through their flimsy shelters the Indians leaped out and ran for the river. Few fell. Rapid zigzags and the swinging of blankets and arms as they ran confused the aim of the soldiers. In less than five minutes the last Apache was out of sight, and the firing had ceased.

We dashed up to the tents, and I rushed to the one from which I had seen the hand and tress thrust out, and called, "Brenda!" There was no response or sound. Looking into the entrance, I saw in the dim light of the awakening day the figure of a girl lying on her back, her feet extended towards me, and her head touching the rear wall. The right arm lay along her side, and the left was thrown above her head, the fingers still holding her hair.

A terrible fear seized my heart. I again called the girl by her name, but received no answer. I went in, and with nervous fingers lighted a match and stooped beside her. Horror-stricken, I saw a stream of blood threading its way across the earthern floor from her left side. I shouted for Dr. Coues, and the surgeon hurried in. From his instrument-case he took a small, portable lamp, and, lighting it, fell upon his knees beside the prostrate girl.

During the following few moments, while the skilled fingers of the firm-nerved surgeon were cutting away clothing to expose the nature of the wound, my thoughts found time to wander to the distant family, on its way to the fort, and to the boy sergeants there. I thought what a sad message it would be my province to bear to them, should this dear relative and cherished friend die by savage hands.

There was little hope that the pretty girl could live. To me she seemed already claimed by death. She who had made our long and weary march from Wingate to Whipple so pleasant by her vivacity and intelligence, and had latterly brightened our occasional visits to Skull Valley, was to die in this wretched hole.

But the tactus eruditus of the young surgeon was continuing the search for some evidence that the savage stab was not fatal, and his mind was busy with means for preserving life, should there be a chance. I watched his motions, and assisted now and then when asked, and waited with strained patience for a word upon which to base a hope.

At last the surgeon gently dropped the hand whose pulse he had long been examining, and said: "She is alive, and that is about all that can be said. You see, her hands, arms, and neck are badly scorched by the dash she made through the fire at the ranch. Then this wicked knife-thrust has paralyzed her. She has bled considerably, too, but she lives. Press your finger upon this artery—here."

"Can she be made to live, doctor?"

"The knife has not touched a vital part, but it may have done irreparable injury. I can tell more presently."

Nothing more was said, except in the way of direction, for some time, the surgeon working slowly and skilfully at the wound. At last, rearranging the girl's clothing and replacing his instruments in their case, he said: "If I had the girl in the post-hospital, or in a civilized dwelling, with a good nurse, I think she might recover."

"Can't we give her the proper attendance here, doctor?" I asked.

"I fear not. She ought to have a woman's gentle care, for one thing, and some remedies and appliances I haven't with me for such a delicate case. It is the long distance between here and the fort, and the rough road, that make the outlook hopeless. She cannot survive such a journey."

"Then we will remain here, doctor," said I. "Write out a list of what you want, and I will send a man to Whipple for tents and supplies, a camp woman, Frank, Vic, and the elder Arnold girl."

"Duncan, you are inspired!" exclaimed the doctor. "I'll have my order ready by the time the messenger reports, and then we'll make Brenda comfortable."

A letter was written to Captain Bayard, the surgeon's memoranda enclosed, and a quarter of an hour afterwards fleet-footed Sancho was flying over the sixty miles to Fort Whipple as fast as Private Tom Clary could ride him. Three days later a pack-train arrived, with a laundress from the infantry company, Frank Burton, and Mary Arnold, and with stores and supplies necessary for setting up a sick-camp. The wounded girl mended rapidly from the start.

In due time Brenda recovered sufficiently to bear transportation to Prescott, where she joined her uncle and cousins. Rapid changes quickly followed. I received orders directing me to report for duty at once at the Seabury Military School, and by the same mail came letters from Colonel Burton directing his sons to accompany me. At the end of the next fortnight, just as we were packed for a journey to the Pacific coast, Brenda received instructions from her maternal relatives to make the same journey, and joined us.

Frank and Henry's project to transport their ponies East, and their plans for Manuel and Sapoya, were also carried out. Boys and ponies became a prominent contingent to the corps of cadets under my military instruction during the following three years.

Later, Henry went to West Point and became an officer of the army. Frank and Manuel went to college, the former becoming a distinguished civil engineer and the latter a prominent business man. Sapoya closed his school career at Seabury, and rejoined his people in the Indian Territory, becoming a valued and respected leader of his people.

On a beautiful lawn before a fine mansion on the eastern shore of the Hudson River, beneath the shade of a stately elm, stands a small monument, upon the top of which rests a finely chiselled model of a setter dog. Beneath, on a bronze tablet, is engraved:

"BENEATH THIS STONE LIES VICTORIANA, THE LOVED AND ESTEEMED FRIEND OF CHARLES ALFRED DUNCAN, FRANK DOUGLAS BURTON, BRENDA ARNOLD BURTON, HENRY FRANCIS BURTON, MANUEL AUGUSTINE PEREA Y LUNA, SAPOYA SNOYGON PEREA."

THE END