"'Tonio there, and wounded!" cried Archer, while Strong and Bonner almost sprang to their feet, in surprise.

"'Tonio, sir, certainly," said the sergeant. "The doctor had him dressing his wound when we came away. It was only slight."

"Then," said the general, "by this time they've got my despatches, and 'Tonio's a doomed Indian!"



CHAPTER XXIII.

The week was closing, the third of a mournful little series of seven-day happenings, the like of which Almy had never before experienced, and it was hoped might never know again. "The Moon of Many Woes," as later it transpired the Indians had named the night goddess of November, was a thing of the past. A new queen had come, hovering like silvery filament over the black barrier of the Mazatzal in a sky cloudless and glinting with myriad points of fire. The nights were cold and still, the days soft yet brilliant in the blaze of an unshrouded sun. An almost Sabbath-like calm hovered over the valley, for even signal smokes had ceased to blur the horizon. Not a hostile Indian had been heard of since the coming of Freeman's couriers. The brawling gang of "greaser" gamblers had stolen away from the "ghost ranch." Even the ghost himself seemed to walk no more. Something had happened to call the firm of Munoz y Sanchez elsewhere, and Dago, darkly glowering and scowling about the store, where day and night the bookkeeper sat absorbed in accounts and letters, muttered many a carramba, and had even been goaded into explosive carrajo, because a defrauded soldiery, thirsting for revenge or restitution, persisted in connecting him with these skilled but quite unprincipled experts of the alluring game of monte, whereas Dago hated the sight of Munoz, of whom he stood in dread.

But while all men knew the "greasers" had gone, and many wondered why, and none at Almy could tell, there was abundant reason to believe they would soon reappear. Much news had been coming in—news from Crook's column along the Mogollon and the eastward foothills—good news, too, for far and wide the Indians were heeding his Gospel of Peace, which, tersely translated, read: "Come in and be fed. Stay out and be fought," and by scores the mountain warriors, with their queerly assorted families, were flocking to the San Carlos and Apache reservations, and at last there seemed promise of a general burial of the hatchet. At last there was hope, wrote Stannard, that the Bennett boys would be restored. Good news, too, and stacks of mail, had come from Prescott and from far distant homes, but the bit of news that appealed to all but a chosen few at Camp Almy, as by all means the most important and welcome, was "The paymaster's coming!" The paymaster, indeed, after weeks of detention, was scheduled to be at the post by nightfall of the coming Tuesday or Wednesday, and Wednesday would usher in the old-time saturnalia of the south-western frontier, the joy of the laundress, soldier and sutler, the dread of every post and company commander from Her Majesty's dominion to the Mexican line—Pay Day.

And stacks of letters and some few papers and magazines—by no manner of means all that were hopefully started—had come to the Archers and Mrs. Stannard and the exiles of official Almy, and stacks of letters were there for the slowly bettering young soldier lying helpless under the commander's roof, faithfully tended and devotedly nursed, the object of the fondest hope and love and prayer—Lieutenant Harold Willett, on detached service from "the Lost and Strayed," as aide-de-camp to the commanding general, Department of Arizona, who never yet since the day he left Vancouver Barracks had set eyes on him. Most of these letters, tied in tape, stood piled like bricks upon the mantel-shelf in the darkened quarters. Some few of them, in feminine superscription and bearing the Portland postmark, Dr. Bentley had seen fit to segregate and set aside. They had been placed for safe keeping in the hands of Mrs. Stannard, of whom, said Bentley, "there are not ten women of her sense in the whole service," which, said Lieutenant Blake, of Camp McDowell, when told of the fact, "is a most egregious exaggeration," and no woman there knew just what he meant. Blake at the moment was riding boot to boot with his captain, Freeman, for between the two there dwelt an attachment and understanding rarely seen between captain and subaltern, but Freeman guffawed at his junior's whimsical remark, and told it, just to try the effect on three of the four heroines then quartered at the camp. No one of their number was there who did not envy Mrs. Stannard her place in public estimation, but no one of them, could they have known, would have envied her the plight in which she found herself—joint custodian, with Bentley, of Hal Willett's unconscious confidences—compelled to see a young girl's rapturous love lavished upon a man so saturated with the incense of feminine idolatry as to be more than apt to underrate the priceless boon of a pure woman's heart-whole devotion.

They had clipped short, and shaved, much of the hair from the back and left side of Harold's handsome head, where fell the blows that had stunned him, but as those severe contusions healed, and it transpired that the skull was sound, the doctor's main anxiety was transferred to the gunshot wound, which might well be serious in view of the amount of anatomy traversed, yet even that was healing, healthfully, steadily. "A beautiful constitution has this damned young Lovelace," said Bentley to Bucketts, in whom he had long since found a kindred spirit. "Just look at that!" and with a nod over his pipe stem, he indicated the bunch of letters forwarded from the Columbia. "Why don't you"—began Bucketts, but dropped it—he knew it was impossible. He knew, moreover, that when both mother and daughter have set their hearts on a single man, paterfamilias is powerless. "The whole family's infatuated," said Bentley, "and in his whole handsome carcase there isn't half the man in Willett that there is in that dried up little chap yonder."

"The dried up little chap yonder," dismounting slowly and carefully from one of Turner's staidest troop horses, was the unappreciated Harris, returning from one of the first tentatives in saddle. Days before this, had he been permitted, Harris would have been up and away, he cared little whither. He wished to shake the dust of Almy from his deerskins, get back to the mountains and the war-path, get over the Mazatzal to McDowell and 'Tonio—'Tonio, his faithful friend and fellow-scout, now languishing presumably behind prison bars, awaiting the orders of the Chief of Chieftains in his case, for all pleadings were vain. The last barrier to belief in his guilt had gone with the recovery of the revolver and the exposure of the cock-and-bull story, said Archer, by which he had humbugged Freeman and Blake into believing he had really been slashed in hand-to-hand fight with Tonto Apaches. The first name spoken by Willett, after the fever had left him, and speedily he began to recover sense, was that of 'Tonio—'Tonio who had shot him.

It had affected Harris to the point, almost, of relapse. He still fought vehemently against the story, declaring 'Tonio too high-minded, in spite of Indian blood and tradition, for a dirty bit of assassination. The brutal and bungling way in which the thing was done, said he, was enough to prove that 'Tonio had no hand in it. Thus could he talk to Bentley, at least, and even to Bucketts, who would listen, though he would not lie, and say he thought Harris right.

None the less there had been amaze at McDowell when Archer's demand was received. 'Tonio had been taken to hospital on his arrival, kindly, skilfully cared for by the young post surgeon, while the couriers had been sent on to Prescott. 'Tonio's wound was a knife slash in the left arm, and another in the side. He had lost much blood and had little left to build up with. He was too weak to attempt escape, wrote Major Brown, the post commander, even if he knew he was under arrest, which he did not. "If I have to confine him it shall not be with such cattle as that half cad, half coyote, Sanchez," and Harris, being very improperly told of this missive, could almost have walked the weary miles to McDowell to fall upon the major's neck and bless him. "The very fact that 'Tonio was cut and slashed conflicts with every theory in the case," said he. "Who would have cut and slashed him but Willett, if 'Tonio attacked him, and Willett had no knife."

And still Camp Almy clung to the belief that 'Tonio was Harold Willett's assailant and would-be murderer. Even Bonner, a conservative, had this to say: "Willett admits he struck 'Tonio. What Indian ever forgave that affront? He hates Willett as he loves Harris, and such an Indian love is almost as strong as his hate. We have some reason to think Willett no friend of Harris. 'Tonio went further and thought him an enemy. Couple that with his own grievance and there's more than sufficient motive for his crime."

The topic was too one-sided to be mildly interesting. Moreover, the paymaster was coming, which overshadowed all minor considerations, and Turner was to take twenty men and meet him midway over to McDowell, and could have taken fifty had volunteers been called for, and the garrison to a man would have offered to sally forth, "with mattock and with spade" to patch up the crazy road that twisted through Picacho Pass—anything to get the man and his money to Camp Almy, for "devil a cent of four months' pay had the garrison, and more than double that," said Sergeant Malloy, "is owin' me in I.O.U.'s that they wouldn't take for a treat at the store."

The night before Turner's fellows were to start, Mr. Harris coming with the doctor slowly homeward from the mess room and listening again, disgustedly, to arguments against his attempting to ride back with the paymaster to see 'Tonio at McDowell, the two came suddenly upon Archer, just stepping forth into the pallid moonlight. The general pulled up short at sight of them, and Harris silently raised his cap, the old-time salutation to the post commander.

"I was just about sending for you, Bentley," began the chief, as courteously he returned the salutation. "Bella thinks Willett's a bit flighty again, just now. Could you go in a moment? Come and take a chair, Harris," he added, as the doctor disappeared from the hallway. "We haven't seen you in a coon's age. What's this I hear about your wanting to go up to McDowell? Bentley says you're not yet strong enough."

"It's to see 'Tonio, sir. I'm about the only friend he has left," and Harris would have ignored the proffered chair, but the general again indicated his wish, which meant compliance.

"He'll need all he can get, I am afraid, my boy," and the answer was kind, even conciliatory. How was he ever going to admit to this uncompromising young campaigner that he had done him mighty wrong in his official despatch? Some time the boy must know it. Better know it through him, when it could be explained, perhaps condoned. They had exhausted the 'Tonio subject, so far as was possible between commander and subaltern. They had never yet talked it as man to man. When they did it would be on Archer's initiation, not that of Harris. The more the old soldier studied the young man the better he liked him. The less they discussed 'Tonio, the better Harris liked Archer. It was useless saying more. Harris silently took the chair at his senior's side and Archer continued:

"If it would contribute to your strength as much as your peace of mind, I'd send you over in the forbidden ambulance, my boy"—how the voice trembled at the word that so often, so constantly in bygone days, was on his lips!—"but Bentley says 'not yet'—not even for a week, so what can an old fellow do?"

"You are all that is kind—to me, general," was the grave answer, "and I hope to persuade Bentley before the paymaster goes back. If I do——"

"If you do—that settles it—— What is it, dear?" he asked, half rising from his chair. Harris was already on his feet. Lilian, all in white, save the belt at her slim waist, stood at the doorway and had spoken.

"Dr. Bentley asks that you come to him a moment, father. He is with—Mr. Willett." She saw who stood there by his side, and it was not so easy to say "Harold." Harris, bowing, would have backed from the veranda, but Archer interposed. "No, stay here awhile, lad; I—I want to talk with you. I'll be back in a moment."

Very possibly he thought he could be. But the moment lengthened. Lilian had come slowly forth. Something had told her she was neither needed nor desired in the room just then. Even her mother, silently, had left the bedside and was hovering about the doorway. And now here was Harris. Lilian had matured a little, and paled not a little, in these few days of vigil and anxiety, but she was inexpressibly lovely as she stood and looked wistfully into his face. "You know he isn't quite so well to-day?" she said. "There's fever again. He craves ice so. What wouldn't I—we—give for some? What do you think he called me"—she gave a queer little nervous laugh—"just a moment ago as I was fanning him?"

Harris did not answer. He would have hazarded "Sanctissima," possibly, as he stood there looking intently into her clear, soft eyes, with all their depth of tenderness and trust. Good God! Why should any man have to have a past, when love such as this was possible? "He called me Stella. Mother said he was dreaming of the pet dog he left at Vancouver, but his eyes were wide open—looking right up at me."

Harris knew well who Stella was. The name was appended to many a letter and "wire" that came to him during First Class camp, and later, begging him to tell her of Mr. Willett, and now here was this fair girl virtually bidding him say he had known a Stella. He ground his teeth as he turned aside to set a chair for her. There had been others since Stella, unless all indications lied. What might she not say if she knew them all?

"I called my mother Topsy and Aunt Ophelia, both, when I was getting over typhoid and Uncle Tom's Cabin," said he.

"Then Stella was only——" and the blue eyes were searching his.

"Only a—you know I was nearly 'found' in French. What would you call the parallel to a nom de plume? Nom de chien? Nom de—something visionary, at all events. He'll be sitting up day after to-morrow and telling you—all about it."

She stood before him, with those pretty, slender, white hands loosely clasped, the clear, truthful, beautiful eyes looking straight into his sun-tanned, yet pallid face. No man in his time at the Point had ever known Harris to flinch at the truth or dodge an issue. "He is square as they make 'em," was the verdict of his classmates, and square he had been through his subaltern days, and now to be square meant the dealing to this sweet and trusting girl a blow that, while it might down his rival, would wreck her happiness. He now had dodged an issue at last, and then came the further trial:

"Mr. Harris, dogs don't write. Harold's talking about Stella's letters, and says you get them."

He had dodged. He might as well flinch. The truth he would not tell her. A lie he could not tell her. He did, perhaps, the best he could for himself and the worst, perhaps, for her. He acted.

"Don't believe a word of it, Miss Lilian. He's mooning yet."

"Then—there wasn't any girl?—any letters?"

"There's only one girl in creation he cares for."

"But—Stella?" she persisted.

"Never saw his Stella in all my life. What he needs is ice, and I'm going to see he gets it."

With that he was gone, deaf to the words of relief the poor child would have spoken—trying to be deaf to the fierce upbraiding of conscience, and failing as he deserved, miserably.

An hour later that evening, with a pack mule, blankets, old newspapers and a brace of cracker boxes, two half-tamed Mohaves were heading for the heights to the north-east, where water would freeze in the canteens these December nights, and the rock tanks were nearly solid ice. Two hours later while Harris, nervous, irritable, and filled with nameless self-reproach, was pacing the narrow veranda at the doctor's quarters, there was a stir at the southward end of the post, a sound of hoofbeats and footfalls, a running to and fro and lighting up at the office. An orderly came on the jump and banged at the adjutant's door, and Strong shuffled forth in the moonlight and joined other dark forms over at head-quarters. The sentries were calling the midnight hour without, and the doctor was snoring placidly within. It was barely ten minutes before Strong came back, in one of his hurries, and Harris hailed for the tidings.

"Oh, you'll be glad, I'm betting!" was the answer, half-rueful, half-relieved, for somehow Strong had "taken to" the doctor's guest—and to doubting his own. "Those galoots at McDowell let up on their watch, and 'Tonio's walked off—'gone where the woodbine twineth'—'Patchie Sanchez with him!"



CHAPTER XXIV.

That meant new trouble—trouble for Major Brown commanding the little two-company station—the "tuppenny post," his subaltern, Blake, derisively termed it—trouble for Blake, who was officer of the day, and was held on tenterhooks for many a day thereafter—trouble for Sergeant Collins, who was directly in command of the guard—"Collins ne Oolahan," as Freeman wrote him down, it having been discovered that this versatile Celt had served a previous enlistment in the "Lost and Strayed," when four of its companies were pioneering shortly after the war, where even the paymaster couldn't find them. Such of them as could be found in course of years were gathered up and sent to San Francisco for further exploration in other desert lands, but Oolahan and four of his fellows of Company "A," not having returned from wagon escort duty, were finally dropped as dead or deserted (those were days wherein nobody much cared which), whereas they were merely drunk at Cerbat. Under other names, as orthodox as the originals, they were now doing valorous and valuable service in other commands, Collins in particular proving a capital fighter and trooper, to the end that the best interests of the service were subserved by keeping a keen eye on his present and a "Nelson blind" on his past. Of the three soldiers thus involved at McDowell, Collins was the one who took it most to heart, for Collins had come to think ill of 'Tonio, whom at first he had championed. Collins despised 'Patchie Sanchez, whom he had known five years, and described as a "durrty cross betune a skunk and a spitbox," a greaser Indian who would knife his best friend. As for 'Tonio, whom he had known ever since he came to Arizona in '65, and once held to be "the wan good Indian in it," 'Tonio had made him believe he too held Sanchez in contempt. Yet, to all appearance, the two, who up to this night had been confined entirely apart, had gone together. One of the counts in the unwritten indictments against McDowell was that its officers and men had lionized the dangerous Indian they were bidden to hold under careful guard, had held him without bond or shackle in a vacant room of the hospital, until that very day, when, stung by an inspector's comment, Brown ordered him at last into confinement with Sanchez, who was shackled to a post in the prison room. Yet all that was left of either was the "greaser's" chains. Could there have been collusion?

It meant more trouble for 'Tonio. Instead of facing investigation, as Harris declared he would, he had fled. It even meant more trouble for Harris, who, having stood his friend through thick and thin, proclaimed his innocence in spite of accumulation of evidence, now found himself utterly alone in his views and all Almy beginning to veer over to Willett. Willett, now able at last to recognize those about him, was sitting up a little to be nursed and petted and read to, a recovery in which the ice, for which Harris had sent his Indian followers forty miles, had played no unimportant part. Willett was now the object of devoted care and unspeakable interest, for all Almy hoped to hear the story of the assault with intent to kill. But Almy was doomed to disappointment. Beyond the expression of an unalterable conviction that he had been shot down from ambush by 'Tonio, hammered senseless, and left for dead, Willett declared he knew no more about it than they did. He seemed, in fact, to know as little of them as he knew of Stella, when at last the doctor gave him, without a word, the little packet held in trust by Mrs. Stannard. "He is muddle-headed yet," said Bentley, in explanation. "He'll know more after awhile, which is more than we may," was the mental addition, as he looked into Mrs. Stannard's doubtful eyes.

But meanwhile further tidings had come from the San Carlos and beyond. "Big Chief Jake" had been doing some famous rounding up among the late recalcitrants. The General-in-Chief had given a feast to the incoming Indians, had shaken hands with their leaders, ordered rations for the families until the agency could again take them under its wing, had detailed escorts to conduct them by easy stages to the reservation set apart for them, but, as punctilious to the keeping of one part of a promise as to another, he sent forth his scouting parties to look up those Indians who had not come in, with strict orders to stick to it until the fate of the Bennett boys was definitely settled, and the scattered renegades were captured or destroyed. And this was why Mrs. Stannard was destined to wait still awhile longer for the home-coming of her beloved captain. This was why, within the week that followed their mission in quest of ice, three Indian scouts that were still "casuals" at Almy, set forth eastward, full panoplied for the field, with little Harris at their head.

"Wouldn't you like to see Harold before you go?" Mrs. Archer had asked him when he called to say good-by. Her heart had warmed to him, as had Lilian's, in grateful appreciation of that gift of ice ("though of course Mr. Harris should know that now, under the circumstances, he really—well, it wasn't at all a matter to be spoken about, but dear Mrs. Stannard could see for herself that—it were quite as well that Mr. Harris got back to his duties"). Both mother and daughter, knowing well what it must have cost in time and labor, had thanked Harris very prettily, and fully meant all they said, which kept them from saying too much. It was but natural that his classmates should do anything for Harold.

"Would he care to see me?" asked Harris, very quietly.

"Well, he is sleeping just now, and he needs that so much. Lilian soothes him to sleep when no medicine can. He can't bear to have her out of his sight."

"Then I think I should not disturb them," said Harris. "He'll be himself again before we are a week away, and you can say good-by for me, also to Miss Lilian, will you not?"

It was thus he would have gone, but, as he turned away, compassion seized the mother's gentle heart, still bleeding—bleeding for her own beloved boy. After all, how could any young fellow help loving her Lilian? How could Harris help it? Why should she wish to seek to hold him aloof? "Come back one minute," she cried, half choking, then disappeared within.

And so he turned again. He could not well refuse, and presently She came and smiled upon him and put her long, slim hand, cool from contact with iced towelling, into his hot, dry palm, and slipped the fingers slowly forth again, and spoke almost in whisper, lest the sleeper might hear her voice and know she had ventured forth and was conversing with some other man—all in that exaggerated precaution of word and manner that, whenever so much in love with one man, a girl so often observes toward others even ever so little in love with her.

"You have been so good to—us, Mr. Harris, and I know how—he will thank you when he is able. Till then you must let me. Good-by!" Poor comfort at best, yet what one of us would not have sought it rather than nothing? And then she was gone lest he should awake and remember—or Harris should awake and—and forget. She was but a child, after all, and her fond and beloved mother little less so.

And of such was Harris's leave taking, cool as his contribution to that happy rival's comfort, he thought, as he rode drearily away to the ford, with but a wave of the hand in response to the shout of Craney and Watts at the shack, while "Barkeep" and a few hangers-on stood gazing from under the canvas shade at the store, and Case, the silent bookkeeper, bent over his desk by the east window—the desk wherein still reposed that big calibre 44, with every chamber loaded and the handle more coated with dust.

Half-way to the ford Harris's broncho stumbled and kicked up a muddy splash in the shallow pool. His rider reined him up sharply and spurred on; the three pack mules, following in file a scrawny Mexican on the bell horse, shied clear of the water cloud and emerged with dripping bellies from a deeper pool just to the left. The Indians, skipping dry-shod over the bowlders, a dozen yards below, turned their heads at sound of the stumble, and their keen eyes exchanged glances. Presently one of them shed his moccasins and waded in toward the mud cloud on the face of the rippling waters, and, while his companions stood at the bank, began searching in the knee-deep puddle. Presently again he swooped, thrust down a bare, brown arm almost to the shoulder, and drew forth a dripping object a foot long, covered with rust and mud. "Huh!" was all he said, as he splashed back to shore, exhibiting his prize to his fellows. Then together the three went a jog trot after Harris and held it up for his inspection. He took it curiously—an old-fashioned, war-time, percussion-capped Navy Colt—the pistol officers carried through the four years of battling in preference to the so-called Army Colt issued to the cavalry. "Some relic of the old volunteer days at Almy," said Harris to himself, and bade the Indian keep it. Nor did he think again of that pistol until many days later.

That night they bivouacked among the tanks under Diamond Butte. Next day, toward sunset, as the smoke from the little cook fire went sailing aloft from the bank of a mountain stream that came tumbling from the Black Mesa, another little column of smoke answered from among the pines far up the heights. An Indian touched the young soldier's sleeve and pointed. Another moment and he was up, blanket in hand and signalling. That night the escaped prisoner, whom all commanders of posts or detachments were ordered to arrest wherever found, stood erect in the firelight, clasping hands with his young leader—'Tonio, the Apache-Mohave, and 'Tonio had a stirring tale to tell.

Barely five days later still, Archer and his wife sat hand in hand in the cool veranda, taking the air. The sun was just down and the flag had just fluttered to its rest. From the open casement came the murmur of happy voices, one so very happy it thrilled their hearts. Across the barren parade the men were just breaking ranks after retreat inspection, and the officers were coming homeward, unbelting sword or sabre as they neared their doors, in the impatient fashion of the day. Strong, the adjutant, still precise and buckled, stalked up to his commander's steps, halted, saluted, and said: "All present, sir, and couriers coming up the valley."

Archer rose to his feet and reached for his binocular. Forgetful of supper, many men began to gather at the edge of the bluff over by the office. A brace of sergeants had clambered to the lookout, and Mrs. Stannard, eager ever for news from her husband, came hurrying to join her friends. Twilight faded with almost tropical suddenness, but not before the coming riders could be recognized as troopers, and Mrs. Stannard's heart was praying they might be her Luce's men.

"If you had your wish," said Archer, as he lowered the glass and turned to where the two friends stood, their arms entwining, "what would you ask for, Mrs. Stannard?"

"My husband, I suppose," was the answer, "and yet—I've been sitting hours by poor Mrs. Bennett this day," and the blue eyes began to fill.

"Heaven send us news of those little fellows soon," said Archer piously. "If not, I'm afraid her heart will break. Bentley says the faint hope is all that holds her. Listen to that!" he suddenly cried. "Listen!"

Far down beyond the store somebody had set up a shout. Then, as they stood with beating hearts and straining ears, from the store itself went up another—three, four voices in unison—a shout that set every man along the edge of the mesa to swinging his hat. But a veteran sergeant, Bonner's level-headed right bower, sprang among them, with uplifted hand and voice. "Quiet, men! Don't yell! Wait!" Then he came hurrying across the parade, straight to his post commander. "What is it, sergeant?" was the anxious query, and at the very moment the riders came wearily jogging over the brow of the hill.

"Couriers from General Crook, sir. They say the boys are found—safe."

Bentley was there almost as the foremost horseman sprang from saddle. "Not a word of it to her—yet!" said he. "Wait until we know exactly. Go you, sergeant, and tell the steward on no account to let any one disturb her." And by this time Archer had torn open the letter handed him, and Doyle had come running out with a lamp. The expressions that chased each other over the general's features as he hurriedly read would have baffled an actor: first rejoicing, then amaze, then perplexity, if not trouble. "Can you tell us, dear?" was the gentle query that recalled him.

"Read it—aloud," he said, and though her voice was tremulous, the tone was clear and the hush breathless. Even Lilian and her lover could hear every word.

CAMP ON TONTO CREEK, December —, 5:30 A.M.

DEAR GENERAL:

Almy scores again. General Crook sends his best congratulations. The little Bennetts should be safely with you to-night. We see them as far as El Caporal. The general takes short cut for McDowell and thence home. Old Stannard never slept from the moment he got the word until he got the boys. Harris and 'Tonio located the rancheria and led unerringly. We are all happy.

Yours in haste,

BRIGHT.

Even in her womanly joy over the rescue, there was wifely sympathy and instant understanding of her husband's swift-changing mood. The children were safe—that meant rejoicing for all. Stannard and his troop were the rescuers—that meant credit and triumph for Archer's post, and the general awarded it. But Harris and 'Tonio were the discoverers and leaders. 'Tonio, probably, was the man without whose aid nothing could have been accomplished. 'Tonio was the hero, therefore, in the eyes of the commanding general—'Tonio, the man whom Archer would have condemned and shot. This meant perplexity, if not worry, as she quickly saw, and went and nestled to his side. Did ever soldier have such contrary luck as did hers?

But all were crowding about the couriers for particulars. "Yes," said the sturdy corporal, who was spokesman for the two, "the little fellows had been brought in a mule litter from way over toward Chevlon's Fork, straight to Crook's camp." Captain Stannard with most of his people would scout the country far as the Chiquito before returning. Lieutenant Harris and 'Tonio stayed with him, and the general's escort from "G" troop brought in the boys.

And by ten o'clock another rider came loping in. The party with the litter were just behind, the tiny occupants worn out and sound asleep. "Take them straight to the hospital," said Dr. Bentley. "Mrs. Archer, Mrs. Stannard, will you come with me?"

All Almy sat up late that night. Probably not a soldier eye was closed until long after eleven, and half the garrison clustered about the hospital, treading on tiptoe and speaking in whispers, as the little fellows were tenderly lifted from the litter, the weary mules were led away, and, in the arms of Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard, the sleeping boys were borne, without word or sound, to the darkened room where, in the broad white bed that had been the hospital matron's, lay in the slumber of exhaustion their unconscious mother. Bentley closed the door behind them, noiselessly as possible. The steward and his wife, both with tear-brimming eyes, stood by to aid. Deft hands disrobed the sleeping little forms (Mrs. Archer nearly sobbing aloud at sight of their thinned and wasted limbs), and invested them in borrowed "nighties" from buxom Mrs. Kelly's store. Then, cautiously, noiselessly, the light coverlet was partly raised, the weary little curly heads were pillowed close beside the mother's, and then, leaving the night light turned low, stealthily they drew away and waited. "She never sleeps more'n an hour or two at a time," whispered the steward. "She'll be sure to wake before long," and so they lingered near the doorway, and Camp Almy, much of it, clustered in the moonlight without. Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and still there was no sound from the darkened room, and then, over at the guardhouse, the sentry on Number One started the call of eleven o'clock. Number Two, at the storehouse, took it up in his turn and trolled off his "All's well," and then it was Number Three's turn, out just under the edge of the bench, and Three muffled his voice and strove to turn it into a lullaby as he began, and, as the first words of the soldier watch cry came floating in through the partly open window, Mrs. Archer's hand stole forth and clasped that of Mrs. Stannard's, for the mother had begun to stir. Then, finger on lips, in tremulous excitement, those loving-hearted friends bent forward, and the watchers, five, listened and gazed, the women quivering with sympathy and emotion, for Mrs. Bennett's dark head was slowly lifting from the pillow, and then, all on a sudden went up a piercing cry—in a very agony of joy—incredulous, intolerable—"Danny! DANNY! Oh, my God! Don't say I'm dreaming! And JIMMY!"

And then, with lusty yowl, the younger of the startled cherubs entered his protest against this summary awakening, and the words of ecstatic thanksgiving were for the moment drowned in the chorus of infant lamentation. Even the rapture of restoration to mother arms was dimmed by consideration of present discomfort.

But within were glad-hearted friends, weeping joyfully with her. Without were sturdy soldiers, shaking hands and slapping backs and shoulders in clumsy delight, and somebody was moved to say he'd bet the Old Man wouldn't care if it was after taps, "and—Craney's was still open."

And so by dozens they went trooping down, for, though cash was scant and the paymaster overdue, the rules were suspended and Craney bade "Barkeep" credit all comers who drank to Harris; and Case, the bookkeeper, with white and twitching face, waylaid such men as came from the escort with odd, insistent questioning. If 'Tonio was really leader in the rescue, had nothing been seen of 'Patchie Sanchez? Was Sanchez heard of—nowhere?—until, with his fifth free drink to the health of everybody concerned, Corporal Dooley turned on Case with "What the hell's it to you, anyhow, whether 'Tonio led or Sanchez's dead?" and Craney, listening and watching, turned to Watts and asked had Case begun again? If so, they couldn't too speedily check him. "Come up here, if you're a man," insisted Dooley, "and have wan on me to big little Harris and 'Tonio—'Tonio, bedad, even if he did do up Loot'nent Willett!"

Whereat, even in the noisy barroom there was sudden silence, save for responsive murmurs of 'Tonio's name, for strange sympathy had come sifting in from the columns afield. But Craney had heard in the adjoining room and was up in an instant, Watts following suit. This would never do. This was disloyalty to the best and gentlest and most courteous of post commanders, and no soldier should, no employe of his could, drink such a toast within Craney's doors. But he need not have feared. Promptly a big sergeant had interposed, and caught the corporal by the wrist, with thunderous "None of that, Dooley!" Prompt came Case's answer, though low-toned and guarded: "I'm drinking nothing, man, till after pay-day. Then come at me and I'll settle it with you drink for drink."

But Dooley's Irish blood was up, five fingers of tanglefoot tingling in each fist and bubbling in his brain. Struggling in the sergeant's grasp, he shouted his reply: "Settle be damned! How'd you settle wid Willett for the girl he did you out? Bluffed him on a queen high, and called it square! You're nothin' but a bluffer, Case, an' all Vancouver knowed it!" In the instant of awkward, amazed silence that followed no man moved. Then, his face still whiter, his lips livid, Case turned to Sergeant Woodrow. "That man has no right to be heard here—much less to be wearing chevrons," said he. "His name's Quigley, a deserter from the Lost and Strayed!"

It was then just midnight, and the sergeant of the guard, coming to close the festivities, went back with an unlooked-for prisoner, who, every inch of the way, cursed and foamed and fought, and swore hideous vengeance on Case for a cur and a coward, so that the fury of his denunciation reached even the general's quarters, where peace and congratulation were having sway, and lovers were still whispering ere parting for the night—reached even the ears of Willett himself, reclining blissfully at the open window, with Lilian's hand in his, her fair head pillowed on his shoulder. There in the open hearth lay the ashes of the letters, unread, unopened, that had come to accuse him, but even the fires of hell could not burn out the memory of the wrong that, after all, had tracked him here unerringly, for in the few half-drunken, all-damning words that reached him, Harold Willett heard the trumpeting of his own disgrace. His sin had found him out.

And, barely an hour before, he had sworn to her that the Stella of whom he had babbled in his dreams was indeed but a favorite hound he had lost in the Columbia; that no Stella had penned a line to him in years, and, taking her sweet, upturned face between his palms, with the soft, tender brown eyes looking fondly down into the trustful, beautiful blue, he had said: "My darling, like other men, I have had fancies in boyish days, and even a flame or two, but never a love, real love, until you came into my life. In a week now I must be with my general at Prescott, but every day, every moment of my absence, you will be the only girl in all the world to me. I shall shrink from the mere touch of another hand. I shall count the hours until you become my wife."

And she believed him, utterly, poor soul. He even believed himself.



CHAPTER XXV.

The Gray Fox had returned to his own. The general commanding the department was spending a month at head-quarters—for him, who loved the mountains and the field, a most unusual thing. The wild tribes of Arizona, with the exception of one specially exempted band of Chiricahuas and a few hopeless desperadoes with a price on their heads, were gathered to their reservations—a most unheard-of thing in all previous annals of the territory—and a season of unprecedented gayety had dawned on the post of Fort Whipple and the adjacent martial settlement, the homes of the staff and their families. The general and his good wife, childless, and boundless in their hospitality, had opened their doors to army wayfarers. New officers were there from 'Frisco and the States. Matrons and young women, new to Arizona, had come to enliven the once isolated posts of the desert and mountain. Major Dennis, of one supply department, was accompanied by a young and lovely and lively wife, who danced, if Dennis did not. Major Prime, of another, had recently been joined by his wife and two daughters, bright, vivacious girls, just out of school and into society, and, perhaps most important of all, Colonel and Mrs. Darrah, of the Infantry, had come, accompanied by their daughter Evelyn, as beautiful and dashing a belle as had ever bewildered the bachelors about the Golden Gate, and from every camp or post within a hundred miles or more junior officers had been called in to Prescott, on "Board," court-martial duty or leave, until nearly a dozen were gathered, and while boards and courts dragged their slow length, and maps, reports and records of the recent campaign were being laboriously yawned over at odd intervals during the sunshiny days, far more thought and time and attention were being given to riding, driving, tramping and picnic parties—even croquet coming in for honorable mention—while every night had its "hop" and some nights their ball that lasted well toward morning, and for the first time in its history "head-quarters" was actually gay. Time had been in the recent past when a Fort Whipple hop consisted, as said a cynical chief commissary, in "putting on full uniform and watching Thompson dance a waltz," there being then but one officer at the station equipped with the requisite accomplishment. Now there were more dancers than girl partners. The latter were in their glory, and the married women in clover. "Let them have a good time," said the chief, when his pragmatical adjutant would have suggested sending some of them back to their posts to finish maps and reports they were only neglecting here. "But they'll be getting impatient at division head-quarters," said the man of tape and rule. It was a whip which often told on department commanders, but not on Crook. "Let them have a good time. Every one of those youngsters has been scouting and fighting and living on bacon and beans for the last six months, and I like to see them dance." The office-bred officer sighed, and wondered what the papers, or Congress, would say if they knew it. The service-tried soldier said he'd take all the raps and responsibility, and that ended it. So here were the young gallants of the cavalry and infantry, active, slender, sinewy, clear-eyed, bronze-cheeked fellows, as a rule, capital dancers and riders, all-round partners, too, though few had a penny laid by for a rainy day, and several had mortgaged pay accounts. There was Billy Ray, from Camp Cameron, who could outride a vaquero, and "Legs" Blake from McDowell, who could outclimb an Apache, and Stryker, of the scouts, who had won fame in a year, and "Lord" Mitchell, his classmate, whom the troopers laughed at for a fop the first few months, and then worshipped for his daring after the pitched battle at the Caves. There were three or four young benedicts with better halves in the far East, who had forgotten little of their dancing days, and not too much of their wooing, and there were lesser lights among the subs, and two or three captains still uncaught, and even one or two men of whom others spoke not too highly, like Craven, and "that man Gleason," to whom Blake would not speak at all. Then there were Steele and Kelly from Wickenberg and Date Creek, and Strong was to come up from Almy, bringing with him in chains the desperado, 'Patchie Sanchez, secreted by his own people when charged with the killing of the interpreter, but tamely sold when a price was set on his head. And the commander sent still another missive to Archer, whom the luckier general held in especial affection, enclosing one from the good wife to Mrs. Archer, begging that she and Lilian should be their guests for a week, "and as long thereafter as practicable," that the engagement might be ratified and celebrated, "for we all think Mr. Willett the most fortunate of men."

And then, of course, there were Wickham and Bright, the general's other aides, who were famous entertainers, and then, above all, perhaps—pitted for the first time against all the soldier beaux of Arizona—there was the general's latest acquisition, handsome, graceful, charming Hal Willett, who had, with characteristic modesty, made no mention of the fact that he was an engaged man until Mrs. Stannard's letter to Mrs. Crook told all about it, and we, who knew and loved Mrs. Stannard, knew just why she wrote, and never blamed her, as did Willett.

The very night of the very day it came he was dancing gloriously with, and had been saying things to, Evelyn Darrah that she one day earlier had listened to with bated breath. Now his mustache swept her pretty ear as he lowered his head in the midst of the loveliest "glide," and murmured something more, whereat she had suddenly swung herself out of the circle of his arm, swept him a stately courtesy and fairly startled—stunned him by the question: "Isn't that just a little high—for a gentleman's game, Mr. Willett?"

The very words were enough to amaze him! "What on earth do you mean?" he demanded, as soon as he recovered self-control.

"I mean," said she, straightening to her full height again, and looking him fairly in the eyes, "that for an engaged man you have exceeded, or, as you would say, 'raised the limit.'"

There were dozens dancing, chatting, laughing about them, and some few watching, for his attentions, first to pretty Mrs. Dennis, and then the devotions by means of which he had swept aside all other suitors of Evelyn Darrah, had set all tongues to wagging. "The old Willett over again," said Bright, who had known him at the Point. Only that day had the mail come up from Almy and McDowell, and he ought to have known what it would betray. There must have been other letters—men's letters—for at mess there had been sly allusions to the fluctuations of fortune, the comparative values of "straights" and "pats," and this girl had turned and taunted him with the very words of that infernal, and he had hoped, forgotten game. Moreover, she, a brilliant, beautiful, practised woman of society, by no means the delicate and sensitive little desert flower whose worship he had won so readily, had dared to fence with him, had interested, piqued, fascinated, and now wellnigh bewitched him. He was not yet well of his wounds by any manner of means. He was still weak—far too weak to ride or climb or do much in the way of walking, but he could look, and be most interesting lolling in an invalid chair. Women had come and ministered to him in his convalescence, and pretty Mrs. Dennis had made quite a fool of herself, said certain elders, but when it came to cutting in for Evelyn Darrah, Willett had had to be up and doing, even finally, for her and her alone, as he murmured, daring to dance. There was nothing else he did so supremely well, and men and women watched them enviously, perhaps, yet delightedly, and men and women were watching now as he followed her to her seat, dropped to the one beside her, and bent absorbedly over her again, pale, agitated, and they saw her speaking, saw him vehemently pleading, saw him prevailing, for his pallor and emotion lent force to his impassioned words. Practised belle, coquette, flirt she might have been, but the woman is rare indeed who can utterly disbelieve, in face of such a combination, that she at least is loved. Stella's impassioned letters once lay in unbroken packages upon his mantel. Another star had risen and set, and sent its missives only to the ashes of his grate, and now this very night, hidden in his desk, lay long, close-written, criss-crossed, exquisite pages, the outpourings of a young and guileless and glorious nature, and they, too, lay, as did that early Stella's, unread, unheeded, almost undesired, for the man was inflamed by this dauntless woman's defiance of him, and the devil in him was urging: woo her, win her, conquer her, crush her, come what may!

That night was but one of several in quick succession. On every hand he had to smile, and say conventional words of thanks for the pointed and repeated congratulations showered upon him. Men and women went out of their way at every turn to remind him, as it were, that he was a mortgaged man; and yet, so strangely was he constituted, life for him at the moment seemed to have but one object worth attaining—Evelyn Darrah. Day and night he sought her, pursued her, and men began to shun him, and he never heeded. Women began to shrink from her, and she saw, yet, for to some there is the gambler's madness in the game, she let them shrink. What were their slights in comparison with the thrilling joy of this conquest? This man was at her feet, abject, pleading, praying. It was hers to spurn or sway him as she would. Never doubting her own power to turn him any instant adrift, she found delight in the passion of so virile, graceful, glorious a lover, the man of whom she had heard other women speak for three long years, and now he was hers—hers to do with as she dared—to break or make as was her caprice. What—what if men looked stern and women shrank? This was a game well worth the candle, let them sneer who would.

What had promised to be a fortnight of jollification had become charged with matters of grave moment. Strong had arrived, bringing the shackled Sanchez, and, when hospitably bidden to stay a week and have some fun, he said he reckoned he ought to get back as quick as possible—"the Old Man had much to bother him," this in confidence to Bright. "The Old Man's coming up here," said Bright, "quick as the general can coax him, and he's just going to have a welcome that will warm the cockles of his heart," and then, like the loyal aide he was, Bright essayed to make Archer's adjutant see that while the general commanding had been constrained to differ with the commander at Camp, Almy, he personally held him in affection and esteem. "I'm afraid," said he, "General Archer thinks he is misunderstood about this 'Tonio business, and—and—Harris. Here's Willett, now, perfectly willing to drop the whole case against 'Tonio and say no more about it."

"What?" said Strong, in amaze. "Why, at Almy he damned him time and again—swore he had twice tried to kill him. If he acquits 'Tonio, whom in God's name does he suspect?" asked Strong, a queer thought occurring to him as he recalled the furious words of the deserter Dooley, alias Quigley, another prisoner to be tried.

Bright dodged. "The queer thing about it," said he, "is that Brown there, at McDowell, is demanding investigation, and says he believes there was collusion in camp—men who insist that 'Tonio's a trump. And now we have news from Harris, and he demands investigation, in 'Tonio's name—says there's a side to the story only 'Tonio can tell, and will tell only to the Big Chief."

Strong pondered a moment. "There's more than one queer thing we can't fathom at Almy," said he. "Harris and 'Tonio never had anything to do with that Sanchez crowd. 'Tother Sanchez, and Munoz, helped the chase of 'Tonio—did their best to catch him, and yet over at McDowell they're thick as thieves."

"Not a bit of it! They never saw each other until—well, somebody made Brown believe the general would censure his showing favors to 'Tonio, so what does he do but order him in with Sanchez. That night both get away. Then 'Patchie's own people brought him back for cash. There isn't money or blood enough in all Arizona to tempt them to lay hands on 'Tonio. Sanchez wants to talk with the general, says he can tell things the chief would like to know. Can he?"

"How should I know?" asked Strong. "There's more of a mix in this business than I can straighten out. It looks to me as though more than one man had his grudge against this fine feathered bird that came down to show us how to tackle Apaches," and Bright changed the subject, as was his way when men or women ventured to question the methods of the Powers. All the same, he told his general of Strong's suspicions, and that night the general summoned both Sanchez and Strong, and there was a scene in the moonlight, down by the old log guard-house.

Sanchez, heavily shackled and scared almost out of his wits in the belief that he would speedily be hanged, or shot to death, fell on his knees at sight of the tall, bearded commander, and strove to seize his hand. In the indescribable jargon of the Indo-Mexican frontier, he implored the general's mercy; he wailed that he was a poor and wronged and innocent man. He had no thought of killing—only inducing the interpreter to leave him, and the interpreter tried to shoot him. It was to save his own life he slashed at his guardian and ran, never knowing he had hurt him. He was frightened at McDowell; thought soldiers planned to lynch him. He dared not stay. He had filed his shackles and the window bars, and was watching opportunity to tear them loose and run, when 'Tonio was put in his cell. That night he saw his chance, climbed out and slid away to the mountains, just before the third relief was inspected, but he did not wake or tell 'Tonio. 'Tonio was a wicked Indian, who twice tried to kill Lieutenant Willett. 'Tonio should be hanged. 'Tonio's people hated Sanchez, because he "always friend to the Big Chief Crook and the Americanos." 'Tonio knew where to find him, it seems, and set Lieutenant Harris to catch him. Now, said Sanchez, if Big Chief only would let him go he would bring in two, three 'Patchie-Mohaves, 'Tonio's own people, who saw 'Tonio shoot and try to kill Teniente Willett—saw him shoot and club, shoot twice. Sanchez called on the Blessed Virgin and all the saints to witness his innocence, his entire truth, and the chief, with just one gesture of disbelief and disgust, turned quietly away.

"You may as well tell him, Wickham," said he, and, with Bright at his side, strode back to head-quarters hill, leaving Strong and his senior aide to settle the matter.

"You damned fool!" said Blackbeard contemptuously. "It wasn't 'Tonio; it was your own people gave you up. It wasn't 'Tonio; it was your own brother shot Teniente Willett. His own revolver was found at the spot. Your own people say he did it!"

"Lie! Lie!" shrieked Sanchez, livid from fright and amaze. "Jose no have pistol that night. Jose lose him to Case—monte—two days before! Case shoot him! Case shoot him! Munoz see him. 'Patchie-Mohave see him! Look, Senor Capitan, I bring them all—all say so."

"I thought we'd be getting at bottom facts before we finished with our greaser gang," said Wickham, with no symptom of either surprise or emotion. "Very good, Sanchez. We'll give you the chance to swear to it and bring your witnesses. Take him in, sergeant, and keep this to yourself. Now bring out Dooley."

Half an hour later, just as the midnight call of the sentries was going the rounds, Hal Willett, after whispered words of good-night to a tall and slender shadow at Darrah's door, came swiftly up the steps of his new quarters, and was surprised to find a little group at the adjoining veranda. Two civilians were there, one of whom he knew to be the sheriff. Strong was there and Wickham was giving some instructions in low tone to the three.

"You start at dawn," were the words that caught Willett's ear, "and you should have him at Prescott within the week. Sure you need no further escort?"

"Sure," was the sententious answer of the tall civilian, as he sauntered to the steps.

"What is it?" asked Willett, at a venture.

"Just a flyer, Willett," said Blackbeard, in the most off-hand manner imaginable. "Sanchez swears it was Case who shot you, and we're having him up to explain."

For an instant four men stood watching Willett's face. Pale at almost any time of late, it seemed to have turned ashen in the pallid light about them. He swayed, too, a trifle, as though from sudden shock, and it was a second or two before he found his voice. Then:

"What infernal rot! Didn't they find my own pistol, that 'Tonio had stolen, where his fellows or he had dropped it in their flight?"

"O, Lord, yes," was the airy answer, "five miles away. But Harris found the real one, right there at the spot. Case won it from Sanchez just two days before. So he'll be here with 'Tonio the end of the week."



CHAPTER XXVI.

That week was a bad one for Harold Willett. The general, taking Bright with him as usual, had whirled away in his stout spring wagon to supervise the re-establishment of the Indians lately in rebellion. The agent at the Verde reservation had developed symptoms of stampede that were later diagnosed and treated as insanity. It must be owned that he had lived through troublous times and had had experiences to try the nerve of a man of iron, which he was not. The general, after settling matters to his satisfaction at the reservation, purposed a descent on Colonel Pelham and Camp Sandy, for consultation with him and a conference with the troop and company commanders returned to their soldier honors, after their strenuous scout through the mountains. He left Wickham to represent him at headquarters and continue his investigation, and he left Willett to—recuperate, for already he had repented him of the impulse that led to the brilliant officer's appointment on his personal staff. Willett had been a valuable and distinguished soldier in that northern field, and only by these things had the general known him. That Willett was a many-sided man, that he could be an eager and ambitious officer when once afield, and a mere butterfly about the garrison, had not occurred to this simple-minded chief. The combination of terrier and lapdog is rare in the army. However, Willett was not yet fit for field service, and the Gray Fox meant that he should have fair play and a chance to redeem himself.

"We couldn't send him away just now even if he were fit to ride," said Wickham confidentially to his brother aide-de-camp. "Dooley's trial begins presently, and he wants Willett as to character. But Archer and his household should be here by Friday. Then he'll have to behave."

Willett, of course, knew that Archer had been sent for, was coming up and would probably bring Mrs. Archer and Lilian. According to his estimate, too, the family should be here some time Friday. Meantime he had a fortress to reduce whose garrison had already flung out signals of distress. "Evelyn Darrah may have been a flirt at 'Frisco," said Mrs. Crook, "and she's had more experience than most girls of her years, but she's not heartless, and that good-looking scamp knows it."

"Have you talked with Mrs. Darrah?" asked a fair friend at a venture.

"Talked with Kate Darrah! Of course I've talked with her! and told her just what people are saying and thinking, but Kate Darrah was just such a flirt when she was a girl. Kate Darrah many a time pulled the wool over her mother's eyes, and now hers is being pulled the same way. Evvy leads her mother by the nose."

"Colonel Darrah, then," was the suggestion.

"Dicky Darrah!" laughed Mrs. Crook, in merry disdain. "Dicky Darrah never dares oppose Evvy—let alone his wife. Kate Darrah says it just serves Hal Willett right. It's no fault of hers that he's daft about Evvy, who's simply bent on giving him a lesson he richly deserves. When the Archers come she'll drop it—and him."

But the Archers came sooner than any one about Prescott deemed likely at all. Somebody said, and more than one somebody thought, that Mrs. Archer had had more than a hint as to what was going on. But never did Mrs. Archer look or admit it. The mail riders had resumed their trips. The paymaster had made his visit to McDowell and had safely traversed the Mazatzal and distributed his shekels at Almy. Almost every day there had been comings and goings, and though no letters bearing Willett's superscription went to Almy except by regular mail, even these, it seems, the pressure of his duties made brief and unlike what Lilian had looked for, so that the radiance had gone from her sweet face almost as quickly as it came. Even the girl who bravely insists that the beloved one is beyond doubt, and above suspicion, and all that is perfect, as Lilian strove to insist—even she will feel in her heart of hearts that there has been neglect, and neglect crushes.

Archer saw and said nothing but "Get ready as quick as we can." They were looked for Friday noon. They were ushered into the general's hospitable quarters late Thursday evening, relayed on from the Agua Fria, after a good noonday rest in camp, and even in bidding them welcome, welcome over again, Mrs. Crook pointed to the brightly lighted assembly room down the winding roadway. "They're having a holiday dance to-night," said she to Lilian. "We'll toddle down after tea and take them all by surprise."

For three days Willett had hardly been seen at the office, where indeed there was little for him to do, except perhaps read the letters that had begun to come again from various quarters. He had merely slept at home; he had simply lived at the Darrahs. He was hardly seen by any associates except dancing attendance upon this tall, imperious beauty, who, for her part, seemed now to accept his devotions as a matter of course, and to be regardless of public opinion. Begun in pique, or vanity, or devilment, whatever it may have been at the start, her indifference at first, her coquetry, her wiles, her defiance of his powers had spurred, fascinated and finally maddened him. Then, when she would have drawn back, his apparent, his acted or his actual desperation terrified her, and, all too late, her own battered heart cried out for relief. In spite of herself she found her resolution gone, her indifference rebuked, her strength wasted, sapped. She was yielding to him when she meant to scorn. She was clinging to him when she meant to spurn. And now the last night, the last of their—flirtation had come, and as she fluttered away on his arm to take their place in the dance, the cynosure of all eyes, Evelyn Darrah knew that she was facing her fate, that before the midnight hour she must answer. He would so have it. Recklessly enough she had begun. What meant such affairs to her but a laugh? Yet, only the night before, as they stood murmuring in the shade at her father's doorway, and he was begging for some little word, touch, token—something to bid him hope in the hell of his despair, imploring her to see his engagement as he saw it—a something entered into in his enfeebled condition because he saw, everybody saw, that fair young girl's self-betrayal, and he had mistaken gratitude, pity, tenderness for love, until he, Harold Willett, had met her, Evelyn Darrah, and at last learned what it was to love, passionately, overwhelmingly—to love, to worship, to need, to crave, and then on a sudden she had felt herself seized in his clasp, and before she could, if she would, tear herself adrift, his lips, burning with eagerness, had sought and found hers—upraised. Then she had broken from his embrace, but not till then. This morning she had pleaded headache and kept to her room. This afternoon she had had to meet him, and could not repel, reproach, rebuke as she had at last meant to do. Others were ever about them then. There must be no scene, and he was quite capable of making one. And now this night he had come for her, yes, and for her answer. He was ready, he said, to resign from the staff at once, return to his regiment, break with the Archers, explaining that it was all—all a mistake, and then with her promise to be his wife, what spur would there not be to his ambition? He—but it all made her feverish—frantic! There was but one refuge—to dance, dance until her whirling brain and throbbing heart were exhausted in the wild exhilaration, to dance incessantly, with man after man who sought her, though few had opportunity owing to his persistence. And she had been dancing incessantly, as we danced in those days—galop, deux temps, redowa, waltz, the long, undulating, luxurious, sensuous sweep of the "glide," and men and women stood and watched them, time and again, when Willett claimed her—and he hardly had look or word for others—so wondrous was that harmony of motion, that grace and beauty of feature and of form. Then at last came exhaustion.

There were some little clumps of cedars on the slope just south of the assembly hall, as it stood there on the low ground midway between the head-quarters houses on the ridge to the south, and the even less commodious cottages of the puny garrison. There was a boardwalk of creaking pine, leading across the shallow ravine, for it sometimes rained up here in the mountains, though it never seemed to in the deep, arid valleys to the east. Then there was a gravel path stretching away toward the garrison houses north and north-east, and one, still narrower and crookeder, winding up among the pines and cedars and disappearing over the top of the knoll, where the broad veranda of the general's mansion overlooked the entire scene. Sometimes when the evenings were warm and the dancers flushed, and sometimes even when there was no such excuse, young couples were wont to saunter out in the starlight for air and sentiment and "spooning." Already Willett knew the labyrinth, and welcomed the excuse to lead her forth, his arm almost supporting her. It was about eleven. The elders were absorbing mild refreshments at the moment. The musicians were glad of a rest, a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and a puff at a pipe before again resuming their melodious, if monotonous, labor. The windows of the assembly room were so near the ground that it was easy for these who did not attend the dances to supervise from without, and it often happened that a fringe of respectfully admiring spectators would surround the building until the late roll-call summoned the soldier circle away.

And yet this Thursday night there were two or three little parties peering in at the southward windows, some of whom came down from the general's quarters very late. To Mrs. Crook's laughing suggestion that they should "toddle down after tea" Mrs. Archer had entered gentle protest. It was too late. They were not dressed. She feared Lilian was too tired. What mother would not oppose her precious daughter's making her appearance at a dance in travelling garb, after a day of driving? To her mother's protest Lilian had at first made no rejoinder. The flush of the first few minutes of welcomed arrival soon left her winsome face, and the resultant pallor emphasized her mother's edict—that she was too tired. But it was not long before they noted, all of them—father, mother and hostess—that her thoughts were only there at the dance, that her ears were attentive only to the strains of music that, once in a while, came wafting upward from the hall, and when a little later, refreshed by tea and a bountiful supper, they again returned to the parlor and the sound of the dance, Mrs. Crook caught the longing in Lilian's eyes.

"Oh, come," she said, "let's just run down a few minutes and peep in; Lilian wants to see, and I'll send word in, sidewise, that will bring somebody out with a jump."

They seized their wraps and started, Archer gallantly tendering his arm to the commander's wife, but she would none of it. "Nonsense! I've got to pilot you! That walk is steep and crooked and pitch dark when you get among the cedars. I want to chat with Mrs. Archer," and the old soldier thanked her in his heart. More than ever before he wished to have that arm about his own little girl this night. Was it possible she too felt the premonition that had come to him? Had her mother, after all, told her of the little hints they had received? Something had come. He could swear it. Something to make her strangely silent, but eager, fluttering, nervous—something that prompted her as they neared the building, and the little hand clinging to her father's arm shook with strange excitement, to bend forward close to their friend and hostess, and just as the latter was about to hail some young officer on the steps, Lilian interposed. "Oh—please," was all she said, but her fingers had caught the fluttering fold of the mantle, and Mrs. Crook turned at once. "You'd rather not?" she asked, with quick, sympathetic understanding. "I won't then. Plenty of time. Let's watch the dance first."

And so saying she had marshalled them close to the southward windows, Lilian and her father at the near-most, she and Mrs. Archer going on to the next.

It was Keler Beler's "Am Schoenen Rhein" they were playing at the moment, with its sweet, weird, luring, mournful, warning Lorelei motif dominating in the waltz measure, and, with parted lips and clinging to her father's side, Lilian stood close to the window and looked and listened, saying not one word. There were but three couples dancing at the moment. There might as well have been but one for, within the hall and without, the eyes of all seemed fastened on that. Some strange caprice had prompted Evelyn Darrah to wear black that night—a grenadine, with cobweb lace and glinting spangles and sweeping train, the bodice cut low and displaying her shapely arms and neck and shoulders, enhancing the grace of her tall and slender form. Her dark hair was coiled in masses, yet here and there a curl or tendril fell upon the soft, polished skin, or floated about cheek and temple. Her eyelids, heavily lashed, veiled her downcast eyes. Her coral lips were slightly parted. Her almost queenly head was bowed as though to incline that little ear to catch the words he was eagerly pouring into it. Not a vestige of a smile was on either face, each was dark, sombre, beautiful, absorbed. His handsome head was bowed until the curling mustache swept her rounded, flushing cheek. In exquisite rhythm and harmony the two tall, graceful forms swayed in unison with the exquisite love music, every step, every motion perfectly attuned. It seemed as though no guiding were necessary. Slowly gliding, turning, reversing, he in his faultless uniform, she in her sweeping, diaphanous sable, seemed, without effort or the faintest exertion, fairly floating upon air. No wonder they sat or stood and gazed—these elders along the bordering benches—these others among the dancers—these few, wordless, at the windows. Then, with the Lorelei melody lingering to the last, the sweet, sad music died away and the waltz was ended. People began to move toward the doorway. "They're going for their bite and sup," said Mrs. Crook. "See, there go the bandsmen. Shall—we?"

"I think not, if you don't mind," said Mrs. Archer with anxious glance at the other window, where Lilian still stood, looking straight at the doorway through which that couple had led and so many now were following. She had neither spoken nor moved, nor had he, her father. His back was toward them, but from the very pose of his head the wife well knew his eyes were fixed upon the face of his beloved child, with who can say what depth of sorrow, sympathy, yearning for her—with what passion of wrath and resentment for him. "Come," said Mrs. Crook briefly, for she, too, saw. Then Archer gently laid his hand upon the slender fingers that seemed clinching his arm, and with sudden little gasp or sob, and shiver, Lilian whirled upon him, her eyes big and dry and glittering. "Oh! wasn't it—didn't they dance—beautifully?" she cried, as he ground his teeth and turned to lead her away.

And just at that instant—just as such things will happen, who should come chirruping round the corner but the chaplain and his wife, with Mrs. Chief Quartermaster and a guest from Camp Sandy, just in time to stumble upon Mrs. Crook and Mrs. Archer vainly striving to dodge and get home. It was too late. They were captured, surrounded, pounced upon. "Oh, when did you come?" "Oh, how did you get here?" "Oh, where is Lilian?" etc., etc., and Archer, never hesitating, quick was he in action ever, instantly turned about. "This way, sweetheart," he murmured, in the fond father love that welled from his great heart. A few strides carried them back into the darkness, around by the westward end, where the clamor of voices and clatter of cups and plates at the supper room drowned other sounds, and then in the darkness he led his darling, voiceless still, across the little wooden bridge and up the gentle slope among the cedars, hoping by a wide detour to dodge these importunates and lead his child to her own room, and there mount guard over her until the mother came. There is a sorrow that passeth understanding, and is known not of all men—the mute, helpless, impotent sorrow of the father who feels the heartache, and sees the suffering of a beloved child, and cannot even trust himself to speak of it.

And Fate was still against them. The God that meant to cure was merciful and merciless as is the knife. Sinless as was this gentle flower, even she must suffer and endure, for here were obstacles again, even here across their path! They were upon them almost before they knew it, yet upon them unseen, unheard, for, absorbed in each other, this opposing couple knew nothing but their own affair, and well they might, for a sob was the first sound to catch the soldier's ear, a stifled cry, and then a deep, manly voice imploring, protesting, a torrent of murmured words, fond, assuring, caressing, passionate, a deluge of thrilling endearments, a mingling of sobs and kisses, for the woman's overcharged nature had broken under the strain, and in the refuge of his clasping arms was sobbing her heart out on this new lover's breast. Archer, raging, would have brushed them by, but Lilian held him. "Not that way; oh, not that way!" she whispered hoarsely. And then he understood, and together they fled back the way they came.



CHAPTER XXVII.

It was a merciful Providence, as many of the exiles later said, that brought the commanding general himself late that starlit evening back to Prescott. His stout mountain wagon, and special six-mule team had whirled him up from the Verde after the briefest of conferences with the cavalry colonel there in command. An Indian runner from Almy had reached them early that Thursday morning, announcing the return of Stannard and his troop, accompanied by Lieutenant Harris, 'Tonio and certain of the Apache-Mohaves, the arrest by civil authorities and attempted suicide of Case, and the further gathering under the wing of the law of Jose Sanchez, of Munoz, and even of Dago, all of whom, it was said, were wanted at Prescott. Stannard found the Archers gone, found himself, as senior captain, temporarily in command of the post, and called upon to furnish military escort for the civil posse comitatus. Stannard was a soldier pure and simple. He would have shown as a mammoth bull in a china shop had he and his troop been at the moment in the Southern states, instead of the south-western territory. He stood ready to do any amount of arresting the government might order. He was entirely willing to send a subaltern and a score of troopers to convoy the entire party—sheriff and deputies, posse and prisoners—to the territorial capital, but, like the old war-horse he was, he balked, stiff-necked and stiff-legged, at the sheriff's demand that the escort should report to him—should be, in point of fact, under his orders.

Not to put too fine a point upon it, Stannard had said he'd see him damned first, whereupon the sheriff refused to make the trip, and appealed to the territorial authorities, while Stannard sent a runner up to district head-quarters for instructions. Each messenger had nearly ninety miles to go, so the race was about even, despite the fact that the sheriff's couriers were mounted and Stannard's runner went afoot. The uninitiated would have backed the riders to win, but Stannard backed the runner. The former were deputies and white; the latter was Apache-Mohave and brown. The former had a road and a roadside ranch or two, whereat they might and did obtain rest and refreshment. The redskin had only a trail, and no temptations. The Apache won out in a walk, literally a jog-trot. Luck as well as pluck favored the latter, for he found the department, as well as the district, commander at Sandy, and Stannard's instructions were started back that very morning. "Come up yourself to Prescott," they said. "Bring Harris and 'Tonio and such of 'Tonio's people as are necessary. Come prepared to stay a week at least, and be sure that Mrs. Stannard comes with you. Use your own judgment as to route and escort. Offer the sheriff the protection, but by no manner of means the command, of your party."

Having thus settled that question, the Gray Fox bethought him that it might be just as well to scoot for home, lest other councils should prevail about the capital. Such councils had prevailed, and in the recent past. He had still in mind the embarrassing episode of Willett's "instructed" descent upon Almy. In view of all the resultant complications he could not well forget it, and so, having finished his chat with Pelham, the tireless brigadier went bowling away by mountain road, the faithful Bright beside him, and was landed at his own door soon after eleven P.M. in abundant time to meet the situation on the morrow. Even in those days, when the stars went to the fighting force instead of the staff corps, it sometimes happened that a bureau officer had political wires to work.

And there were other reasons why he had come not a moment too soon. People had so little to talk about in those far Western wilds that they who had, as related, unexpectedly met our hostess and her guest in the darkness, and learned from them that they and Archer and Lilian had been "looking on for ever so long," must needs hurry back to the ballroom and tell it over and again. "Why didn't you bring them in?" "Why didn't you make them come in?" were the questions impulsively asked and not easily answered. They couldn't make them come in! Mrs. Crook said they were far too tired! They had only just come down to see how gay and pretty it all looked, and hear the music a minute, before going to bed! Now they were going to bed!

Then the people began looking for Willett and Evelyn Darrah. There were not a few who would have been glad to be able to tell them this piece of news, but the bliss was denied. There was nothing unusual in dancers going out in the starlight, as had Willett and Evelyn. There was something odd about their not returning, however, and Mrs. Darrah presently whisked the colonel home to see about it. Then they did not return. They found the two on the dark piazza, just home, as said the daughter. She had a headache and could dance no more, and now would say good-night, which she said, and that left the colonel alone with Willett. The mother followed the daughter in-doors to see if she knew of the arrival, and then to see that she did. The father felt his way for a moment for some means of getting rid, without rudeness, of this disturbing young man, and found that he could not. Willett had something on his mind and, as soon as he saw it, Darrah was scared. In evident mental excitement Willett had followed, closed the door after her, then, pulling nervously at his mustache, had turned on the putative head of the house. "Colonel Darrah," he began in a moment, "I have something I feel I must say to you——"

"Then don'-t, my boy, for God's sake!" said Darrah. "Say it to Mrs. Darrah, will you? She—er—settles all—this sort of thing for me. She understands—er—Evvy—if anybody does—I'm blessed if I can, and—er—if you don't mind, I—I—I think I'll say good-night. Have a smoke or a drink before you go?" he asked, in enforced and miserable recognition of the demands of hospitality. "No? Well, of course, you'd rather be back, I suppose," and so saying, he hoped to get Willett to go without being the one to either hear what Willett had to say or even to tell Willett what he knew—that at this very moment Lilian Archer, the girl to whom this young gallant's love and loyalty were pledged—was harbored there beneath their general's roof, where the lights were burning on the brow of the hill.

So not for half an hour did Willett get the news. He would not return to the hop room. He did not go directly home. He dimly saw the mule team, at spanking trot, go rattling up the road; saw and heard it draw up at the general's, and then whisking back to the valley to deposit Bright. He divined at once that the chief must have returned and congratulated himself that he would not be expected to pay his duty until the morning, especially if he at once saw Bright. So upon his fellow staff officer he projected himself with proper welcome, and the first question Bright asked was: "How are the Archers?" It had not occurred to him that no mail had come up for nearly a week—that Willett did not know that they had started from Almy three days before. Then Wickham came in and briefly said: "Certainly. They're up at the general's. They were down at the dance awhile, looking on through the windows," whereat Harold Willett's handsome face went white.

Late as it was he knew he should go over at once, and he did, and it was God's mercy, as Wickham said afterwards, that sent the bearded general, not the gray-haired, raging father to meet him at the door. There had been a minute of tearful, almost breathless, conference between the devoted couple before Archer released his wife from his arms, sent her in to Lilian, and then came down as calmly as he could to face his host and hostess. There had been a moment or two, in the sanctity of their chamber, in which this other devoted but childless couple—the Darby and Joan of the old army—conferred swiftly over the situation, the wife briefly telling the soldier spouse of what she had seen, heard and believed, and a glance at Archer had done the rest. Crook saw the anguish in the face of his old friend, and had only measurably succeeded in calming him when Willett's step was heard upon the veranda. The chief sprang to his feet. Archer would have followed, but with a silent, most significant gesture, the commander warned his comrade back. Then, closing the parlor door behind him, confronted the young officer in the silence and darkness of the veranda.

What transpired in that brief interview was never told. Two or three couples, wearying of the dance, and wending their homeward way, saw the two tall, shadowy forms in the dim light, saw that one of them was standing strictly at attention, and knew thereby that the other must be the general, saw that the interview was very brief, for in a moment the caller raised a hand in salute, faced about, and went somewhat heavily down the steps and, avoiding both the main road and the pathway, disappeared in the direction of the bachelors' quarters under the hill.

At ten the following morning a buckboard called at Willett's door, and that young officer drove away in travelling rig, with a valise by way of luggage, and when people inquired, as many did, and many more would have done had they followed their inclination, what took Willett away in such a hurry and—er—at such a time, all that black-bearded Wickham would say was, he heard it was a wagon. As for Bright, one might as well seek information of the Sphinx. There never was a man who, knowing all about a matter, could look, as more than one fair critic had been heard to say, so exasperatingly, idiotically ignorant. At noon, however, it was known that Willett's wagon stopped but a few moments on the plaza in the little mining town and capital, then shot away southward on the Hassayampa road.

Three days later the array of "Casually at Post" on the morning report of Fort Whipple showed an increase of something like a score. Lieutenant Briggs with a sergeant and a dozen troopers rode in the previous evening, after turning over a quartette of dusky civilians at the calaboose, and leaving a guard at the hospital in charge of a pallid, nervous, suffering man, whom a big-hearted post surgeon received with compassionate care. The doctor had known him in better days. It was what was left of the recent lion of Camp Almy—Case the bookkeeper.

Among the arrivals extraordinary at head-quarters on the hill were Captain and Mrs. Stannard of Camp Almy, Captain Bonner, Lieutenant Strong, post adjutant thereat, and then, as Bright's special guest, was Lieutenant "Hefty" Harris, of old Camp Bowie, and as Bright's special charge were 'Tonio, sometime chief of the Red Rock band of Apache-Mohaves, Kwonahelka, his associate and friend, with two young braves of the tribe, Kwonahelka's shy, silent wife and her ward, a motherless young Apache girl, sister to Comes Flying, he whose untimely taking off had so seriously complicated the Indian question in the district of the Verde. Bright had his Apache visitors comfortably stowed, and abundantly provided for, close to his own roof, and 'Tonio, charged with serious crimes against the peace and dignity of the people of the U.S. in general, and Arizona in particular, received with native dignity at the entrance to his canvas lodge callers and even congratulations—for great was the desire to see him—and, unbailed, unhampered, untrammelled by fetter, guard or shackle, calmly awaited his examination before the Great Chief with the coming of the morrow. Soldiers like Crook and the staff of his training knew 'Tonio and his lineage, and unlike Willett, valued his word.

And early on that morrow Willett reappeared, delivered certain despatches at the office long before office hours, betook himself to his quarters for bath, shave and breakfast, and behind closed doors and shrouded windows, awaited the summons if needed to appear before the department commander. His narrative long since had been reduced to writing. Between him and black-bearded Wickham there had been one significant interview, never till long afterwards given even to intimates on the general's staff. As for 'Tonio, to no one less would he plead his cause than the department commander himself, the Great White Chief.

Never in the chronicles of that sun-blistered land, home of the scorpion and rattlesnake, the Apache and tarantula, had that sun shone on scene so dramatic as that the Exiles long referred to as "'Tonio's Trial," and never, perhaps, was trial held with less of the panoply and observance of the law and more assurance of entire justice.

It was a great chief trying a great chief. The powerful commander of the department sitting in judgment on the once powerful head of a warlike band, long since scattered, absorbed, merged in neighboring tribes, worn down in ceaseless battling against surrounding forces and implacable Fate. Crook knew the Indian as it was given few men to know him, and in his own simple, straightforward way generally dealt with the Indian direct. But here was a case, as he well understood, where he who had once moved the monarch of these silent, encircling mountains, stood accused of treachery to the hand that had fed, sheltered and uplifted him, to the Great Father whose service he had sought, to the white chiefs, old and young, whom he had sworn to obey. If guilty he deserved the extent of the law, if innocent, the fullest vindication of the highest power he and his people knew and recognized. To no mere captain or even post commander would 'Tonio plead. To no agency official would he trust himself or his cause. There was one soldier chief whom every Indian of the Pacific Slope knew well by reputation and by name—the chief who spoke ever with the straight tongue and told them only the truth—the chief who never broke his word or let others ignore it. "Gray Fox" they named him later among other tribes, but these of the Sierras spoke of him only as "Crook."

On the greensward, close to the assembly hall in the low ground, the council lodge was pitched—two huge hospital tent flies having been stretched from tree to tree, braced on uprights; and there, in a little semi-circle, sat the general with his principal officers about him—gray-haired, pale-faced Archer, looking strangely sad and old, at his right—black-haired Wickham at his left, and high officials of the staff departments on either flank, the judge advocate of the department having a little table and chair at one side that all legal notes might be made. Half a dozen officers of the garrison, with Colonel Darrah at their head, grouped in rear of the council. Three or four orderlies stood about, but, by order, not a rifle or revolver could be found in the entire array. Seated to the right and left were officers prominent in the recent campaign—Stannard, Turner, Bonner, Strong and Harris among them, while at a distance, among the cedars and looking curiously on, were gathered the wives and families of the officers, with their guests and attendants—at a distance that the dignity of the occasion in the eyes of the Indian race might not be put in jeopardy by the presence of a woman.

Further still, on the other side across the trickling brook, to the number of near two hundred, men, women and children, soldiers, citizens and strangers, all in silence awaited the first act of the drama—the coming of 'Tonio with his retinue, marshalled by that expert master of aboriginal ceremonies, Lieutenant Bright.

And presently he came. No picturesque war bonnet distinguished him. No robe or mantle hung in stately folds about his form. 'Tonio sought not, as does his red brother of the plains, the theatrical aid of impressive costume. Tall, spare and erect, his sinewy legs and arms bare almost their entire length, his moccasins worn and faded, but his fillet, camisa and trailing breech-clout almost snowy white; destitute of plume, feather, necklace, armlet, ornament of any kind, unarmed, yet unafraid, with slow and measured stop the chief approached the council tent, three of his warriors in his train, and, escorted by Bright, turned squarely as he came before the outspread canvas, entered beneath its shade, and stopping midway across the greensward, his head upheld, his black eyes fixed in calm, reposeful trust upon the general's face, halted and stood simply before him, saying not a word.

"'Tonio, will you be seated?" asked the general, and an orderly stepped forward with a camp chair. Even before the interpreter could translate, 'Tonio understood, motioned the orderly aside, turned and signalled to his followers, who quickly settled to the ground and seated themselves, cross-legged, in half circle beneath him, but the chieftain, accused, would stand. On the dead silence that followed, all men listening with attentive ear, even the women and children across the little ravine, hushing their nervous giggle and chatter, 'Tonio's voice was presently uplifted, neither harsh nor guttural, but deep and almost musical. In the tongue of his people he spoke seven words, and there seemed no need of the interpreter's translation:

"My father has sent for me. I am here."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A strange tribunal was this—"a method of procedure," as the acting judge advocate of this distant department took frequent occasion to tell us when the general wasn't around, "that would seem to have no warrant in law." Something to this effect being suggested to the general by the chief of the department staff, who went on to say that he supposed it was a case of "Inter arma silent leges," the general's beard, which hid his mouth, was observed to twitch, and the wrinkles at the corner of his steely-blue eyes followed suit. It was a way of his when trying not to smile. Then Bright was heard to say that where the laws were silent, wise lawyers should he likewise, an epigram which long-legged Lieutenant Blake, of Camp McDowell, was delightedly and explosively repeating for the benefit of certain of the ladies looking on from among the cedars, even as 'Tonio appeared. Then no crier was needed to proclaim silence and declare this honorable court now open. Blake had come to Prescott ruefully expectant of official displeasure, and found it, so far as the chief of staff was concerned. But the general's greeting had been so cordial and kind that "Legs" took heart instanter. There was evidently something behind it.