In the time-eaten wall Clara had found a fissure through which she could
watch the parley between Thurstane and the Apaches. She climbed into it
from a mound of disintegrated adobes, and stood there, pale, tremulous,
and breathless, her whole soul in her eyes.
Thurstane, walking his horse and making signs of amity with his cap, had
by this time reached the low bank of the rivulet, and halted within four
hundred yards of the savages. There had been a stir immediately on his
appearance: first one warrior and then another had mounted his pony; a
score of them were now prancing hither and thither. They had left their
lances stuck in the earth, but they still carried their bows and quivers.
When Clara first caught sight of Thurstane he was beckoning for one of the
Indians to approach. They responded by pointing to the summit of the hill,
as if signifying that they feared to expose themselves to rifle shot from
the ruins. He resumed his march, forded the shallow stream, and pushed on
two hundred yards.
"O Madre de Dios!" groaned Clara, falling into the language of her
childhood. "He is going clear up to them."
She was on the point of shrieking to him, but she saw that he was too far
off to hear her, and she remained silent, just staring and trembling.
Thurstane was now about two hundred yards from the Apaches. Except the
twenty who had first mounted, they were sitting on the ground or standing
by their ponies, every face set towards the solitary white man and every
figure as motionless as a statue. Those on horseback, moving slowly in
circles, were spreading out gradually on either side of the main body, but
not advancing. Presently a warrior in full Mexican costume, easily
recognizable as Manga Colorada himself, rode straight towards Thurstane
for a hundred yards, threw his bow and quiver ten feet from him,
dismounted and lifted both hands. The officer likewise lifted his hands,
to show that he too was without arms, moved forward to within thirty feet
of the Indian, and thence advanced on foot, leading his horse by the
bridle.
Clara perceived that the two men were conversing, and she began to hope
that all might go well, although her heart still beat suffocatingly. The
next moment she was almost paralyzed with horror. She saw Manga Colorada
spring at Thurstane; she saw his dark arms around him, the two interlaced
and reeling; she heard the triumphant yell of the Indian, and the response
of his fellows; she saw the officer's startled horse break loose and
prance away. In the same instant the mounted Apaches, sending forth their
war-whoop and unslinging their bows, charged at full speed toward the
combatants.
Thurstane had but five seconds in which to save his life. Had he been a
man of slight or even moderate physical and moral force, there would not
have been the slightest chance for him. But he was six feet high, broad in
the shoulders, limbed like a gladiator, solidified by hardships and
marches, accustomed to danger, never losing his head in it, and blessed
with lots of pugnacity. He was pinioned; but with one gigantic effort he
loosened the Indian's lean sinewy arms, and in the next breath he laid him
out with a blow worthy of Heenan.
Thurstane was free; now for his horse. The animal was frightened and
capering wildly; but he caught him and flung himself into the saddle
without minding stirrups; then he was riding for life. Before he had got
fairly under headway the foremost Apaches were within fifty paces of him,
yelling like demons and letting fly their arrows. But every weapon is
uncertain on horseback, and especially every missile weapon, the bow as
well as the rifle. Thus, although a score of shafts hissed by the
fugitive, he still kept his seat; and as his powerful beast soon began to
draw ahead of the Indian ponies, escape seemed probable.
He had, however, to run the gauntlet of another and even a greater peril.
In a crevice of the ruined wall which crested the hill crouched a pitiless
assassin and an almost unerring shot, waiting the right moment to send a
bullet through his head. Texas Smith did not like the job; but he had said
"You bet," and had thus pledged his honor to do the murder; and moreover,
he sadly wanted the five hundred dollars. If he could have managed it, he
would have preferred to get the officer and some "Injun" in a line, so as
to bring them down together. But that was hopeless; the fugitive was
increasing his lead; now was the time to fire--now or never.
When Clara beheld Manga Colorada seize Thurstane, she had turned
instinctively and leaped into the enclosure, with a feeling that, if she
did not see the tragedy, it would not be. In the next breath she was wild
to know what was passing, and to be as near to the officer and his perils
as possible. A little further along the wall was a fissure which was lower
and broader than the one she had just quitted. She had noticed it a minute
before, but had not gone to it because a man was there. Towards this man
she now rushed, calling out, "Oh, do save him!"
Her voice and the sound of her footsteps were alike drowned by a rattle of
musketry from other parts of the ruin. She reached the man and stood
behind him; it was Texas Smith, a being from whom she had hitherto shrunk
with instinctive aversion; but now he seemed to her a friend in extremity.
He was aiming; she glanced over his shoulder along the levelled rifle; in
one breath she saw Thurstane and saw that the weapon was pointed at _him_.
With a shriek she sprang forward against the kneeling assassin, and flung
him clean through the crevice upon the earth outside the wall, the rifle
exploding as he fell and sending its ball at random.
Texas Smith was stupefied and even profoundly disturbed. After rolling
over twice, he picked himself up, picked up his gun also, and while
hastily reloading it clambered back into his lair, more than ever
confounded at seeing no one. Clara, her exploit accomplished, had
instantly turned and fled along the course of the wall, not at all with
the idea of escaping from the bushwhacker, but merely to meet Thurstane.
She passed a dozen men, but not one of them saw her, they were all so busy
in popping away at the Apaches. Just as she reached the large gap in the
rampart, her hero cantered through it, erect, unhurt, rosy, handsome,
magnificent. The impassioned gesture of joy with which she welcomed him
was a something, a revelation perhaps, which the youngster saw and
understood afterwards better than he did then. For the present he merely
waved her towards the Casa, and then turned to take a hand in the
fighting.
But the fighting was over. Indeed the Apaches had stopped their pursuit as
soon as they found that the fugitive was beyond arrow shot, and were now
prancing slowly back to their bivouac. After one angry look at them from
the wall, Thurstane leaped down and ran after Clara.
"Oh!" she gasped, out of breath and almost faint. "Oh, how it has
frightened me!"
"And it was all of no use," he answered, passing her arm into his and
supporting her.
"No. Poor Pepita! Poor little Pepita! But oh, what an escape you had!"
"We can only hope that they will adopt her into the tribe," he said in
answer to the first phrase, while he timidly pressed her arm to thank her
for the second.
Coronado now came up, ignorant of Texas Smith's misadventure, and puzzled
at the escape of Thurstane, but as fluent and complimentary as usual.
"My dear Lieutenant! Language is below my feelings. I want to kneel down
and worship you. You ought to have a statue--yes, and an altar. If your
humanity has not been successful, it has been all the same glorious."
"Nonsense," answered Thurstane. "Every one of us has done well in his
turn! It was my tour of duty to-day. Don't praise me. I haven't
accomplished anything."
"Ah, the scoundrels!" declaimed Coronado. "How could they violate a truce!
It is unknown, unheard of. The miserable traitors! I wish you could have
killed Manga Colorada."
From this dialogue he hurried away to find and catechise Texas Smith. The
desperado told his story: "Jest got a bead on him--had him sure pop--never
see a squarer mark--when somebody mounted me--pitched me clean out of my
hole."
"Who?" demanded Coronado, a rim of white showing clear around his black
pupils.
"Dunno. Didn't see nobody. 'Fore I could reload and git in it was gone."
"What the devil did you stop to reload for?"
"Stranger, I _allays_ reload."
Coronado flinched under the word _stranger_ and the stare which
accompanied it.
"It was a woman's yell," continued Texas.
Coronado felt suddenly so weak that he sat down on a mouldering heap of
adobes. He thought of Clara; was it Clara? Jealous and terrified, he for
an instant, only for an instant, wished she were dead.
"See here," he said, when he had restrung his nerves a little. "We must
separate. If there is any trouble, call on me. I'll stand by you."
"I reckon you'd better," muttered Smith, looking at Coronado as if he were
already drawing a bead on him.
Without further talk they parted. The Texan went off to rub down his
horse, mend his accoutrements, squat around the cooking fires, and gamble
with the drivers. Perhaps he was just a bit more fastidious than usual
about having his weapons in perfect order and constantly handy; and
perhaps too he looked over his shoulder a little oftener than common while
at his work or his games; but on the whole he was a masterpiece of strong,
serene, ferocious self-possession. Coronado also, as unquiet at heart as
the devil, was outwardly as calm as Greek art. They were certainly a
couple of almost sublime scoundrels.
It was now nightfall; the day closed with extraordinary abruptness; the
sun went down as though he had been struck dead; it was like the fall of
an ox under the axe of the butcher. One minute he was shining with an
intolerable, feverish fervor, and the next he had vanished behind the
lofty ramparts of the plateau.
It was Sergeant Meyer's tour as officer of the day, and he had prepared
for the night with the thoroughness of an old soldier. The animals were
picketed in the innermost rooms of the Casa Grande, while the spare
baggage was neatly piled along the walls of the central apartment.
Thurstane's squad was quartered in one of the two outer rooms, and
Coronado's squad in the other, each man having his musket loaded and lying
beside him, with the butt at his feet and the muzzle pointing toward the
wall. One sentry was posted on the roof of the building, and one on the
ground twenty yards or so from its salient angle, while further away were
two fires which partially lighted up the great enclosure. The sergeant and
such of his men as were not on post slept or watched in the open air at
the corner of the Casa.
The night passed without attack or alarm. Apache scouts undoubtedly
prowled around the enclosure, and through its more distant shadows, noting
avenues and chances for forlorn hopes. But they were not ready as yet to
do any nocturnal spearing, and if ever Indians wanted a night's rest they
wanted it. The garrison was equally quiet. Texas Smith, too familiar with
ugly situations to lie awake when no good was to be got by it, chose his
corner, curled up in his blanket and slept the sleep of the just.
Overwhelming fatigue soon sent Coronado off in like manner. Clara, too;
she was querying how much she should tell Thurstane; all of a sudden she
was dreaming.
When broad daylight opened her eyes she was still lethargic and did not
know where she was. A stretch; a long wondering stare about her; then she
sprang up, ran to the edge of the roof, and looked over. There was
Thurstane, alive, taking off his hat to her and waving her back from the
brink. It was a second and more splendid sun-rising; and for a moment she
was full of happiness.
At dawn Meyer had turned out his squad, patrolled the enclosure, made sure
that no Indians were in or around it, and posted a single sentry on the
southeastern angle of the ruins, which commanded the whole of the little
plain. He discovered that the Apaches, fearful like all cavalry of a night
attack, had withdrawn to a spot more than a mile distant, and had taken
the precaution of securing their retreat by garrisoning the mouth of the
cañon. Having made his dispositions and his reconnoissance, the sergeant
reported to Thurstane.
"Turn out the animals and let them pasture," said the officer, waking up
promptly to the situation, as a soldier learns to do. "How long will the
grass in the enclosure last them?"
"Not three days, Leftenant."
"To-morrow we will begin to pasture them on the slope. How about fishing?"
"I cannot zay, Leftenant."
"Take a look at the Buchanan boat and see if it can be put together. We
may find a chance to use it."
"Yes, Leftenant."
The Buchanan boat, invented by a United States officer whose name it
bears, is a sack of canvas with a frame of light sticks; when put together
it is about twelve feet long by five broad and three deep, and is capable
of sustaining a weight of two tons. Thurstane, thinking that he might have
rivers to cross in his explorations, had brought one of these coracles. At
present it was a bundle, weighing one hundred and fifty pounds, and
forming the load of a single mule. Meyer got it out, bent it on to its
frame, and found it in good condition.
"Very good," said Thurstane. "Roll it up again and store it safely. We may
want it to-morrow."
Meantime Clara had thought out her problem. In her indignation at Texas
Smith she had contemplated denouncing him before the whole party, and had
found that she had not the courage. She had wanted to make a confidant of
her relative, and had decided that nothing could be more unwise. Aunt
Maria was good, but she lacked practical sense; even Clara, girl as she
was, could see the one fact as well as the other. Her final and sagacious
resolve was to tell the tale to Thurstane alone.
Mrs. Stanley, still jaded through with her forced march, fell asleep
immediately after breakfast. Clara went to the brink of the roof, caught
the officer's eye, and beckoned him to come to her.
"We must not be seen," she whispered when he was by her side. "Come inside
the tower. There has been something dreadful. I must tell you."
Then she narrated how she had surprised and interrupted Texas Smith in his
attempt at murder; for the time she was all Spanish in feeling, and told
the story with fervor, with passion; and the moment she had ended it she
began to cry. Thurstane was so overwhelmed by her emotion that he no more
thought of the danger which he had escaped than if it had been the buzzing
of a mosquito. He longed to comfort her; he dared to put his hand upon her
waist; rather, we should say, he could not help it. If she noticed it she
had no objection to it, for she did not move; but the strong and innocent
probability is that she really did not notice it.
"Oh, what can it mean?" she sobbed. "Why did he do it? What will you do?"
"Never mind," he said, his voice tender, his blue-black eyes full of love,
his whole face angelic with affection. "Don't be troubled. Don't be
anxious. I will do what is right. I will put him under arrest and try him,
if it seems best. But I don't want you to be troubled. It shall all come
out right. I mean to live till you are safe."
After a time he succeeded in soothing her, and then there came a moment in
which she seemed to perceive that his arm was around her waist, for she
drew a little away from him, coloring splendidly. But he had held her too
long to be able to let her go thus; he took her hands and looked in her
face with the solemnity of a love which pleads for life.
"Will you forgive me?" he murmured. "I must say it. I cannot help it. I
love you with all my soul. I dare not ask you to be my wife. I am not fit
for you. But have pity on me. I couldn't help telling you."
He just saw that she was not angry; yes, he was so shy and humble that he
could not see more; but that little glimpse of kindliness was enough to
lure him forward. On he went, hastily and stammeringly, like a man who has
but a moment in which to speak, only a moment before some everlasting
farewell.
"Oh, Miss Van Diemen! Is there--can there ever be--any hope for me?"
It was one of the questions which arise out of great abysses from men who
in their hopelessness still long for heaven. No prisoner at the bar,
faintly trusting that in the eyes of his judge he might find mercy, could
be more anxious than was Thurstane at that moment. The lover who does not
yet know that he will be loved is a figure of tragedy.