Bennett's "dago," when halted by Number Four, was as limp a specimen of
humanity as that drowsy young trooper had seen in all his soldier days.
Bennett's dago was no stranger to the post, having occasionally come
thither on errands for his employer, and semi-occasionally appeared
without such semblance of authority, but, whether his mission was for
master or man, it had never hitherto failed to lead to the store and
monte. Small as was the garrison, and few as were the neighboring
ranches, there was generally business enough to support two card rooms,
one for officers and the "_gente fino_"--the trader, his partner, the
chief packer, forage master, and an occasional rancher or prospector;
the other, a big one, and often a riotous, for the soldiery, scouts,
packers and riffraff of the frontier, and for this establishment
Bennett's dago had an indescribable fascination. Here he had met and
differed with Munoz, the two coming to a knife duel, promptly
suppressed by the gun butts of the guard. None the less was Munoz
called into requisition as interpreter, for between peril, exhaustion
and defective English the "dago" could only splutter an unintelligible
jargon that might have been Sicilian, Maltese, or Calabrian, but could
not be Spanish. Bennett, it seems, had picked him up for dead on the
Verde road, early in the spring of the year, and Mrs. Bennett had
nursed the poor devil back to life. Then it turned out that he knew how
to cook. Later it transpired that he had been with a Mexican "outfit,"
prospecting for gold; had taken mountain fever, become a burden to
them, and was left to look out for himself at a tank in Dead Man's
Canon. He paid for his keep in cooking and chores, said Bennett, and
picked up enough English to enable him to get along about the ranch. He
presently showed desire to care for the horses and mules and to ride
them, and one day he disappeared with Bennett's best saddle mule and
was gone forty-eight hours, and on his return gravely tendered Bennett
a five-dollar gold piece in payment for his time and mule while away.
He said he won it at monte, and it was proved that he had found his way
to the card room, as a mule does to water, and, without knowledge of
English, displayed consummate skill in the game; had played only two
hours, had won twenty dollars and departed at dusk. But his winnings
were in greenbacks and silver. Whence had come the gold? The trader's
people said he stabled his mule; introduced himself as "Bennett's
_mozo_--me," and "sat into" the game then in progress as though long
accustomed; showing silver, mainly Mexican, the only credentials the
players required. At sunset he quit, easy winner, and went without
taking so much as a "snifter." Once having found the way, and the
means, the dago came again and yet again, neither giving nor having
trouble until he ran foul of Munoz, the Mexican, whom he seemed to hate
at sight. Whatever his lingo, or that employed by the polyglot Mexican,
they understood each other, and the misunderstanding that followed was
purely personal.
Now, in spite of his craze for gambling the dago had points that
appealed to Bennett. He found him valuable in many a way. He was almost
doglike in his devotion to Bennett's wife and children. He was a
"bang-up" cook, barring a heavy hand at first with _chile_ and onions.
He patched up an old guitar of Mrs. Bennett's and strummed delightfully
all manner of strange Mexican and Mediterranean melodies, and,
encouraged by her, had even been betrayed into song. He was kind to the
stock, and the mules took to him from the very start, which the two
horses did not do. The dogs tolerated at first and then "tied" to him.
So, too, the cat adored him. He got along smoothly with the one negro
and two Maricopa Indian boys Bennett had brought with him from the
Gila. He did not drink even when at the post, and in the course of six
months had come to be a feature, almost a fixture of the ranch, yet
"Dago" was the only name by which he was known, even among his
benefactors. Bennett said he believed he had forgotten he ever had
another.
That very morning, showing all his white teeth, he had whipped off a
battered old hat of Mexican straw at sight of the general and his fair
daughter, had taken the basket while the orderly led the horses to the
corral, had followed them about the little garden patch while Mrs.
Bennett delightedly showed her lettuce and spinach and the gorgeous bed
of poppies. Then he had brewed delicious chocolate, though condensed
milk was poor substitute for whipped cream, and had prepared such an
appetizing little luncheon, and had made himself so useful, that the
general was moved to say to Bennett that any time the dago tired of his
job he could find one at the fort. "I wonder he stays," said Bennett.
"I only give him five dollars a month, even now, and he could get
twenty, and unlimited monte, at the store; besides, he is mortal 'fraid
of these 'Patchie Mohaves; hell knows why, and hides when he sees 'em
coming."
"Do they never bother you stealing or--some way?" asked the general,
with an anxious glance at the two sturdy little ranchers, five and
three-year-old Bennetts, rolling and wrestling in the sand, showing off
for the benefit of the visitors.
"'Patchie Mohaves?" asked Bennett, looking up in surprise. "Never have!
You know I drove mule team to the agency two years ago, and sort of
grew to them. Why, Minnie, now, thinks as much of them, or most, as she
does of the boys at the post. They're a sort of police, sir. The Tontos
don't dare come down so long as the Mohaves are about here."
"I know," said the general reflectively. "Yet some few bucks drifted
off to the Tontos, and the agent's been raising a row because so many
of them roost down here instead of staying on the reservation, bringing
in game. Did you know that two bands were out--women and all--without
permits, and that was one thing that brought Lieutenant Harris and his
scouts up here?"
"Well, that accounts for our having seen none of them for over two
weeks. They must have gone clean out to the Mesa. General," he
continued anxiously, "they don't like their agent, or that agency.
They're herded in there with Apache Yumas and sick Tontos and Sierra
Blancas--fellows that get better treatment because they're bigger
devils and raise merry hell. _I_ know 'em and the agent don't. I'd move
in to the post if _they_ were out, but we're safe with the 'Patchie
Mohaves."
That was what poor Bennett was saying not twelve hours earlier, and now
the homelike ranch had gone up in flames, and Bennett, wailed the dago,
lay butchered among the ruins. So, too, the negro. The Maricopa boys
had fled only, probably, to be run down and killed, but what had become
of the poor, helpless little wife and mother, with her bonny, blue-eyed
boys, God alone knew.
By this time half the enlisted strength of the post was up and out and
flocking to hear the tidings. Bentley, the surgeon, had shuffled over
in his slippered feet and was giving Dago first aid to the demoralized
in the shape of _aguardiente Americano_, that made him sputter and
sneeze, but speedily braced him. The adjutant hurried over to call the
commanding officer, passing Harris on the way, and Harris, already in
campaign dress, was hastening to the camp of his scouts. Turner, silent
and sombre, as was his wont, had elbowed his way through the throng and
stood glowering at Dago and the beetled-browed Munoz, as though
weighing them in mental balance, and finding both wanting. Mrs.
Stannard, through the blinds, had hailed the adjutant as he went
bounding by to say the captain would be out in a moment. Already
Wettstein had told them the fearful news. The adjutant stepped inside
the open hallway at the general's and banged on the swinging door of
the little front room, answered almost instantly by the subdued and
gentle voice of Mrs. Archer from the head of the stairs. The general
was sound asleep. Was it necessary to wake him?
Strong expected as much. Not once a month did that genial veteran
permit himself an over-indulgence, but, when he did, the quicker he
slept it off the better. He had taken his night-cap and turned in
betimes, so as to be up at reveille. But Strong knew what the "Old Man"
would say to him later if he failed to rouse him now. "It's immediate,
Mrs. Archer," said he. "We have bad news from Bennett's Ranch."
A pale, frightened, white little face had come peering over the
motherly shoulder at the moment, even whiter in the flickering light of
Mrs. Archer's candle, and at sound of the name there went up a low cry
of distress.
"Oh, Mr. Strong, is it Mrs. Bennett--or the boys?"
"We don't--know--yet, Miss Archer. The dago's here, scared to death;
galloped all the way with a story of an Indian raid. I'm hoping it
isn't as bad as he thinks. God forgive me the lie," he added under his
breath.
"But they haven't hurt _her?_ They surely would not hurt _her_!" came
the piteous wail, as the girl clung to the rude balustrade, while her
mother hastened to rouse the sleeping warrior. "Heaven pity her,"
thought Strong, "unless they have killed her outright and _not_ carried
her away."
Then came a step in the hall behind him, and Willett was there, alert
and resourceful. "Pray don't be troubled _yet_, Miss Archer," he called
reassuringly, and barely noticing Strong. "The messenger's been
stampeded before this, the men tell me. He's too badly scared to know
the truth. It may be there's been a fire. I think there has, for the
light could be seen, and so he imagined Indians and never stopped to
see. I'm going right up there and will send back word. _Please_ don't
worry yet!"
How thoughtful he was for her, and for dear mamma! How kind! Strong
knew full well that the light they had seen was the glare of no burning
ranch, but a beacon far up in the hills--a signal fire, of course. The
ranch lay in a deep valley ten miles to the north-east, with high
ridges intervening. In the brilliant moonlight a glare that might
otherwise have been seen on the sky would pass unnoted. Strong knew,
deep down in his heart, that whatever the fate of the family, the ranch
was a thing of the past, but Willett's words were soothing. It was
better to let them go unquestioned.
Then out came the general on the landing above, his towzled gray poll
poking over the rail. "What is it, Strong? I'll be down quick as I can
half dress." Indeed, he was losing no instant of time, though it cost
him some items of toilet. With his feet in "flip-flaps," his legs in
loose linen trousers, and buttoning a sack coat over his nightgown, the
veteran was already shuffling downstairs. "Run back to your room,
dear," he said, as he passed his little girl. "You shall know
everything presently," and then in a moment was out in the free air of
heaven, the two young officers with him.
Briefly, cautiously, the adjutant murmured the dago's story, adding his
fear as to its truth. Blankly Archer looked at them an instant, aghast,
appalled, as well he might be, and for the moment unable or unwilling
to trust himself to speak. There had been no time, he said, to souse
his head in the big basin of cool water his wife would have given him.
He was still heated, flushed, suddenly roused from heavy slumber, and
by no means at his best. Strong knew just how to act in the premises
and would have given him time to recover, but there was Willett, alert
and insistent,--Willett who represented the commanding general, and
whose words carried weight--Willett who was quick to seize the
opportunity and to say:
"This is just in line with what we thought at headquarters, sir, and
the quicker I can get to the spot the better. With your consent,
general, I'll push out at once with the scouts, and we'll get back word
to you before daylight."
And even Strong, loyal soul, had to admit later that the general's
answer was practically "Yes, yes, by all means, Willett, and I'll send
a troop in support," whereupon Willett darted away to the adjutant's
quarters to doff his natty uniform and don something older and more
suitable. Twenty minutes thereafter he had swung a leg over one of
Stannard's troop horses and spurred away down to the north-eastward
slope, toward the upper ford of the stream, where dimly in the distance
another horseman could be seen, with a dozen shadowy, ghost-like forms
gliding along in tireless jog trot in line with him--Harris and his
mountain hounds, the Apache scouts, already _en route_ for the scene of
disaster. Bentley, Stannard and Turner, standing at the edge of the
bluff, with fourscore soldiers clustered about them, while others had
gone with Dago to hear again his tale, gazed thoughtfully after the
disappearing shadows and then at each other.
"Humph!" said Stannard, in words meant for his fellows, but in tones
that went farther. "There'll be conflict of authority now or _I'm_ a
duffer!"
Ten minutes they stood and watched; then came the orderly with the
general's compliments, and he'd be glad to see Captain Stannard at
once.
"That means you're going, Stan," said the surgeon. "I suppose he'll
send my assistant with you."
They found the commanding officer on the porch of his quarters, very
grave and quiet now, perfectly calm and self-possessed. The dago had
squatted at the edge of the steps, his face bowed in his hands,
shivering as though from cold. Munoz slouched near by, eying him in
aggressive contempt. Several sergeants, with many of the men, were
grouped at respectful distance, eager and waiting the word. Strong was
with the ladies, for Mrs. Stannard had dressed hurriedly and come over,
and between them the two elders were gently striving to console or
encourage Lilian, who had been quite overcome by the particulars as
translated by Munoz. The dago claimed that from his pallet, under the
"linter" of the corral, he had been roused by the sudden yell at the
ranch, followed by swift shooting, screams and cries of Mrs. Bennett
and the children, the outburst of flame, and then he saw them, the
Indians, coming for him, and he sprang on the best horse and lashed him
all the way to the post.
Stannard came at the moment, solid, stocky, and reliable--a man it was
a comfort to look at in moments of peril or excitement, and such
moments were frequent in the old days of the frontier. Silently he
saluted, stood before the commander and received his brief
orders--mount the troop, follow the scouts, and if it should appear
that Mrs. Bennett and the children had been carried off by the Indians,
to pursue and do his best to recapture. Rations would follow by mule
train.
Stannard had just one question to ask.
"Shall I call on Mr. Harris or Mr. Willett for scouts, sir?" And even
then it was noted that he named Harris first.
"Why--on Mr. Harris. He is in command."
"Very good, sir," said Stannard, and turned on his heel. Mrs. Stannard,
hastily kissing Lilian's pale and tear-wet cheek, started to follow,
but through the little knots of soldiery a strange figure came forcing
a way, a lithe Apache on resentful mule--'Tonio, already back from the
front, a little folded paper in his hand. Lashing the obstinate brute
he bestrode, 'Tonio dove straight at the general, and all men waited to
learn the tidings. Hastily Archer opened the paper, glanced it over in
the moonlight, looked up, and nodded to Stannard.
"Willett says from round the point they can see two more signal fires
toward the north-east, just the way to the Apache Mohaves!"
Then came a dramatic incident. Sitting his saddle mule like a chief of
the Sioux, 'Tonio straightened to his full height, his strong face
gleaming in the brilliant, silvery sheen, his bare right arm, with
clinching fist uplifted, and in a voice that rang out like a clarion on
the hushed and breathless night, shouted his response for his people:
"Apache Mohave! No! _No!_ No!"