Barely a mile away to the north-east of the site of old Camp Almy a
ridge of rock and shale stretches down from the foothills of the Black
Mesa and shuts off all view of the rugged, and ofttimes jagged,
landscape beyond--all save the peaks and precipitous cliffs of the
Mogollon, and some of the pine-crested heights that hem the East Fork.
Time was, toward the fag end of the Civil War, when the volunteers from
the "Coast" kept a lookout on the point, a practice that yielded more
scalps to the Indians than security to the inmates. The system,
therefore, fell into disuse, and the post became unpopular because of
the mutilated condition in which the pickets were twice found by the
relief, and the amount of reliable information received from the point
never quite paid for the cost. With the disappearance of the Tontos,
who were not such fools as their Spanish name implied, the practice of
stationing outlying sentries was dropped. The Tontos seemed to have
abandoned the valley to their distant cousins, the Apache-Mohaves,
whose presence there, in small, itinerant parties, was objected to less
by the few scattered settlers than by the one badgered agent at the
distant reservation.
This, at least, was the case at first. Bennett and Sowerby, from above
Camp Almy, and two others from below, found them friendly and
peaceable. But presently complaints were heard from settlers over at
McDowell, in the Verde Valley to the west, and other settlers away up
the Verde toward Camp Sandy. Then Sowerby swore his stock was run off,
and Bennett presently remained the only ranchman to stand up for them.
The agent declared them contumacious and tricky. Other whites--Arizona
white was then a reddish-brown--added their evil word to the
official's. It was the old adage over again: "Give a dog a bad name,"
etc., and the department commander had sent for scouts to coax them in,
before despatching troops to enforce their coming, and Harris had found
nobody--nothing but abandoned _rancherias_ and unsavory relics.
And then had come the tidings of a clash--the killing of Comes Flying,
son of a chief, and brother to a tribal leader, and then in reprisal,
probably, the burning of Bennett's home and the butchery of Bennett.
Then Harris had stayed not a moment, but, acting on the understanding
of the previous evening, had gone forth at once.
It is well to be prompt, yet oftentimes wise to be prompted. Post
commanders like to be able to say in their reports, "I ordered" this,
or "By my direction" that, and Harris had gone at the word of alarm
without other word with the general.
That Harris was to choose his own time was the understanding between
them when they parted, almost affectingly, at night, for between the
snake episode and the successive toddies the good old gentleman was
quite effusive. There would have been, probably, no change in the
instructions had Harris started at reveille or even at dawn. But to
"pull out" at midnight, with the situation changed and without another
word with the commander, was something open to criticism. Moreover,
Harris knew it.
But he had two reasons, neither of which might count with a court of
his peers, but were of mighty account to him. 'Tonio had come to him
actually ablaze with indignation. 'Tonio had said his people were
accused when his people were innocent. 'Tonio had begged that they
start at once, and he would show it was not Apache-Mohaves at fault. He
would show who were the real raiders, and might even rescue the
prisoners. So Harris never hesitated. Leaving a brief note in the hands
of Dr. Bentley, he had ridden away with 'Tonio and a dozen of his best,
only to be overtaken a mile or so out by the man of all others he least
desired to see. Hal Willett was the second reason Harris had for
wishing to get well away. If ever there came opportunity for a man to
step in, and upon, another man's plans and purposes, Harold Willett
could be relied upon to take it. Harris knew him of old, knew
instinctively that, if a possible thing, his classmate, ever selfish
and self-seeking, would rob him of the fruits of his long service with
the scouts, and would not scruple in such an emergency to take over the
command.
Harris was right. Just as the leaders rounded the huge shoulder of
hillside jutting so boldly to the bank of the stream, and were eagerly
pointing to the two distant flames far up in the foothills, Willett
came galloping to his side. "Signal fires, of course!" said he. "It's
just as I said, and this fellow of yours denied. They're making for the
Mesa. I'll send back word at once." With that he set to scribbling a
note on a page of his scouting book, then again galloped forward,
catching Harris and 'Tonio riding side by side.
"Tell 'Tonio to take this straight to General Archer," said he.
Then Harris turned on him:
"I don't recognize your right to order my scouts about, Willett. I need
'Tonio here."
"You'll have him again in twenty minutes," was the conciliatory answer.
"This is by Archer's own order, Harris. I've come straight from his
side. Otherwise I'll interfere with you as little as possible."
And Harris, with one look of distrust in his comrade's flushing face,
turned quietly to 'Tonio, said barely ten words to his second, not one
to his senior, then bitterly spurred ahead.
He was not the first man in the profession of arms to realize what it
is to faithfully and persistently labor to develop, instruct and
discipline a body of men until he and they are working in absolute
accord, all the intricate parts of the human machine nicely adjusted
and moving without the faintest friction, and then to find himself at
the eleventh hour set to one side, a stranger to his men and a rival to
himself set in his stead, and be bidden to move on as a sort of martial
second fiddle, while the credit and reward go to the new first violin.
Nor was Harris the last by any manner of means. As General Archer had
himself been heard to say, "One essential of military preferment is a
knowledge of the game of euchre--your neighbor." Couple this with utter
indifference to the rights of fellow-soldiers, and a catlike capacity
to work by stealth in the dark, and there is no starry altitude to
which one may not aspire. Harris made the same mistake older soldiers
had sometimes made in higher commands, that of sticking to their own
men, and duties, without keeping an eye on, and a friend at,
headquarters. Anomalous as it may sound, the absent are ever wrong,
even when "present for duty," where they should be. If Harris that
night had only gone to headquarters instead of his camp; had stopped to
see the general instead of starting promptly to the rescue, there would
have been less to tell by way of a story.
Possibly a realization of this had already come over him, as angering
yet unswerving, he once again overtook the eager leaders among his
scouts,--lean, wiry fellows, ever gliding swiftly on in that tireless
Apache running walk. Once there again, he kept his broncho at the trot
to hold his own, and a broncho trot, after a mile or two of warming up,
becomes something besides monotonous. Away to the far front, the
north-east, flickered the tiny blazes; guiding lights, as Willett would
have it; bale fires, as Harris began to believe--fires set by
confederates to blind the eye of the pursuit, or lure pursuers to a
trap. Away to the far front, seven miles now, and deep in a nook of the
foothills, lay the site of Bennett's ruined ranch, and thither, at top
speed of his scouts, was the young leader pressing. Not even a dull
glow in the heavens above, or a spark on the earth beneath, could the
sharp-eyed scouts discover to tell of its lonely fate. Only the dago's
horrified words, only the confirmative symptoms of these farther fires,
had these fly-by-night rescuers to warrant their mission. The story had
its probable side. Peaceable as had been the Apache-Mohaves, the fact
that a clash had occurred between them and some of the agent's
forces,--a clash in which Comes Flying had been killed,--might readily
turn the scale and send them on the war-path. If so, the first and
nearest whites were apt to be the victims. If so, Bennett and his
beloved wife and boys might well have been murdered in their beds--or
spared for a harsher fate. In any event, the first duty--the obvious
one--for Harris and his scouts was to reach the spot with all speed;
ascertain, if possible, the fate of the ranch folk, then act as their
discoveries might direct. All this Harris was turning over in mind as
he hurried ahead. The road, though little worn, was distinct, and now
that they were out of the bottom and skirting the stony bed of a little
mountain stream, quite firm and dry. Six miles an hour, easily, his
swarthy, half-naked fellows were making without ever "turning a hair."
His own lean broncho, long trained to such work, scrambled along in
that odd, short-legged trot, and Harris himself, trained to perfection,
hard and dry, all sinewy strength, rode easily along--he could have
done almost as well afoot--at the head of his men, keeping them to
their pace, yet never overdriving.
But with Willett the case was different. For him there had been no hard
and dry scouting. It had been wet work in the Columbia country. It had
been "hunt-your-hole business" in the lava beds, where the hat that
showed above the rocks was sure to get punctured. Then the month of
feasting in that most lavish of cities, "'Frisco, the Golden," and the
fortnight's voyage by sea, with further symposiums, and finally some
hours of frontier hospitality at Prescott and at Almy, all had combined
to spoil his condition, and before he had ridden forty minutes Hal
Willett found himself blown and shaken. He lagged behind to regain
breath, then galloped forward to lose it. He knew that Harris had left
him in anger and indignation not unjustifiable. He knew he had not full
warrant for his authority. He knew Harris was entitled to unhampered
command, and that he had hampered. Yet, now, believing that Harris was
pushing swiftly ahead as much to "shake" him as to reach the scene, he
again dug spurs to his laboring troop horse, and came sputtering over
the loose stones to the young leader's side.
"Harris," he puffed, "this is no way to work your men. They'll be blown
when you get there, and of no earthly use."
"You don't know them," answered Harris, with exasperating calm, and
without so much as a symptom of slowing up.
"But--I know how it affects--me,--and I'm no novice at scouting."
"You are to--this sort of thing, anyhow," was the uncompromising
answer, and then with a cool, comprehensive glance that seemed to take
in the entire man, he added, "You're out of training, Willett--the one
thing a man has to watch out for in Apache work. Better let me leave a
couple of men with you, and come on easily. You won't be very far
behind us."
And then, as bad luck would have it, 'Tonio came cantering up from the
rear, his big, lop-eared mule protesting to the last, and 'Tonio bore a
little folded paper.
He was not versed in cavalry etiquette, this chieftain of the frontier,
nor had he learned to read writing as he did men. The two officers at
the moment were side by side, Willett on the right, his charger
plunging and sweating with back set ears and distended nostrils; Harris
on the left, his broncho jogging steadily, sturdily on, showing no
symptom of weariness. "To Gran Capitan--Willett" were the general's
words, it seems, when he sent 'Tonio on his way with the note, but in
'Tonio's eyes Harris was "Gran Capitan," even though hailed at times as
"_Capitan Chiquito_," and to Harris's left 'Tonio urged his mount and
silently held forth the missive.
There was never any question thereafter that it was meant for the
other. Archer had his reasons. Willett was there as the aid, the
representative, of the department commander, charged with an important
duty. Willett had come to him, volunteered to go with the scouts, and
he had bidden him God speed. Willett was the senior in rank as first
lieutenant, promotions in the "Lost and Strayed" having been livelier
than in the "Light Dragoons." Moreover, Willett had shown proper
deference to him, the post commander, whereas, Harris, said he, in his
first impulsive, self-excusing mood, even though warranted in going,
had gone without a word. Sensitive and proud, the veteran of many
fights and many sorrows, ruefully bethinking himself of Harris's
abstinence and his own conviviality, saw fit to imagine Harris guilty
of an intentional slight.
Like noble old Newcombe, the gentlest and humblest-minded of men, "he
was furious if anybody took a liberty with him," and in his sudden
rousing and wrath this was what he thought Harris had done. It was to
humble him rather than to exalt Willett that he ignored the one and
hailed the other. "To Gran Capitan Willett," he said, and 'Tonio handed
the missive to the one "gran capitan" he knew and served and loved.
And Harris, never noting the pencil scrawl upon the back, proceeded to
tear it open, when Willett stretched forth his hand:
"I think you will find that is for me, Harris--an answer to what I
wrote," and his words had the distinct ring of authority. Harris
flushed, even in the moonlight; turned it over, read the unsteady
characters, "Lieutenant Willett, A.D.C.," surrendered it without a
word, and a second time drove ahead, while Willett reined up to read.
It was ten minutes before Willett again overtook the pale-faced young
officer at the front. Harris's mouth looked like a rigid gash, and his
battered felt was pulled down over a deep-lined forehead, as with stern
eyes he turned his head, but never his shoulder, in answer to his
classmate's imperative call.
"Rein in now, and listen to this, Harris. If you must have it, it's--by
order."
And Harris slowly checked his horse; silently inclined an ear.
"Lieutenant Willett, it says," began the senior, with the sweat
rolling into his eyes, "Your despatch received. The fires you
mention indicate further hostile parties, 'Tonio insists not
Mohaves. If not, must be Tontos. Therefore, move with caution.
Stannard just saddling. Use your discretion as to waiting for him.
"ARCHER, Commanding Post."
Then Willett turned. He had begun to refold, but ceased, and held it
forth. "Read it yourself, if you like." Harris's gauntlet came up in
protest. He bit his lip hard, but said no word. The scouts were but
white specks in the distance now. There was sudden cry, low, like that
of the night-bird, and 'Tonio dug his moccasined heels in his lop-eared
charger's ribs and drove out to the front, then turned in saddle,
looked back at his chief and pointed. Both officers instantly followed.
The trail led over a low spur, and the scouts had halted and were
squatting at the crest. Straightway before them, possibly four miles, a
dull red glow lay in the midst of the moonlight, with occasional
tongues of lurid flame lazily lapping at some smouldering upright. The
fire had spent its force; gorged itself on its prey and was sinking to
sleep.
"Come on then!" said Harris, speaking for the first time impetuously.
"If you can't stand the pace let us shove ahead!"
"And run slap into ambush? No. My orders are to move with caution.
We've got to _feel_ our way now. Hold your hand, Harris--and your men."
Barely fifty minutes had they been in coming these six miles from Almy.
Barely fifty minutes thereafter, and with less than three miles more to
their credit, halted for cautious reconnaissance, with the ruined ranch
still a long mile away, there came sound of feeble hail from a patch of
willows down by the brookside, and presently, in fearful plight, they
dragged forth Bennett's colored man-of-all-work, unharmed, but half
dead with terror. Yes, Indians had suddenly come in the early evening.
First warning was from the Maricopa boy who came running from the
spring, saying they had killed his brother. Bennett grabbed his gun and
ran out to see, telling him, Rusty, to take a rifle and hurry with Mrs.
Bennett and the children and hide in the willows down the creek. They
heard firing and yelling, and 'twas all Rusty could do, he said, to
keep Mrs. Bennett from running back to her husband, and the children
from screaming aloud, but he made them go with him still farther down
the valley, down to that patch yonder, and there they lay in hiding
while the Indians burned the ranch, and seemed hunting everywhere for
them, and at last things quieted down, but Mrs. Bennett was wild and
crazy and crying to go back and find her husband, dead or alive, and he
had to hold her. Just a few minutes ago, not fifteen minutes before,
she broke away, and he found it was no use trying. She started to run
back, telling him to save her boys. She kissed them both and went, and
it wasn't five minutes after that before he heard her scream awfully,
and the boys began to cry again, and then--then he saw two Indians
coming running, and he knew they'd got her and were coming for the
children, so what could he do but run and save himself?
"Lead on where you left them!" ordered Harris instantly, never waiting
for Willett to speak. Ten minutes brought them to the farther shelter,
a dense little willow copse, empty and deserted. "Come on to the
ranch," was the next order, but there Willett interposed.
"Carefully now. Let your scouts open out and feel the way," he ordered,
and Harris would not hear. Harris had thrown himself from his horse to
lead the search. He never stopped to remount. He ran like a deer up the
stony creek bed until he regained the road, his scouts following
pell-mell, and in ten minutes more they found him bending over the
lifeless body of brave, sturdy Jack Bennett, weltering in his blood at
the side of the spring house, and with no sign of the hapless, helpless
wife and mother anywhere.
"By God, Hal Willett!" cried Harris, as he sprang to his feet, all
dignity and deliberation thrown to the winds. "You may 'proceed with
caution' all you damned please. 'Tonio and I go after that poor woman
and her children. We'd have saved them _here_ if it hadn't been for
you!"