The night was still young. The conference at the surgeon's house was
brief, for Bentley, fearing for his patient, hustled all but 'Tonio out
into the open air just as soon as the Indian signalled "I have spoken,"
which meant he would tell no more. Brief as it was, the interview had
sent the wounded officer's pulse uphill by twenty beats, and Bentley
knew what that meant. Still it had to be. 'Tonio brought tidings of
ominous import, and the public safety demanded that his warning should
be made known, and who was there to translate but Harris? "If it were
only Chinook, now," said Willett, "I could have tackled it, but, except
a few signs, Apache is beyond me."
So while the doctor was giving sedatives to his patient, and the
doctor's servant giving food to 'Tonio, Archer gathered his few
remaining officers about him in the moonlight and discussed the
situation. From 'Tonio's description, the affray that had aroused the
Apaches far and wide had occurred three days earlier, just at dawn,
among the rocky fastnesses of the Mogollon, perhaps "two sleeps" to the
north-east, the very direction in which Stannard was scouting. But it
wasn't Stannard's command. 'Tonio said the soldiers were from up the
Verde, and the scouts were Hualpais, and then Archer understood.
Between the Hualpais, finest and northernmost of the Arizona tribesmen,
and the Tonto Apache there had long been feud. It was evident from
'Tonio's description that a _rancheria_ of the latter had been
surprised--"jumped" in the vernacular--just about dawn; that the
Hualpais, rushing in, rejoicing in abundant breechloaders and
cartridges, had shot right and left, scattering the fugitives and
slaying the stay-behinds, who, crippled by wounds or cumbered by squaws
and pappooses, could not get away. The soldiers, though only a hundred
yards or so behind, were slow climbers as compared with the scouts, and
though the few officers and men did what they could to stop the
wretched killing, a few women and children were found among the dead,
and the word was going the length of the Sierra, far to the south-east,
and would never stop till it reached Sonora and Chihuahua, that the
white chief had ordered his soldiers to kill, so they might as well die
fighting.
"If they were to concentrate now, first on Stannard, and then on
Turner," said Archer--"ambuscade them in a canon, say--I'm afraid we'd
see few of their fellows again."
"Or if they only knew their strength," spoke up the only captain left
at the post, "and were to concentrate, say, five hundred fighting men
upon us here, it's little the rest of the world would ever see of
_us_."
Archer turned half-angrily upon the speaker. "You never yet, Captain
Bonner, have heard of Apaches attacking a garrisoned post, even though
the garrison was smaller than ours, and I believe you never will. The
question _I_ have to settle is how to send warning to our two field
columns."
For a moment there was none to offer suggestion. There were present
only seven officers, all told, Bentley being still with his young
patient. Anxious eyes were watching the little group, their white coats
gleaming in the moonlight. Over at the barracks a score of soldiers,
slipping from their bunks, clustered at the wide-open doors and
windows. Over at the hospital two or three convalescents, with the
steward and the nurse, sat gazing from the shaded piazza. Over at the
commander's quarters Mrs. Archer, Mrs. Stannard and Lilian, sitting
closer for comfort, murmured occasional words, but their eyes seldom
quit their anxious scrutiny. To Mrs. Stannard it was no novel
experience. To Mrs. Archer and her daughter, despite their longer years
in the army, it was thrillingly new. In the utter silence on the line
and throughout the garrison the rhythmic tramp of feet, muffled by
distance, could not fail to catch their straining ears, and far over
across the parade, behind the barracks, betrayed by the glint of the
moonlight on sloping steel, a shadowy little detachment went striding
away toward the nearest sentry post.
"They are doubling the guard," said Mrs. Stannard. Then the group at
the flagstaff broke up. Three officers went with the commander toward
the office, others toward the company quarters. One came swiftly,
purposely, toward the waiting trio. Lilian knew it was Willett even
before they could recognize his walk and carriage. Mrs. Archer rose to
meet him. All they yet knew was that 'Tonio was in with tidings of some
kind--Doyle had told them that.
"Tell us what you can," was all she said.
"The time-honored tale of Indian uprising," said Willett airily.
"Something I've heard every six weeks, I should say, since they gave me
a sword."
"But they've doubled the guard."
"Only changed it, I fancy. The general wants some few cavalrymen for a
scout in the Mazatzal."
Mrs. Stannard knew better, but held her peace. The object at least was
laudable, if not the lie. All three had risen now and were standing at
the edge of the veranda, Mrs. Archer's gentle, anxious eyes following
the soldierly form just vanishing within the shadows at the office,
Lilian's gaze fixed upon the handsome features of the young soldier
before her.
"'Tonio brought news, did he not?" asked Mrs. Stannard.
"'Tonio had to tell _some_thing, you know, to cover his mysterious
movements. 'Tonio's story may be cock and bull for all we know. It is
just such a yarn as I have heard told many a time and oft in the
Columbia basin. Most Indians are born liars, and 'Tonio has everything
to gain and nothing to lose in telling a believable whopper now. 'Tonio
says his people are persecuted saints, and all others perjured sinners."
And just then, through the silence of the night, there rose upon the
air, distant yet distinct, the prolonged, anguished, heart-broken wail
of a woman in dire distress--a Rachel mourning for her children, and
refusing to be comforted. There was instant scraping of chairs on the
hospital porch, and one or two shadows vanished within the dimly
lighted doorway. "Oh, poor Mrs. Bennett!" cried Mrs. Archer. "I'm going
over a little while. Come, Lilian."
"Let me go with you," said Mrs. Stannard, ever sympathetic with young
hearts and hopes. But Lilian had been well trained and--went, the two
wives and mothers walking arm in arm in front, the other two, the girl
of eighteen, the youth of twenty-five, gradually dropping behind. The
elders entered the building, following the wife of the hospital
steward; the juniors paced slowly onward to the edge of the low bluff
overlooking the moonlit valley, with the shining stream murmuring over
its shallows in the middle distance. Lilian's white hand still rested
on the strong arm that drew it so closely to the soldier's side, and
both were for the moment silent. He seemed strangely quiet and
thoughtful, and she stood beside him now with downcast eyes and
fluttering heart, for, as she would have followed her mother, he had
bent his head and, almost in whisper, said:
"Come--one minute. It may be my last chance."
And the girl in her had yielded, as what girl would not?
Presently he began to speak, and now his head was bowing low; his eyes,
though she saw them not, were drinking in the lily-like beauty of the
sweet, downcast face. One quick look she flashed at him as he began,
then the long lashes swept her cheek.
"I could not tell your mother the whole truth, just then," he began.
"I've got to tell you something of it now. Until to-night I never knew
what it was to--to shrink from news of action. Now--I know."
She wanted to hear "why," even when her own heart was telling her. She
wanted him to say, yet coquetted with her own desire. "Is--it serious
news?" she faltered.
"So serious that Stannard, or Turner, or both, may be in grave danger,
and there's no one to go and warn them but--me!"
"You?" and up came the troubled, beautiful eyes.
"Yes. Ask yourself who else there is. The scouts are gone. Sanchez has
not returned. There's but a baker's dozen of troopers and troop horses
left at the post. The general needs to send a little party to explore
the Mazatzal. 'Tonio can't be trusted. Harris has--practically--put
himself out of it. Don't you know me well enough to know--I've got to
go?"
She was only just eighteen. She had lived her innocent life at that
fond mother's side. She had read of knightly deeds in many an hour, and
her heroes were such as Ivanhoe and William Wallace, Bayard and Philip
Sidney, the Black Prince and Henry of the snow-white plume. Four days
agone her heart had first stood still, then thrilled with girlish
admiration when they told her how Harris had met his serious wound,
and, for just that day, that soldierly young trooper was the centre of
her stage. Then Willett returned, with a different version, and other
things to murmur to her listening ears. Then Willett had been at
leisure two--three--long days, and, save that mournful tragedy at the
ranch, casting its spell over the entire post, sufficient in itself to
strike terror to a girlish soul, to inspire it to seek strength and
protection of the stronger arm, what else was there to occupy the heart
of a young maid here at sun-baked, mud-colored, monotonous old Almy?
The one thing that would transform a desert into paradise had blossomed
in her fair, innocent, girlish bosom, and he who had marked the
symptoms many a time knew that the pretty bird was fluttering to his
hand. The one precaution needful was--no sudden shock--no word or deed
to bring rude awakening.
But even now she stood, trembling a bit, trying _not_ to believe that
he must leave the post--must leave her, and on so dangerous a mission.
She was silent because she knew not what to say, yet knew that what he
had said almost turned her cold with dread. He saw the hesitancy, and
struck again:
"Must go--to-night."
"Oh, Mr. Willett!" And now the little face, uplifted suddenly, was
piteous as he could wish. It fell again for shame at her self-betrayal,
for sheer helplessness and dismay, for the sudden realization of what
the long days now would be without him, for what life might be if he
never came back. With all her pride and strength and maidenly reserve
she was struggling hard to fight back the sob that was rising to her
throat, the tears that came welling to her eyes, but he _would_ have
the tribute of both, and murmured again:
"Lilian, little girl, don't you _know_ why I cannot bear to go--just
yet?"
And then, shaking from head to foot, she bowed her face upon her hands,
and Willett's arms were around her in the instant, and after one little
struggle, she nestled in a moment, sobbing, on his heart. She did not
even see the sentry coming slowly up the path, and when girl or woman
is blind to all about her but just one man, her love is overwhelming.
It was he who whispered word of warning, as his lips pressed their
kisses on her soft and wavy hair. It was he who calmly hailed the
guardian of the night, asking if further sign had been seen, adding,
"Runners may well be coming in to-night, just as did 'Tonio." It was he
who promptly, cordially answered Mrs. Archer, calling Lilian from the
angle of the hospital, kneeling instantly as though to fasten a
loosened bootlace. And then, as he presently led his silent captive
back toward the parade, talked laughingly of the sentry's broken
English, imitating so well the accent of the Rhineland.
"No word of this just yet," he murmured, ere they reached the general's
door, and saw that veteran hospitably awaiting them. "It is so sudden,
so sweet a surprise. Come what may now, I shall not go until I have
seen _you_ again. What, general? Sangaree? I'd like it above all
things!"
Two horsemen came trotting across the parade, threw themselves from
saddle, and one stepped swiftly to the group, his hand at the hat brim
in salute.
"Well, sergeant, you _have_ been prompt!" the general was saying. "You
have your letter for Captain Turner?--and Woodrow is to follow Captain
Stannard? Good again! Do most of your trailing by night. The Apaches
are cowards in the dark, and you can't miss the trail. God be with you,
my men! Your names go to General Crook in my first report!"
Another moment and they were away, and two more had taken their
place--two who waited while Mrs. Stannard pencilled a few hurried words
to her "Luce," while Lilian, with a world of rapture, thanksgiving and
rejoicing in her heart, was striving to regain self-control, and avoid
her mother's eye, a thing she never before had done, nor would she now
be doing but for that splendid, knightly, heroic, self-poised,
soldierly fellow, standing so commandingly, gracefully there,
conferring one minute with her soldier father, and the next--helping
Mrs. Archer to more small talk and sangaree.