Harris was up and fuming for action. With his wound unhealed and his
arm utterly useless, he was insistent that he should be permitted to
mount and ride. "What could you do?" asked Bentley. "The post is
surrounded. Every trail and both roads are watched day and night. Your
horse is all that's left you. 'Tonio is gone. 'Tonio has turned
traitor!"
"That," said Harris, "I will not believe for an instant."
They brought General Archer to see him, and the grave-faced old soldier
bent kindly over the impatient and incredulous junior. "It is even as
Bentley tells you, lad," said he. "Only one messenger has been able to
come or go through their lines since the demoralized pair that got in
from Verde, and they can't be hired to try again. We are hemmed in and
helpless until our cavalry return. Willett will tell you he saw 'Tonio
fire the shot that killed his horse and was meant to kill him. 'Tonio
has intercepted messengers between Turner and me, and killed, I
believe, at least one messenger. You must be patient or you will throw
yourself into a fever and set you back a month. We've simply got to act
on the defensive, guard the post and the women until relief comes. By
this time, of course, General Crook himself is somewhere in the field,
and any moment may bring him; then our Apache friends, hereabouts, will
have to hunt their holes."
"General Archer," said Harris, commanding himself with evident effort
and striving to speak with his accustomed deliberation, "I have not
seen Willett, but, if I had, I should refuse to believe that 'Tonio
fired at him. The Apache-Mohaves may be with the hostiles at last, but
not 'Tonio. There is some reason for his absence that we cannot fathom.
They may have killed him for his loyalty to us, but loyal he is at
heart, no matter how much appearances are against him."
"We'll hope so," said Archer, "but for the present, do as Bentley bids
you and stay quiet," and the commander rose to go.
But Harris, too, was on his feet, steadying himself with one hand on
the back of his chair. "You will pardon me, will you not, sir, if I ask
a question? You say you have been unable to communicate with Stannard
or Turner. Stannard is, probably, too far away, but if Turner's wounded
are over on Tonto Creek, he can be reached. Have you tried signalling?"
"Signalling? We've got some flags and torches somewhere, but I believe
that----"
"I don't mean that, sir. No one with Turner would understand if we had.
I mean smoke signals--Indian."
"No," said Archer slowly. "No one but Indians could say what they
meant, even if any one here knew their confounded code. Do you?"
"I know enough at least to call 'Tonio; and unless he is dead or
spirited away, he'll answer. Then we can get word to Turner."
Archer turned back. He was almost at the door. "Do you mean he _would_
answer--that he would come in here?"
"If I may give my word that no one shall touch or harm him, he'll
come--if alive and able."
For a moment the general was silent. It was a grave question. In his
eyes and those of his officers, 'Tonio stood attainted practically with
treason. He had deserted in face of the enemy, joined forces with the
enemy, shot as an enemy, conspired and acted as an enemy. He deserved
to be hunted and shot down without trial, without mercy. Yet here was
this young soldier, who had known him best and longest, full of
boundless faith in him, demanding safe conduct for him on the honor of
an officer and gentleman. If Archer gave his word it would be flying in
the face of his entire command--what there was left of it, at
least--and Archer's word was a thing not to be lightly given. "I must
think of this awhile," said he. "It is a big proposition. You think
_you_ can reach him?"
"By night or day, sir, either; but it would have to be from the top of
Squadron Peak."
It was then late on Friday afternoon, the fifth day of what might he
called the siege. Not a signal had come from without, not a sign from
either command, not a symptom of surrounding Indian; yet a little party
sent to search the rookery down stream, where Case declared he'd been
entertaining the ghost of 'Patchie Sanchez, came back reporting that
fresh moccasin and mule tracks were plainly visible about the premises
and at the neighboring ford, also that the mule tracks led away back of
the Picacho, as everybody persisted in calling the peak--in spite of
the fact that from the north it presented no sharp point to the skies,
but rather a bold and rounded poll. Squadron Peak was more "sonorous
and appropriate," said the trooper who so named it, but now that
troopers were scarce at Almy, there were none to do it that reverence.
Old Sanchez--Jose--the former proprietor, had disappeared entirely, he
and his brace of henchmen, after somewhere digging a treasure pit in
the sand and therein "caching" their store of mescal, aguardiente, and
certain other illicit valuables. It was conjectured that he had fled to
the Verde Valley and taken refuge at McDowell until the storm blew
over. But Craney was more than curious as to Case's guest, the ghost,
and by Friday Case was sober and solemn and sick enough to be
cross-questioned without show of resentment. Craney went so far as to
ask Case wouldn't he like a little whiskey to steady his nerves--a
cocktail to aid his appetite and stir his stomach? "Like it," said
Case, "you bet I would--which is why I won't take it. Three days'
liquor, two days' taper, one day suffer, then the water wagon for a
spell. Thank you all the same, Mr. Craney. What can I do for you
without the drink?"
But when Craney mentioned Sanchez, the ghost and the drinking bout by
night at the rookery, Case said he must have been nigher to jimjams
than he'd got in a year. "I never saw any ghost," said he, and Craney
had to give it up, and report his failure to the commanding officer.
"Ever try threatening him with discharge?" asked Bucketts, by way of
being helpful.
"Ever try? I don't _have_ to try! The one time I started in on that lay
he never let me finish; said all right, he'd go just as soon as he'd
balanced the books. Then, by gad, it was all I could do to get him to
stay. He is the most independent damn man I ever met. Says he knows
he's a drunkard and nuisance one week out of four, and don't wonder I
want to discharge him. Discharge him? I couldn't get along without him!
Any time he wants a better job and plenty of society all he's got to do
is go to Prescott. Discharge him! All I'm afraid of is he'll discharge
himself!"
So Bucketts dropped the subject and he and Strong went to report
non-success to Archer just as the sun was going down and the peak, in
lone grandeur, loomed up dazzling above the black drapery about its
base, and Bonner, pacing up and down with his much-honored chief, saw
the gloom deepen in his deep-set eyes. Only Lilian seemed able to win a
smile from him, as she came and took him by the arm and led him away to
dinner.
Darkness settled down apace. The moon rose late and the stars were
holding high carnival in consequence, for the skies were gorgeous in
their deck of gold. Mrs. Stannard was dining with the Archers _en
famille_, as she did now almost every evening, for the Archers would
so have it, and Archer had been talking of Harris's proposition, and
his determined stand for 'Tonio. Mrs. Archer shook her pretty head in
negation. She could not see how any one who distrusted her general
could himself be loyal. She had said the same of Secretary Stanton
during the war, for one of that iron master's most masterly convictions
was that every soldier, Southern born--even such as Thomas--must of
necessity be a Southern sympathizer. 'Tonio must needs be a traitor
since he avoided sight of, or speech with, her soldier who could do no
wrong. And if Mrs. Archer believed in 'Tonio, on her husband's account,
what must have been Lilian's conviction? she who had both father and
lover--father and the husband soon to be, for of that Mrs. Archer had
now no earthly doubt--the two men beyond all others combined who were
dearest to Lilian on earth, both of them inimical to 'Tonio, one of
them wellnigh his victim. It was Mrs. Stannard who listened in silence.
She had longer known the Apache-Mohave, and as between 'Tonio and
Willett it might well be a story with two sides.
They had finished their coffee and were just coming forth upon the
veranda into the exquisite evening air, and, as bidden by her father,
Lilian had just begun to tune her guitar, when across the parade among
the men seated along the low front of the barracks there was sudden
start, sudden rush, and, from up the line of officers' quarters not
many doors away, came agonized cry for help. Archer sprang to his feet
and started, but Mrs. Archer, in a paroxysm of fear, thinking only of
Indians and treachery, seized him by the arm, clung to and held him.
Mrs. Stannard sprang within the hall and back with Archer's revolver
which, without a word, she thrust into his hand. Then all three
together started, for while fifty men came tearing headlong across the
sandy level, making straight for the adjutant's quarters, Lilian, their
little Lilian--the silent, sad-eyed, anxious child of the days and days
gone by--heading everybody, was flying like a white-winged bird,
straight along the line, and when the father reached her she had thrown
herself upon a heap of burning, smouldering bedding, thrashing it with
a wet blanket snatched from the olla, and then, with her own fair,
white hands, was beating out the few sparks that remained about the
sleeve and shoulder of a soaked and dishevelled gown, and brushing
others from the hair and face of an unheroic, swathed and dripping
figure--Harold Willett in the midst of the wreck of his cot, while
Blitz, the striker, aided by Wettstein and the doctor's man, were
stamping and swearing and tearing things to bits in the effort to down
other incipient blazes. Between them they had dragged Willett from the
midst of the flames and drenched him with a cataract from the olla. The
rush of the men from the barracks made short work of the fire, but when
Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard, with throbbing hearts, bent over the
scorched and smoking ruin on the south porch, a tousled brown head,
with ghastly face, was clasped in Lilian's arms, pillowed on Lilian's
fair, white bosom. Willett had fainted from fright, pain and reaction,
and the unheroic, untried, unfearing girl had blistered her own fair
hands, her own soft, rounded, clasping arms, yet saw and felt nothing
but dread for his suffering and joy for his safety. Even the mother for
a moment could not take her rescued darling from that fond, fearless,
impassioned embrace. All in that desperate instant the veil of virgin
shame had burned away. In the fierce heat and shock and peril the
latent love force had burst its bonds, the budding lily had blossomed
into womanhood.
And upon that picture, pallid, weak and suffering, another neighbor,
another pain-stricken young soldier gazed in silence, then turned
unobtrusively away. There was no one to help him back to the reclining
chair from which he had been startled at the almost frenzied shriek of
alarm. There was no further talk--no thought of signals that night;
Archer had had enough of fire. They bore the reviving officer,
presently, to a vacant room in Stannard's quarters, and Lilian was led
to her own. There were bandages about both hands and arms when next
morning she appeared upon the gallery. They hid the red ravages on the
fair, white skin, but what was there to veil the radiant light that
shone in her eyes, the burning blushes that mantled her soft and
rounded cheeks? Archer took her to his heart and kissed her and turned
to his duty with a sigh. Mrs. Archer clung to and hovered about her,
silent, for what was there to say? Mrs. Stannard came over, all smiles
and sunshine, to announce that "He" had passed a comfortable night, and
"His" first waking thoughts and words were for her, as indeed they
should have been, and, so far as audible words were concerned, they
possibly were. What else could Mrs. Stannard have said when she saw
that winsome, yet appealing little face?
And in such wise was our Lilian wooed; in such wise was she won.
Contrary to Bentley's wishes, Willett had essayed to smoke, and so set
his bed afire. Contrary to all convention, the love of the maiden had
been the first to manifest itself to public eye, but Willett manfully
rose to the occasion. In the midst of anxiety, uncertainty and danger
there beamed one ray, at least, of radiant, unshadowed, buoyant hope
and bliss and shy delight. Lilian Archer envied no girl on the face of
the globe, no white-robed seraph in heaven; and for her sake others,
too, strove hard to hope, to help, to shower good wishes and
congratulation.
"But to think of my little girl in love," said Archer, with brimming
eyes. "Why, you--you won't be nineteen!"
"And mother was but seventeen when she married you," softly laughed
Lilian, snuggling to his side.
"And Mr. Willett so far from his captaincy," sighed her mother.
"Much nearer than father was to even a first lieutenancy when you
married him," was the joyous answer. "_He_ was only a second
lieutenant by brevet."
"Well," said Mrs. Archer, "it seems different--somehow."
And so it seemed to us. "All too brief a wooing," said poor Archer.
"God send her longer wedded bliss!"