An atmosphere of peace ineffable surrounded old Camp Almy. The Indians
lately infesting the neighborhood seemed to have gone away into the
mountain fastnesses. Turner had pushed little scouting parties
cautiously into the foothills to the west and the rugged country
eastward across the stream. Others had ventured down to the Peak and
scaled it in search of signal smokes or fires. Others still had
explored the valley toward Dead Man's Canon, and back by way of
Bennett's, without finding so much as a moccasin print. Even the
Apache-Mohaves seemed to have gone from the neighborhood. Malloy with
his chosen ten was still out, and a rumor was prevalent that their
orders might keep them away some days, so no apprehension was felt at
their continued absence.
Another week was nearing an end. A runner, Hualpai, had come in from
the far north-east, with despatches from Stannard. He was with General
Crook and their comrades from the northward camps and stations. They
had abundant supplies, had scattered and driven the Tontos, had made
some prisoners of squaws and pappooses, who, even to the general,
declared they knew not where the Bennett children had been hidden. The
general was expecting to work southward along the Black Mesa to meet
the column out from the Upper San Carlos under Major Randall ("Big
Chief Jake," the aforementioned) and between them they meant to leave
no stone unturned in the effort to find the boys. Stannard enclosed a
letter for his bonny wife, and closed with a word by way of postscript
over which Archer and the three B's found themselves pondering not a
little.
"Wish we had Harris and 'Tonio with us. Hope they are doing well. The
general is anxious to meet and know them both."
Harris was not well. His convalescence had been interrupted and
impaired, as we have seen, and no man thrives bodily when heart and
soul are sore within him; and, heart and soul, Harris was sore. He was
sitting up, to be sure, but it was plain to be seen he was suffering.
Mrs. Stannard, wise woman that she was, believed she knew something of
the cause and held her peace. Dr. Bentley, believing also that he knew
something of the cause, was not so thoroughly wise. Between Mrs.
Bennett, his patients at the hospital, mostly convalescent, and this
young knight, the doctor was having a busy time of it. Mrs. Bennett
improved not at all, but had at least become less violent in her
anguish. At times she seemed almost in a stupor, and Mrs. Stannard was
beginning to wonder whether the matron, worn out with her lamentations,
had been administering surreptitious opiates. Mrs. Archer's visits had
become less frequent, because for long hours she had had to go and sit
with Lilian and her crippled hero. But now that hero was up and out on
the veranda, basking in the sunshine of love unutterable, though
enjoined as yet to avoid the fervor of that of Arizona. Willett had
never appeared to better advantage in his life than now, in modestly
accepting congratulations, manfully asserting his unworthiness of the
blessing that had come to him, and his determination, please God, to
live a life of devotion to his new-found delight, this sweet floweret
of the desert that so suddenly, so wonderfully, so dominantly had come
to gladden, to bless, to inspire his career. Love is a marvellous
beautifier, mental, moral and physical. In such pure and exquisite
companionship, in the radiance of her presence, in the ecstasy of her
sweet, shy, still half-timid caress, in the undoubted honesty of his
resolution to be all her fondest wishes would have him, and in no
easily shaken conviction that, even as he stood, he was a remarkably
fine fellow, well calculated to make any girl happy, it was not
difficult for Willett to rise superior to his past--to forget it, in
fact, and to fancy himself for all times the high-minded, love-guided
gentleman he stood to-day. Why should he not to the full rejoice in her
delicious homage?--indulge her sweet rhapsodies?--encourage her fond
day dreams? It was so easy now to be all deference and tenderness to
the gentle mother he was soon to rob of her one darling, to be all
respect and attention to the gallant old soldier father, to be
everything that was exquisitely tender, fond, impassioned to this
innocent and lovely girl, who trembled with delight at his kiss and
clung in speechless rapture to his side. Life for him, even here at
desolate Almy, had suddenly become a veritable heaven. Small wonder
then that he quite forgot the purpose of his coming, the sordid events
that preceded that most fortunate catastrophe, the fire,--forgot or
thrust aside all consideration of the episode at the store, the
encounter at Harris's bedside, the events of the evening when he was
hurled headlong among the rocks, the victim of 'Tonio's vengeful aim.
He had even ceased to remember that he had ever been capable of
considering "Hefty" Harris a rival, that he had ever been capable of
undermining or intriguing or inspiring an official report that
reflected sorely on Harris as an officer and leader. In his present
mood, in fine, forgetful of all his past, his heart was overflowing
with the milk of human kindness, even to Harris, and, having
successfully tricked him out of everything worth having at the post,
was quite ready to forgive him and once more be the friend, comrade and
classmate of his own imaginings.
Harris alone had not come to congratulate him, but then, as Willett
well knew, Harris could not. Mrs. Stannard and Dr. Bentley both
reported him still too weak to walk about. He had had much fever and
pain and loss of sleep, said they. But now, when in the soft light of
this Friday evening, Willett essayed a stroll up the line, with Lilian
almost dancing by his side, and with fond eyes following the graceful
pair, he took it quite amiss that Harris did not come forth to envy,
and to add his felicitations. Come to think of it, that very truthful
woman, Mrs. Stannard (who never told even a society lie unless there
was no way out of it), had brought no word from Harris, nor had Bentley
mentioned such a thing, and this fact impressed itself upon the happy
man as twice, thrice they slowly promenaded past the open door of the
doctor's quarters without a glimpse of Harris, and, finally, on the
fourth, the return trip, Willett in his exuberant bliss, would not be
denied.
"Harris! O--o--o--Hefty!" he shouted. "Come out and see a fellow!"
For a moment, silence. Then, not so resonant but still clearly audible,
for both men had voices that "carried" and were used to command:
"Come in, if you will. Can't come out!"
"I can't without leaving my convoy," was the return shout, but as
Willett glanced down into the lovely face so near his shoulder, he
found it paling just a bit, and troubled, not rejoiceful. "What is it,
sweet? Don't you--care to see him?"
"I think--I don't know--but--_he_ might not."
It was too late. She would have led her lover away, for, young as she
was, Lilian Archer had a woman's intuition, if not many a woman's wit.
All on a sudden, unheard because of moccasined feet and the doctor's
Indian matting, Harris stood in the doorway. He did not seem to look at
Willett. His eyes at once sought her, and seemed closing to a slit as
they encountered even the tempered light of declining day--the curious
habit common to so many who have long scouted in the glare of desert
suns. He hesitated not a moment. At sight of her he came quietly to the
edge of the veranda and down the shallow steps, his face pale, as was
to be expected, a grave smile upon his lips and even playing about the
corners of those keen, blue-gray, unflinching eyes. He waited for no
announcement or salutation from his brother officer--Mrs. Stannard and
the doctor had told him the news two days before, and there had been
ample time in which to digest it. Down in the depths of his heart he
believed that Willett had planned this "_coup_" for his especial
mortification, and down to the tip of his toes he longed to kick him
for it, whereas in Willett's exuberant self-gratulation, the one
thought at the moment was really a "Rejoice with me." That other men
should envy was, of course, to be expected. What worth were any triumph
without the joy of being envied!
All his life he had been used to it. All his life, in childish sports,
in boyish contest, on campus, rostrum, field or floor, among the lads
at school, his fellows at the Point, his comrades in the service,
wherever physical beauty, grace, skill and strength could prevail he
had ever been easily winner, and when it came to women, what maid or
matron had withstood his charm of manner? What man had ever yet
prevailed against it? That others should long and strive for that which
had come to him, unsought, unwooed, was something he could neither
obviate nor deny. That was Nature's gift to him at birth. It was even
magnanimous that, knowing this power, he should so often spare. Maids
indeed might sigh at his indifference, but their solace lay in the
eager offerings of other and less gifted men. Suffice it for him that
at his beck the best of them would quit the shelter of other arms and
come fluttering to his own. But now, of course, all this power of
fascination must be sternly tempered, even suppressed. Henceforth he
must be guarded. The winning of this pure young heart, the possession
of this sweet and winsome nature, the lavish homage of this fresh and
fervent love should steel his hitherto vagrant fancy against all
would-be-willing victims. The time had come when other women must be
bidden, if need be, to droop and die. Henceforth he had naught to offer
them but the contemplation of his content and her unquestioned
queendom.
And so he could forgive it in Harris that he should come forth with no
welcoming look for him, the conqueror, and only a yearning gaze for
her. He could have felt quick resentment had Harris manifested nothing
but rejoicing, even in expressing it. He had hated Harris when, deposed
from his high rank as first captain of the Corps of Cadets, he had seen
that far less showy soldier, his classmate, step easily into command
and hold it with better discipline and ever-increasing respect from the
entire battalion. The day of their departure from the Point had been to
Willett an unforgotten, unforgiven lesson. It was the custom of the
times--an unwritten, if unmilitary law--that on graduation day the
class should appear at the mess hall at the dinner hour, and either
singly or in little groups of two or three leave the building while the
corps still sat at meat. It was even permitted that some should utter a
word or two of farewell. Man after man Willett's fellows had taken
their departure, and been accorded by the gray battalion a godspeed
more or less thunderous as the individual was honored, popular, or
merely a negative quantity. Willett had planned to be the last to
leave, expectant of ovation that should out-thunder all others, but the
officer in charge apparently would not see that regulations were being
ignored, that cadets were on their feet about the head of certain
tables, actually clinging to would-be going fellows, in unbecoming and
unaccustomed "cits," while he was forcibly restrained by none. So,
finally, waving his natty straw to table after table, he passed on to
the broad-arched entrance, the clamor of voice and the battering of the
old time iron stool beginning in kindly and cordial fashion--they would
not send a dog away, those big-hearted fellows, without some show of
friendliness--yet in all that array he numbered not one real friend,
for self-seeking had ever been his creed and there was no man of their
sturdy brotherhood that did not know it. Beneath the arch he turned and
gazed once more over the familiar scene, his eyes dry and glittering,
his throat dry and husky. Yearlings and some upper classmen were making
lively play with stamp and stool, but the din was more perfunctory than
powerful--nowhere near what had happened the moment before when two
well-beloved fellows, with bowed heads and moistened eyes, had fairly
rushed from the hall lest men should see that at last there had come
realization that this was the parting of the ways, that the daily habit
of four long years was shed forever, that to most of their number the
greeting of the gray battalion would be given never again. But he had
his wits about him, even then. He saw that now at last, with but four
minutes left before the companies must rise and quit the hall, Harris
was coming--the new-made first captain, adjutant and quartermaster
escorting--the commandants of table all over the hall springing to
their feet, and the wild rumble of hollow iron beginning the crescendo
of swift-coming, stupendous thunder, and Willett stood and swung his
hat, and classmates half-way down the slope turned back to see, and
understood without seeing, that there was something back of it besides
Willett. And then a tornado burst forth, as Harris, pale to the lips,
halted at the door. His escort sprang aside, and to a man the battalion
leaped to its feet and let go with voice and foot and hand, and the din
was deafening. One moment he stood there, trembling with emotion,
incapable of response, then whirled and darted down the steps, leaving
Willett to acknowledge the tremendous ovation that speedily died
away--almost to silence--ere he, too, turned and followed. "Good-by,
fellows! God bless you!" shouted Willett, as though in final triumph.
He had had the last word; had "taken the call," and the dramatic
success of the day was his, or might have been, but for a most
unprecedented incident.
"Hush! hush! Shut up!" were the stern, sudden words with which the
elders repressed the juniors who, impulsively, would have broken forth
again. "Wait! Wait, you fellows!" was the cry, for on a sudden half a
dozen stalwart gray coats had sprung from the door, regardless of the
corporal on duty, disdainful of demerit, had hurled themselves on
wet-eyed Harris, had heaved him up on their shoulders, with pinioned,
arm-locked, helpless legs, and frantic, impotently battling fists, and
borne him struggling up the steps and once more within the massive
portals, and then pandemonium broke loose, for this was no divided
honor--there was none to share it now. They bore him, vainly
protesting, into the midst of the now risen battalion. They bore him
forth into the June sunshine without. They surged about him under the
trees and along the roadway, his halted classmates gazing back from the
brow of the bluff, a swarm of spectators looking on, a stupefied group
surging out from the officers' mess, conceiving that fire alone could
account for the tumult. Then, over the uproar, could be heard the
orders of the new captain. "Form your companies!" the shouts of the
sergeants: "Fall in, men, fall in!" And then the demand: "March us
back, Hefty! Take command once more!" "Start 'em back, Harris, for
God's sake! I can never straighten 'em out," cried his half-laughing,
half-sobbing successor, his first sergeant of the year gone by. He
stood there prisoner, held by the staff and special duty men. He could
not get away. Even the saturnine officer in charge stood a smiling
observer, and, catching the young graduate's eye, waved approval and
encouragement, and so there was no help for it. With a voice
half-broken through emotion, he gave the old familiar commands that,
three times a day for nearly ten long months previous, had sent them
striding back through the gap between the old "Academic" and the gray
gables of the Mess, and so on to the broad area of barracks beyond.
Then, breaking away, he sprang over the eastward edge of the road,
joined the waiting group of classmates at the crest of the hill, and
with one long look at the disappearing gray and white column, turned
his face to the winding road and the landing below, where the whistling
ferryboat lay impatient of their coming--whither Willett had already
gone.
Was Willett thinking of that bygone scene this breathless evening in
the heart of the desert valley, and the shadow of the westward
mountain, as his once successful soldier rival came silently forward to
grace his triumph in the field of love? Harris at least was not. His
bearing was quite undramatic, simple, dignified. His greeting was
almost too simple. "I can't give you my right hand, Miss Archer," said
he, smiling gravely, "and I won't give a left-handed felicitation. It's
my first opportunity," he continued, as he stood quietly before her,
looking straight into her blushing face, "and I'm sorry it has to be in
such shabby fashion." Then just as quietly and squarely he spoke to
Willett, the gray-blue eyes looking keenly into the brown. "You are
mightily to be congratulated, Willett," said he, "and we'll shake hands
on it as soon as I have a hand to shake with."
"I knew you would, old fellow!" said Willett, putting forth the
unoccupied hand and laying it upon the other's shoulder, a
well-remembered way of his when he wished to be effusive. "I'm coming
round presently to have a talk--but couldn't help coaxing you out now."
"How--_is_ your shoulder, Mr. Harris?" began our Lilian, all observant
of physical ills. On these, at least, she could pour the balm of her
sympathy.
"Doing finely, thank you; and, pardon me, but the general is
signalling. You're both wanted, I judge," and then, like the Union
force at Second Bull Run, fell back in the best of order, in spite of
the worst of blows.
"I'll be with you again before a great while, Hefty, old boy," again
called Willett over his shoulder, as though insistent on an invitation;
but an assenting nod was all that came. The general had signalled to
his children because of the concern in Bentley's face at sight of
Harris confronting all that happiness, but Bentley need not have feared
for him. He would not have feared could he have seen the little thing
that happened. She had put forth a slender hand, half timidly, as
Harris stepped backward. She was thinking even in the overmastering
presence of this hero whom she worshipped, and to whose side she clung,
of that moonlit evening on the veranda, of the hiss and skirr of the
deadly rattler, of the peril that had menaced and the quick wit and
nerve of him who had saved her, this very plain, sun-bleached, seasoned
young knight, who seemed quite ready to risk life or limb in her
defence, and who, said Willett, had lost most of his heart. It was
foolish in him, with her Harold there; still it was something to be
rewarded, somehow, and, womanlike, she tendered the contemplation of
her inaccessibility in his rival's bliss. "You'll come to see us soon,
Mr. Harris? I've so much to thank you for."
"Just as soon as the doctor will let me, Miss Archer," was his entirely
proper answer, and quite as properly our Lilian breathed a little sigh
of relief, as, nestling closer still, she sped lightly homeward,
clinging to her lover's side. It was so sweet to think of him as all
her own.
It is the mistake other and older girls so often make. Even as she
prattled in her bliss, looking radiantly into the fond, soft brown eyes
that melted into hers, the summons of a rival claimant came swiftly
down the vale, and the sentry at the northward post and the loungers at
the lookouts were already screwing their eyelids into focus on the
little dust cloud popping up along the stream fringe of willow. Two
couriers came presently jogging into view, and before the general sat
in the famous butler's pantry chair at the family table, he had told
the contents of two despatches from the Gray Fox in the field, and
decided for the moment to say nothing of the third. With the first and
second, reporting progress and enclosing despatches to be forwarded to
Prescott, we have nothing to do. With the last we may feel less concern
than did they. Mrs. Archer, scanning the clear-cut face of her soldier
lord, as he came within range of the hallway lamp, knew perfectly well
he had something to conceal, and with never an instant's doubt or
hesitation set herself to aid him. Without her tact and skill that
little dinner of four, the last they were to know in many a day, would
have been a sorrowful feast, for Archer was sore troubled in spirit.
Not until an hour later could she get him to herself, leaving Lilian
and her handsome Harold to bill and coo unsupervised, and then she only
smiled bravely up into his face and said, "Now tell me, dear."
"It's that--that fool despatch I wrote about Harris coming like a
curse, and chickens, home to roost." His hands were tremulous, his lips
were twitching as he took from its envelope and unfolded a letter in
the well-known hand of the field commander's favorite aide-de-camp.
"Read it aloud," he said; "perhaps it won't sound quite so--reproachful
from you." And obediently she read:
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.
CAMP NEAR HEAD OF CHEVLON'S CREEK,
December 2, 187--.
DEAR GENERAL ARCHER:
Referring to the final paragraph of your despatch to Department
Head-quarters, dated November --th, General Crook directs me to say
that he was unaware of the instructions given Lieutenant Willett,
aide-de-camp, to proceed to Camp Almy, and practically authorizing
him to make certain investigations. It was far from his desire that
anything should be done to even inferentially reflect upon the
conduct of scouting parties from the post under your control. From
reliable sources General Crook has full information as to the cause
of the apparent ill success of Lieutenant Harris. Neither was he,
nor were his scouts, to blame. It is the general's intention to see
you before returning to Prescott and give you the facts in his
possession; but meantime Lieutenant Harris has his entire
confidence, and so have the few Apache-Mohave scouts, especially
'Tonio, all of whom, it is feared, have in some way incurred your
disfavor.
Captain Stannard is away at this moment, but will assure you as to
the value and gallantry of Harris's effort in behalf of poor Mrs.
Bennett, and also that 'Tonio is almost equally entitled to credit.
It was far from General Crook's intention that Lieutenant Harris
should be impeded or hampered in the least. Lieutenant Willett has
rendered distinguished service in the Columbia country, but is a
stranger to the situation and the Indians we have to deal with, and
should not be permitted in any way to interfere with Lieutenant
Harris.
Orders were sent Willett some ten days ago to join us in the field,
but the couriers, returned to-day, report that he was not at
Prescott. If he should be still in your neighborhood, kindly inform
him of the general's desire, and give him sufficient escort. We
move toward Camp Apache to-morrow, and Stannard is already ahead in
hopes of rescuing the Bennett boys.
With the general's warmest regards,
Yours as ever,
BRIGHT.
"It's a very kind letter, dear," said she, kissing his wrinkled cheek.
"General Crook wouldn't wound you for the world."
"It isn't--that, Bella," he answered sadly. "I've wounded myself, and
now I've got to send--him--with word of my orders as to 'Tonio."
"Send him--word?" she faltered. "Do you mean----"
"Certainly, dear. Who should go--but Willett?"