Turner and his men were gone all night, all the next day, and much of
the night that followed. Then they began drifting back in squads of
three or four. By noon the second day the captain himself, with the
main body, returned, dispirited, mystified. They had lost the trail
near the Picacho, found it again, lost it, found it, scoured the
foothills and scouted the east face of the Mazatzal, and came back
empty-handed. Willett's pistol was the only thing recovered, even with
such aid as could be rendered by some of the Sanchez party, Munoz and
Jose being most energetic in their aid--"'Patchie" Sanchez being, of
course, nowhere visible. 'Patchie had affairs of his own to answer for
and explain against the homeward coming of the Big Chief Crook, and was
shy of Saxon society in consequence.
And Turner was plainly nettled and chagrined. He and his troop were
about as expert trailers as could be found in our cavalry, which, in
the old Arizona days, meant not a little. Turned believed that 'Tonio
had dared to venture close to the sentry line, had lured his enemy to
the fords, and there, aided by one or two of his band, had done him
near to death, then fled for the fastnesses of the mountains. Turner
believed that 'Tonio, or one of his people, was wounded and could be
overtaken. The trail was easy as much as a mile down stream, and then
became difficult. Turner had accepted the proffered aid of Munoz and
certain of their set. They were all up, it seems, by the time he
reached the ranch, having been routed out earlier by the first
explorers from the post, Sergeant Connelly and party, who stated that
they found the "hull outfit asleep," this in spite of the fact that a
game seemed to have been going on earlier in the night, for the
paraphernalia were in evidence, also a moderate supply of liquid
mescal.
Now mescal in those days was not distilled north of the Gila--was
brought by devious route, when brought at all, from Mexico, and
"Greaser" packers, who were models of temperance when only Gringo
whiskey or German beer could be had, would sometimes stampede at the
mere whisper of mescal. Yet here was mescal, and here were some, at
least, of the Sanchez "outfit," sober and fit for business. Then it
must be that the three who lay stupefied had had money to invest at
monte, and had been plied with mescal until both cash and consciousness
had left them, and all this would account for the sudden hegira from
the store the evening preceding the shooting.
But in spite of their vehement assertions that 'Tonio had been
signalling that very day--that they could point to the tracks of
himself and his fellows in several places along the stream--these
energetic and swarthy sons of the Incas could by no means find 'Tonio,
or one of his tribe, when given the chance to lead and the backing of
armed troopers. 'Tonio, well or wounded, was far too wary for them and,
after hours of brag and bluster, not a vestige of him did they discover
beyond a few scattered footprints and that one revolver, concerning
which, it seems, Munoz told sensational tales. He declared he had found
it glinting in the moonlight just at the foot and to the right of the
trail leading from the low ground to the summit of Squadron Peak. His
story, indeed, was so positive and plausible that valuable time had
been lost while some of Turner's most active troopers scaled the height
in search of the fugitives whom Munoz thought more than likely must be
there, and Jose had agreed with him. Once well up among the rocks of
the Mazatzal, after sunrise, these valued allies became bewildered and
gave out, were handed a canteen and ration of crackers apiece and left
to limp back to the shack, while Turner pushed on. They were at the
store, recuperating, when his people reappeared at Almy, and each had
derisive and uncomplimentary things to say of the other. Moreover,
there was internal dissension among the Mexicans themselves. Dago's
disgust with Munoz seemed rekindled, while the sore-headed trio, done
out of their money by aid of mescal, were slinking about the shack,
looking unutterable things. When rogues fall out honest men profit, if
they are wise and wakeful, and now, at a time when something of
advantage might be learned, the interest of the garrison seemed centred
about the general's quarters, whither Harold Willett had been borne,
still senseless and in desperate case. Bentley could not say that he
would live, yet had been heard to say he believed the bullet not yet
cast that could kill him.
There had been a difference between Archer and his surgeon. The shack
was no place for a patient in such a plight. It was on low ground, hot
and stuffy in spite of high ceilings. Bentley wished him borne on
elastic litter to hospital. Archer said bear him to his quarters, Mrs.
Archer _would_ have it, and it was so ordered and done. Bentley wished
to find that bullet, the blunt, old-fashioned, soft lead plug, and find
it he had, lying fortunately close under the skin, after traversing
several inches of Willett's anatomy without piercing a vital organ. It
was cut out with little time or trouble, and set aside, sealed for
future reference. Fever, of course, set in, and where, asked Archer,
could more devoted nurse or nurses be found, and, in the absence of the
patient's own mother, what woman had better right?
It wasn't so much _that_, said poor Bentley, as that they might overdo
it--wear themselves out, and the patient, too. Willett was babbling in
feverish delirium when his litter was borne into the general's dark
hallway, and the patient thence to the white cot prepared for him,
where Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard at first were installed as nurses.
Bentley shook his head over the arrangement, and later he spoke of it
to Harris who sat thoughtful, troubled and ill at ease.
Bentley had told him of the discovery of the revolver and the universal
connection of 'Tonio with the attempted murder, and Harris bowed his
head wearily upon his hands: "I will not believe it," was all he said.
A sergeant and six men had gone with despatches and orders to find the
field column along the Black Mesa. A runner had been sent to McDowell
with the news, and another to Camp Sandy, where was Colonel Pelham, the
district commander, giving details of the attempted assassination of
the young staff officer, and warning all to arrest 'Tonio on sight. The
affair was the one topic of talk in every barrack room, mess, and
gathering at the post, and the subject of incessant comment and
speculation at the store. That 'Tonio was the culprit no man was heard
to express the faintest doubt. There were some who went so far as to
say that _any_ man, officer, soldier or civilian, who dared to strike
an Indian of 'Tonio's lineage had nothing less to expect. The one
question was, how had 'Tonio succeeded in luring his victim, unarmed,
to the spot, and why had he left his vengeance unfinished? The one man
along officers' row to express dissent from public opinion was
Lieutenant Harris; the one man at the store to sit in unresponsive
silence was Mr. Case--the bookkeeper.
Busy with his books, making up for the lost time, he said, sitting long
hours at his desk, within earshot of almost everything, and hearing
every theory expressed, he never so much as opened his lips upon the
subject further than to say that, from all accounts, the lieutenant
brought it on himself, and should never have ventured out alone, much
less unarmed.
"You didn't like him any too well yourself," bluntly hazarded Bonner,
two days after the tragedy, and, somehow, a rumor of a row between them
at the doctor's quarters was again in circulation.
"I didn't," said Case, imperturbably. "But that score is settled."
In the course of the prompt investigation made by Archer during the
daylight hours that followed the affray, Bentley had deemed it a duty
to tell the commander of the disturbance between Willett and Case,
ascribing it to Case's vinous excitement after some transaction at
cards, and though Archer believed the bookkeeper totally innocent of
any part in the distressing affair that followed, both he and Bentley
believed it due to everybody that Case's possible connection with it be
looked into. With Craney they visited Case's own sanctum in the store
building not two hours after the sound of the shot. There in its
accustomed place was Case's revolver, every chamber loaded and a thin
coating of dust on the grip. Case's pistol then had not been used.
Bentley went in and examined the medicine glass--this was toward four
o'clock--and apparently Case must have taken, said Bentley, at least
four doses. That much at any rate was gone, and Case was sleeping so
heavily he could hardly be roused--could hardly be kept awake, begged
thickly, sluggishly, to be allowed to "sleep it off," as though he
thought he must have been drinking again. Bentley brought out one of
Case's boots, and the track it fitted could be found all over the
flats, about the store, shack and stream, and proved nothing at all,
for everybody knew he had been wandering aimlessly about for days and
nights past. The window shade or blanket had been disarranged and the
window had been raised a few inches, probably for air. Everything else
was as Craney remembered seeing it before he turned in, and the
inference was clear to every mind that Case had never left the room and
probably, after the second dose, never left his bed.
And now, from Turner down, all troopers lately afield in search of
'Tonio were again at Almy, discomfited, disheartened. "Hunting for a
needle in a haystack without a magnet," said Turner, "is no more
fruitless than scouting for Apaches in these mountains without Apache
scouts. There is only one way," said he, "to capture 'Tonio. 'Set a
thief to catch a thief; set an Indian to catch an Indian.'" But the few
Indian scouts assigned to Almy had all been drafted away with Stannard
and the field columns in the Mogollon. "Even had they been available,"
said Archer, who listened with gloomy brow, "Harris says no
Apache-Mohave would betray 'Tonio, and no Apache-Yuma dare do it," and
now, as never before, Archer had taken to long talks with Harris--who
would gladly have had him keep away.
"Youngster," said Bentley, looking his patient keenly over the second
day after what had come to be called "the shooting," "I'm blessed if
I'm not getting discouraged on your account. Here I have had you within
reaching distance of 'fit for duty' twice, and both times you've gone
back on me. It's my belief- you'd be better anywhere else than here.
Almy's too high strung for your temperament."
"Get me once in saddle and I won't come back--or go back on you," said
Harris. "How's Willett?"
"High fever, tossing and talking--talking too damned much! You're
sitting up much of the time day and night now. You need air and change,
yet cannot stand jarring, or I'd take you driving."
"Let me ride a mule."
"I would, if I were sure of the brute behaving, but you never can tell
what a mule will do, and now--there's no telling what Willett may say."
"What do you mean?" asked Harris, though he had some reason to know.
"Just this. He's muttering about matters none of us now want to hear,
and want none of the Archers to hear. I've got Mrs. Archer out for a
time, and going to get Mrs. Stannard in for a time, but there's that
poor child upstairs going all to pieces for fear that beautiful boy may
die, when--it's--it's--_damn_ it, it's my profound conviction it would
be the best thing that could happen!" and with that Bentley turned
about and strode heavily out of the house.
Just at sunset that winter's evening, when all the eastward heights
were a blaze of gold, and the far away fringe of the Mogollon was
tipped with fire, and the rounded poll of Squadron Peak shone dazzling
against the southward sky, the lookout on the scaffolding above the
office set up a shout that brought half the garrison to its feet.
"Horsemen coming! McDowell road!"
It so happened that, just at the moment, Mrs. Stannard was walking
slowly and thoughtfully from the direction of the hospital to her
lonely roof. She had been to see Mrs. Bennett, whose general condition
appeared a little more favorable, but who lay long hours moaning for
those she had lost. Turner, coming in from the corrals, had joined Mrs.
Stannard for a moment, but at sound of the alarm raised his cap and
hurried straightway to the southward bluff. It might even mean a mail.
The days were long to Mrs. Stannard and the nights were weary, for one
anxiety followed another, and now, when she had so hoped that all might
be gladness and sunshine for the sweet, unspoiled army girl, to whom
her heart had so fondly opened, here at the very outset of her dream of
love and delight, the grim Destroyer threatened, and even if Fate
should spare the life of Harold Willett was it at all certain that that
life would be what Lilian Archer deserved?
All in three minutes that afternoon, while bending over the unconscious
sufferer, replacing with cool, fresh linen the heated bandages on his
brow, she had heard words that she fain would have stifled--that caused
her to look up, startled, into Bentley's sombre face. She was thinking
of the sorrows that encompassed her as she came slowly home, and then,
as the cry sounded from the lookout station, and people came hurrying
to their galleries, and Harris slowly felt his way to the open door,
she noted how pallid and sad and worn was the keen young face, and,
forgetful of her troubles, turned to say a word of cheer to him.
"It used to mean the mail," said she, smiling brightly for his benefit,
"but now no man can tell what a day may bring forth," she quoted. "The
letters _I_ most want would be coming from the east. What would you
have coming from the west?"
"Anything to bring me word of 'Tonio," he answered, adding, though not
for her ear, "and take me out of this." She stepped to the gallery and
frankly took his hand, looking kindly, gravely at him with her sweet
blue eyes.
"You are not doing well, Mr. Harris. You are fretting too much, I fear.
Tell me. You believe in 'Tonio thoroughly, don't you? So did Captain
Stannard, and so should I. Do you believe he would have tried to
kill--Mr. Willett?"
"Mrs. Stannard, I _know_ he would not!"
"Then I wish to ask you--something--something else. Was there--_is_
there--any one who could--who would--_well_, who--had any reason?"
For a moment he stood gazing at her, paler even than before, his stern
young face full of strange emotion.
"You have some reason for asking that, Mrs. Stannard," he said, almost
below his breath. "You have heard--tell me; has he--has Willett told
you anything?"
"Nothing that connects any one with this crime, and yet, while I cannot
tell you, and the doctor may not, I'll promise you this, Mr. Harris. If
ever 'Tonio is accused and in danger, Mr. Willett has something to
explain, and if he doesn't, then Dr. Bentley and I may have to."
With that, almost abruptly, as though dreading further question, Mrs.
Stannard turned away.
Thirty minutes later, dusty and weary, five troopers rode slowly
through the southward willows, across the sandy flats and up the slope
to the adjutant's office, while the garrison, neglecting its evening
meal, swarmed out to greet them. Six saddle-bags were crowded with
letters and papers--the first in a fortnight--and the sergeant-major
and his clerks went busily to work sorting out the mail, while Archer
and his officers eagerly questioned the sergeant in charge. They were
men of Captain Freeman's troop, all out scouting from McDowell. They
camped last night at Silver Springs, fifty miles south-west, and came
on from there while the captain and the troop turned back to the Verde
Valley. No, they had neither seen nor heard of hostile Indians. All
such seemed to have cleared out, for the time being at least. Had they
met the Almy couriers on their way? Not one. They had come the lower
trail by way of Standard Peak, where they had a signal station and
guard now, where they left mail and rations for them, and then pushed
on over into the valley. The Almy couriers took the short cut. No, they
had seen nobody but some Mexicans, and hadn't much to say to them,
'cause Sanchez--'Patchie Sanchez--had been caught and was in the
guard-house at McDowell, charged with being mixed up in the shooting of
Sergeant Graves. That, at least, was welcome news. Had anything been
heard of General Crook? Yes, something. Apache-Mohave runners came in
to the bivouac at Silver Springs, with despatches, before they left,
and that was one reason the captain turned back. One of them was
wounded. They'd had a scrimmage with Tontos, they said, but got through
safely, barring just this one--'Tonio they called him--said he was a
chief of the old tribe.
"'Tonio there, and wounded!" cried Archer, while Strong and Bonner
almost sprang to their feet, in surprise.
"'Tonio, sir, certainly," said the sergeant. "The doctor had him
dressing his wound when we came away. It was only slight."
"Then," said the general, "by this time they've got my despatches, and
'Tonio's a doomed Indian!"