The week was closing, the third of a mournful little series of
seven-day happenings, the like of which Almy had never before
experienced, and it was hoped might never know again. "The Moon of Many
Woes," as later it transpired the Indians had named the night goddess
of November, was a thing of the past. A new queen had come, hovering
like silvery filament over the black barrier of the Mazatzal in a sky
cloudless and glinting with myriad points of fire. The nights were cold
and still, the days soft yet brilliant in the blaze of an unshrouded
sun. An almost Sabbath-like calm hovered over the valley, for even
signal smokes had ceased to blur the horizon. Not a hostile Indian had
been heard of since the coming of Freeman's couriers. The brawling gang
of "greaser" gamblers had stolen away from the "ghost ranch." Even the
ghost himself seemed to walk no more. Something had happened to call
the firm of Munoz y Sanchez elsewhere, and Dago, darkly glowering and
scowling about the store, where day and night the bookkeeper sat
absorbed in accounts and letters, muttered many a _carramba_, and had
even been goaded into explosive _carrajo_, because a defrauded
soldiery, thirsting for revenge or restitution, persisted in connecting
him with these skilled but quite unprincipled experts of the alluring
game of monte, whereas Dago hated the sight of Munoz, of whom he stood
in dread.
But while all men knew the "greasers" had gone, and many wondered why,
and none at Almy could tell, there was abundant reason to believe they
would soon reappear. Much news had been coming in--news from Crook's
column along the Mogollon and the eastward foothills--good news, too,
for far and wide the Indians were heeding his Gospel of Peace, which,
tersely translated, read: "Come in and be fed. Stay out and be fought,"
and by scores the mountain warriors, with their queerly assorted
families, were flocking to the San Carlos and Apache reservations, and
at last there seemed promise of a general burial of the hatchet. At
last there was hope, wrote Stannard, that the Bennett boys would be
restored. Good news, too, and stacks of mail, had come from Prescott
and from far distant homes, but the bit of news that appealed to all
but a chosen few at Camp Almy, as by all means the most important and
welcome, was "The paymaster's coming!" The paymaster, indeed, after
weeks of detention, was scheduled to be at the post by nightfall of the
coming Tuesday or Wednesday, and Wednesday would usher in the old-time
saturnalia of the south-western frontier, the joy of the laundress,
soldier and sutler, the dread of every post and company commander from
Her Majesty's dominion to the Mexican line--Pay Day.
And stacks of letters and some few papers and magazines--by no manner
of means all that were hopefully started--had come to the Archers and
Mrs. Stannard and the exiles of official Almy, and stacks of letters
were there for the slowly bettering young soldier lying helpless under
the commander's roof, faithfully tended and devotedly nursed, the
object of the fondest hope and love and prayer--Lieutenant Harold
Willett, on detached service from "the Lost and Strayed," as
aide-de-camp to the commanding general, Department of Arizona, who
never yet since the day he left Vancouver Barracks had set eyes on him.
Most of these letters, tied in tape, stood piled like bricks upon the
mantel-shelf in the darkened quarters. Some few of them, in feminine
superscription and bearing the Portland postmark, Dr. Bentley had seen
fit to segregate and set aside. They had been placed for safe keeping
in the hands of Mrs. Stannard, of whom, said Bentley, "there are not
ten women of her sense in the whole service," which, said Lieutenant
Blake, of Camp McDowell, when told of the fact, "is a most egregious
exaggeration," and no woman there knew just what he meant. Blake at the
moment was riding boot to boot with his captain, Freeman, for between
the two there dwelt an attachment and understanding rarely seen between
captain and subaltern, but Freeman guffawed at his junior's whimsical
remark, and told it, just to try the effect on three of the four
heroines then quartered at the camp. No one of their number was there
who did not envy Mrs. Stannard her place in public estimation, but no
one of them, could they have known, would have envied her the plight in
which she found herself--joint custodian, with Bentley, of Hal
Willett's unconscious confidences--compelled to see a young girl's
rapturous love lavished upon a man so saturated with the incense of
feminine idolatry as to be more than apt to underrate the priceless
boon of a pure woman's heart-whole devotion.
They had clipped short, and shaved, much of the hair from the back and
left side of Harold's handsome head, where fell the blows that had
stunned him, but as those severe contusions healed, and it transpired
that the skull was sound, the doctor's main anxiety was transferred to
the gunshot wound, which might well be serious in view of the amount of
anatomy traversed, yet even that was healing, healthfully, steadily. "A
beautiful constitution has this damned young Lovelace," said Bentley to
Bucketts, in whom he had long since found a kindred spirit. "Just look
at that!" and with a nod over his pipe stem, he indicated the bunch of
letters forwarded from the Columbia. "Why don't you"--began Bucketts,
but dropped it--he knew it was impossible. He knew, moreover, that when
both mother and daughter have set their hearts on a single man,
paterfamilias is powerless. "The whole family's infatuated," said
Bentley, "and in his whole handsome carcase there isn't half the man in
Willett that there is in that dried up little chap yonder."
"The dried up little chap yonder," dismounting slowly and carefully
from one of Turner's staidest troop horses, was the unappreciated
Harris, returning from one of the first tentatives in saddle. Days
before this, had he been permitted, Harris would have been up and away,
he cared little whither. He wished to shake the dust of Almy from his
deerskins, get back to the mountains and the war-path, get over the
Mazatzal to McDowell and 'Tonio--'Tonio, his faithful friend and
fellow-scout, now languishing presumably behind prison bars, awaiting
the orders of the Chief of Chieftains in his case, for all pleadings
were vain. The last barrier to belief in his guilt had gone with the
recovery of the revolver and the exposure of the cock-and-bull story,
said Archer, by which he had humbugged Freeman and Blake into believing
he had really been slashed in hand-to-hand fight with Tonto Apaches.
The first name spoken by Willett, after the fever had left him, and
speedily he began to recover sense, was that of 'Tonio--'Tonio who had
shot him.
It had affected Harris to the point, almost, of relapse. He still
fought vehemently against the story, declaring 'Tonio too high-minded,
in spite of Indian blood and tradition, for a dirty bit of
assassination. The brutal and bungling way in which the thing was done,
said he, was enough to prove that 'Tonio had no hand in it. Thus could
he talk to Bentley, at least, and even to Bucketts, who would listen,
though he would not lie, and say he thought Harris right.
None the less there had been amaze at McDowell when Archer's demand was
received. 'Tonio had been taken to hospital on his arrival, kindly,
skilfully cared for by the young post surgeon, while the couriers had
been sent on to Prescott. 'Tonio's wound was a knife slash in the left
arm, and another in the side. He had lost much blood and had little
left to build up with. He was too weak to attempt escape, wrote Major
Brown, the post commander, even if he knew he was under arrest, which
he did not. "If I have to confine him it shall not be with such cattle
as that half cad, half coyote, Sanchez," and Harris, being very
improperly told of this missive, could almost have walked the weary
miles to McDowell to fall upon the major's neck and bless him. "The
very fact that 'Tonio was cut and slashed conflicts with every theory
in the case," said he. "Who would have cut and slashed him but Willett,
if 'Tonio attacked him, and Willett had no knife."
And still Camp Almy clung to the belief that 'Tonio was Harold
Willett's assailant and would-be murderer. Even Bonner, a conservative,
had this to say: "Willett admits he struck 'Tonio. What Indian ever
forgave that affront? He hates Willett as he loves Harris, and such an
Indian love is almost as strong as his hate. We have some reason to
think Willett no friend of Harris. 'Tonio went further and thought him
an enemy. Couple that with his own grievance and there's more than
sufficient motive for his crime."
The topic was too one-sided to be mildly interesting. Moreover, the
paymaster was coming, which overshadowed all minor considerations, and
Turner was to take twenty men and meet him midway over to McDowell, and
could have taken fifty had volunteers been called for, and the garrison
to a man would have offered to sally forth, "with mattock and with
spade" to patch up the crazy road that twisted through Picacho
Pass--anything to get the man and his money to Camp Almy, for "devil a
cent of four months' pay had the garrison, and more than double that,"
said Sergeant Malloy, "is owin' me in I.O.U.'s that they wouldn't take
for a treat at the store."
The night before Turner's fellows were to start, Mr. Harris coming with
the doctor slowly homeward from the mess room and listening again,
disgustedly, to arguments against his attempting to ride back with the
paymaster to see 'Tonio at McDowell, the two came suddenly upon Archer,
just stepping forth into the pallid moonlight. The general pulled up
short at sight of them, and Harris silently raised his cap, the
old-time salutation to the post commander.
"I was just about sending for you, Bentley," began the chief, as
courteously he returned the salutation. "Bella thinks Willett's a bit
flighty again, just now. Could you go in a moment? Come and take a
chair, Harris," he added, as the doctor disappeared from the hallway.
"We haven't seen you in a coon's age. What's this I hear about your
wanting to go up to McDowell? Bentley says you're not yet strong
enough."
"It's to see 'Tonio, sir. I'm about the only friend he has left," and
Harris would have ignored the proffered chair, but the general again
indicated his wish, which meant compliance.
"He'll need all he can get, I am afraid, my boy," and the answer was
kind, even conciliatory. How was he ever going to admit to this
uncompromising young campaigner that he had done him mighty wrong in
his official despatch? Some time the boy must know it. Better know it
through him, when it could be explained, perhaps condoned. They had
exhausted the 'Tonio subject, so far as was possible between commander
and subaltern. They had never yet talked it as man to man. When they
did it would be on Archer's initiation, not that of Harris. The more
the old soldier studied the young man the better he liked him. The less
they discussed 'Tonio, the better Harris liked Archer. It was useless
saying more. Harris silently took the chair at his senior's side and
Archer continued:
"If it would contribute to your strength as much as your peace of mind,
I'd send you over in the forbidden ambulance, my boy"--how the voice
trembled at the word that so often, so constantly in bygone days, was
on his lips!--"but Bentley says 'not yet'--not even for a week, so what
can an old fellow do?"
"You are all that is kind--to me, general," was the grave answer, "and
I hope to persuade Bentley before the paymaster goes back. If I do----"
"If you do--that settles it---- What is it, dear?" he asked, half
rising from his chair. Harris was already on his feet. Lilian, all in
white, save the belt at her slim waist, stood at the doorway and had
spoken.
"Dr. Bentley asks that you come to him a moment, father. He is
with--Mr. Willett." She saw who stood there by his side, and it was not
so easy to say "Harold." Harris, bowing, would have backed from the
veranda, but Archer interposed. "No, stay here awhile, lad; I--I want
to talk with you. I'll be back in a moment."
Very possibly he thought he could be. But the moment lengthened. Lilian
had come slowly forth. Something had told her she was neither needed
nor desired in the room just then. Even her mother, silently, had left
the bedside and was hovering about the doorway. And now here was
Harris. Lilian had matured a little, and paled not a little, in these
few days of vigil and anxiety, but she was inexpressibly lovely as she
stood and looked wistfully into his face. "You know he isn't quite so
well to-day?" she said. "There's fever again. He craves ice so. What
wouldn't I--we--give for some? What do you think he called me"--she
gave a queer little nervous laugh--"just a moment ago as I was fanning
him?"
Harris did not answer. He would have hazarded "Sanctissima," possibly,
as he stood there looking intently into her clear, soft eyes, with all
their depth of tenderness and trust. Good God! Why should any man have
to have a past, when love such as this was possible? "He called me
Stella. Mother said he was dreaming of the pet dog he left at
Vancouver, but his eyes were wide open--looking right up at me."
Harris knew well who Stella was. The name was appended to many a letter
and "wire" that came to him during First Class camp, and later, begging
him to tell her of Mr. Willett, and now here was this fair girl
virtually bidding him say he had known a Stella. He ground his teeth as
he turned aside to set a chair for her. There had been others since
Stella, unless all indications lied. What might she not say if she knew
them all?
"_I_ called my mother Topsy and Aunt Ophelia, both, when I was getting
over typhoid and Uncle Tom's Cabin," said he.
"Then Stella was only----" and the blue eyes were searching his.
"Only a--you know I was nearly 'found' in French. What would you call
the parallel to a _nom de plume_? _Nom de chien?_ _Nom de_--something
visionary, at all events. He'll be sitting up day after to-morrow and
telling you--all about it."
She stood before him, with those pretty, slender, white hands loosely
clasped, the clear, truthful, beautiful eyes looking straight into his
sun-tanned, yet pallid face. No man in his time at the Point had ever
known Harris to flinch at the truth or dodge an issue. "He is square as
they make 'em," was the verdict of his classmates, and square he had
been through his subaltern days, and now to be square meant the dealing
to this sweet and trusting girl a blow that, while it might down his
rival, would wreck her happiness. He now had dodged an issue at last,
and then came the further trial:
"Mr. Harris, dogs don't write. Harold's talking about Stella's
_letters_, and says _you_ get them."
He had dodged. He might as well flinch. The truth he would not tell
her. A lie he could not tell her. He did, perhaps, the best he could
for himself and the worst, perhaps, for her. He acted.
"Don't believe a word of it, Miss Lilian. He's mooning yet."
"Then--there wasn't any girl?--any letters?"
"There's only one girl in creation he cares for."
"But--Stella?" she persisted.
"Never saw his Stella in all my life. What he needs is ice, and I'm
going to see he gets it."
With that he was gone, deaf to the words of relief the poor child would
have spoken--trying to be deaf to the fierce upbraiding of conscience,
and failing as he deserved, miserably.
An hour later that evening, with a pack mule, blankets, old newspapers
and a brace of cracker boxes, two half-tamed Mohaves were heading for
the heights to the north-east, where water would freeze in the canteens
these December nights, and the rock tanks were nearly solid ice. Two
hours later while Harris, nervous, irritable, and filled with nameless
self-reproach, was pacing the narrow veranda at the doctor's quarters,
there was a stir at the southward end of the post, a sound of hoofbeats
and footfalls, a running to and fro and lighting up at the office. An
orderly came on the jump and banged at the adjutant's door, and Strong
shuffled forth in the moonlight and joined other dark forms over at
head-quarters. The sentries were calling the midnight hour without, and
the doctor was snoring placidly within. It was barely ten minutes
before Strong came back, in one of his hurries, and Harris hailed for
the tidings.
"Oh, _you'll_ be glad, I'm betting!" was the answer, half-rueful,
half-relieved, for somehow Strong had "taken to" the doctor's
guest--and to doubting his own. "Those galoots at McDowell let up on
their watch, and 'Tonio's walked off--'gone where the woodbine
twineth'--'Patchie Sanchez with him!"