That meant new trouble--trouble for Major Brown commanding the little
two-company station--the "tuppenny post," his subaltern, Blake,
derisively termed it--trouble for Blake, who was officer of the day,
and was held on tenterhooks for many a day thereafter--trouble for
Sergeant Collins, who was directly in command of the guard--"Collins
_ne_ Oolahan," as Freeman wrote him down, it having been discovered
that this versatile Celt had served a previous enlistment in the "Lost
and Strayed," when four of its companies were pioneering shortly after
the war, where even the paymaster couldn't find them. Such of them as
could be found in course of years were gathered up and sent to San
Francisco for further exploration in other desert lands, but Oolahan
and four of his fellows of Company "A," not having returned from wagon
escort duty, were finally dropped as dead or deserted (those were days
wherein nobody much cared which), whereas they were merely drunk at
Cerbat. Under other names, as orthodox as the originals, they were now
doing valorous and valuable service in other commands, Collins in
particular proving a capital fighter and trooper, to the end that the
best interests of the service were subserved by keeping a keen eye on
his present and a "Nelson blind" on his past. Of the three soldiers
thus involved at McDowell, Collins was the one who took it most to
heart, for Collins had come to think ill of 'Tonio, whom at first he
had championed. Collins despised 'Patchie Sanchez, whom he had known
five years, and described as a "durrty cross betune a skunk and a
spitbox," a greaser Indian who would knife his best friend. As for
'Tonio, whom he had known ever since he came to Arizona in '65, and
once held to be "the wan good Indian in it," 'Tonio had made him
believe he too held Sanchez in contempt. Yet, to all appearance, the
two, who up to this night had been confined entirely apart, had gone
together. One of the counts in the unwritten indictments against
McDowell was that its officers and men had lionized the dangerous
Indian they were bidden to hold under careful guard, had held him
without bond or shackle in a vacant room of the hospital, until that
very day, when, stung by an inspector's comment, Brown ordered him at
last into confinement with Sanchez, who was shackled to a post in the
prison room. Yet all that was left of either was the "greaser's"
chains. _Could_ there have been collusion?
It meant more trouble for 'Tonio. Instead of facing investigation, as
Harris declared he would, he had fled. It even meant more trouble for
Harris, who, having stood his friend through thick and thin, proclaimed
his innocence in spite of accumulation of evidence, now found himself
utterly alone in his views and all Almy beginning to veer over to
Willett. Willett, now able at last to recognize those about him, was
sitting up a little to be nursed and petted and read to, a recovery in
which the ice, for which Harris had sent his Indian followers forty
miles, had played no unimportant part. Willett was now the object of
devoted care and unspeakable interest, for all Almy hoped to hear the
story of the assault with intent to kill. But Almy was doomed to
disappointment. Beyond the expression of an unalterable conviction that
he had been shot down from ambush by 'Tonio, hammered senseless, and
left for dead, Willett declared he knew no more about it than they did.
He seemed, in fact, to know as little of them as he knew of Stella,
when at last the doctor gave him, without a word, the little packet
held in trust by Mrs. Stannard. "He is muddle-headed yet," said
Bentley, in explanation. "He'll know more after awhile, which is more
than we may," was the mental addition, as he looked into Mrs.
Stannard's doubtful eyes.
But meanwhile further tidings had come from the San Carlos and beyond.
"Big Chief Jake" had been doing some famous rounding up among the late
recalcitrants. The General-in-Chief had given a feast to the incoming
Indians, had shaken hands with their leaders, ordered rations for the
families until the agency could again take them under its wing, had
detailed escorts to conduct them by easy stages to the reservation set
apart for them, but, as punctilious to the keeping of one part of a
promise as to another, he sent forth his scouting parties to look up
those Indians who had not come in, with strict orders to stick to it
until the fate of the Bennett boys was definitely settled, and the
scattered renegades were captured or destroyed. And this was why Mrs.
Stannard was destined to wait still awhile longer for the home-coming
of her beloved captain. This was why, within the week that followed
their mission in quest of ice, three Indian scouts that were still
"casuals" at Almy, set forth eastward, full panoplied for the field,
with little Harris at their head.
"Wouldn't you like to see Harold before you go?" Mrs. Archer had asked
him when he called to say good-by. Her heart had warmed to him, as had
Lilian's, in grateful appreciation of that gift of ice ("though of
course Mr. Harris should know that now, under the circumstances, he
really--well, it wasn't at all a matter to be spoken about, but dear
Mrs. Stannard could see for herself that--it were quite as well that
Mr. Harris got back to his duties"). Both mother and daughter, knowing
well what it must have cost in time and labor, had thanked Harris very
prettily, and fully meant all they said, which kept them from saying
too much. It was but natural that his classmates should do anything for
Harold.
"Would he care to see me?" asked Harris, very quietly.
"Well, he is sleeping just now, and he needs that so much. Lilian
soothes him to sleep when no medicine can. He can't bear to have her
out of his sight."
"Then I think I should not disturb them," said Harris. "He'll be
himself again before we are a week away, and you can say good-by for
me, also to Miss Lilian, will you not?"
It was thus he would have gone, but, as he turned away, compassion
seized the mother's gentle heart, still bleeding--bleeding for her own
beloved boy. After all, how could any young fellow help loving her
Lilian? How could Harris help it? Why should she wish to seek to hold
him aloof? "Come back one minute," she cried, half choking, then
disappeared within.
And so he turned again. He could not well refuse, and presently She
came and smiled upon him and put her long, slim hand, cool from contact
with iced towelling, into his hot, dry palm, and slipped the fingers
slowly forth again, and spoke almost in whisper, lest the sleeper might
hear her voice and know she had ventured forth and was conversing with
some other man--all in that exaggerated precaution of word and manner
that, whenever so much in love with one man, a girl so often observes
toward others even ever so little in love with her.
"You have been so good to--us, Mr. Harris, and I know how--he will
thank you when he is able. Till then you must let me. _Good_-by!" Poor
comfort at best, yet what one of us would not have sought it rather
than nothing? And then she was gone lest he should awake and
remember--or Harris should awake and--and forget. She was but a child,
after all, and her fond and beloved mother little less so.
And of such was Harris's leave taking, cool as his contribution to that
happy rival's comfort, he thought, as he rode drearily away to the
ford, with but a wave of the hand in response to the shout of Craney
and Watts at the shack, while "Barkeep" and a few hangers-on stood
gazing from under the canvas shade at the store, and Case, the silent
bookkeeper, bent over his desk by the east window--the desk wherein
still reposed that big calibre 44, with every chamber loaded and the
handle more coated with dust.
Half-way to the ford Harris's broncho stumbled and kicked up a muddy
splash in the shallow pool. His rider reined him up sharply and spurred
on; the three pack mules, following in file a scrawny Mexican on the
bell horse, shied clear of the water cloud and emerged with dripping
bellies from a deeper pool just to the left. The Indians, skipping
dry-shod over the bowlders, a dozen yards below, turned their heads at
sound of the stumble, and their keen eyes exchanged glances. Presently
one of them shed his moccasins and waded in toward the mud cloud on the
face of the rippling waters, and, while his companions stood at the
bank, began searching in the knee-deep puddle. Presently again he
swooped, thrust down a bare, brown arm almost to the shoulder, and drew
forth a dripping object a foot long, covered with rust and mud. "Huh!"
was all he said, as he splashed back to shore, exhibiting his prize to
his fellows. Then together the three went a jog trot after Harris and
held it up for his inspection. He took it curiously--an old-fashioned,
war-time, percussion-capped Navy Colt--the pistol officers carried
through the four years of battling in preference to the so-called Army
Colt issued to the cavalry. "Some relic of the old volunteer days at
Almy," said Harris to himself, and bade the Indian keep it. Nor did he
think again of that pistol until many days later.
That night they bivouacked among the tanks under Diamond Butte. Next
day, toward sunset, as the smoke from the little cook fire went sailing
aloft from the bank of a mountain stream that came tumbling from the
Black Mesa, another little column of smoke answered from among the
pines far up the heights. An Indian touched the young soldier's sleeve
and pointed. Another moment and he was up, blanket in hand and
signalling. That night the escaped prisoner, whom all commanders of
posts or detachments were ordered to arrest wherever found, stood erect
in the firelight, clasping hands with his young leader--'Tonio, the
Apache-Mohave, and 'Tonio had a stirring tale to tell.
Barely five days later still, Archer and his wife sat hand in hand in
the cool veranda, taking the air. The sun was just down and the flag
had just fluttered to its rest. From the open casement came the murmur
of happy voices, one so very happy it thrilled their hearts. Across the
barren parade the men were just breaking ranks after retreat
inspection, and the officers were coming homeward, unbelting sword or
sabre as they neared their doors, in the impatient fashion of the day.
Strong, the adjutant, still precise and buckled, stalked up to his
commander's steps, halted, saluted, and said: "All present, sir, and
couriers coming up the valley."
Archer rose to his feet and reached for his binocular. Forgetful of
supper, many men began to gather at the edge of the bluff over by the
office. A brace of sergeants had clambered to the lookout, and Mrs.
Stannard, eager ever for news from her husband, came hurrying to join
her friends. Twilight faded with almost tropical suddenness, but not
before the coming riders could be recognized as troopers, and Mrs.
Stannard's heart was praying they might be her Luce's men.
"If you had your wish," said Archer, as he lowered the glass and turned
to where the two friends stood, their arms entwining, "what would you
ask for, Mrs. Stannard?"
"My husband, I suppose," was the answer, "and yet--I've been sitting
hours by poor Mrs. Bennett this day," and the blue eyes began to fill.
"Heaven send us news of those little fellows soon," said Archer
piously. "If not, I'm afraid her heart will break. Bentley says the
faint hope is all that holds her. Listen to that!" he suddenly cried.
"Listen!"
Far down beyond the store somebody had set up a shout. Then, as they
stood with beating hearts and straining ears, from the store itself
went up another--three, four voices in unison--a shout that set every
man along the edge of the mesa to swinging his hat. But a veteran
sergeant, Bonner's level-headed right bower, sprang among them, with
uplifted hand and voice. "Quiet, men! Don't yell! Wait!" Then he came
hurrying across the parade, straight to his post commander. "What is
it, sergeant?" was the anxious query, and at the very moment the riders
came wearily jogging over the brow of the hill.
"Couriers from General Crook, sir. They say the boys are found--safe."
Bentley was there almost as the foremost horseman sprang from saddle.
"Not a word of it to her--yet!" said he. "Wait until we know exactly.
Go you, sergeant, and tell the steward on no account to let any one
disturb her." And by this time Archer had torn open the letter handed
him, and Doyle had come running out with a lamp. The expressions that
chased each other over the general's features as he hurriedly read
would have baffled an actor: first rejoicing, then amaze, then
perplexity, if not trouble. "Can you tell us, dear?" was the gentle
query that recalled him.
"Read it--aloud," he said, and though her voice was tremulous, the tone
was clear and the hush breathless. Even Lilian and her lover could hear
every word.
CAMP ON TONTO CREEK, December --, 5:30 A.M.
DEAR GENERAL:
Almy scores again. General Crook sends his best congratulations. The
little Bennetts should be safely with you to-night. We see them as far
as El Caporal. The general takes short cut for McDowell and thence
home. Old Stannard never slept from the moment he got the word until he
got the boys. Harris and 'Tonio located the rancheria and led
unerringly. We are all happy.
Yours in haste,
BRIGHT.
Even in her womanly joy over the rescue, there was wifely sympathy and
instant understanding of her husband's swift-changing mood. The
children were safe--that meant rejoicing for all. Stannard and his
troop were the rescuers--that meant credit and triumph for Archer's
post, and the general awarded it. But Harris and 'Tonio were the
discoverers and leaders. 'Tonio, probably, was the man without whose
aid nothing could have been accomplished. 'Tonio was the hero,
therefore, in the eyes of the commanding general--'Tonio, the man whom
Archer would have condemned and shot. This meant perplexity, if not
worry, as she quickly saw, and went and nestled to his side. Did ever
soldier have such contrary luck as did hers?
But all were crowding about the couriers for particulars. "Yes," said
the sturdy corporal, who was spokesman for the two, "the little fellows
had been brought in a mule litter from way over toward Chevlon's Fork,
straight to Crook's camp." Captain Stannard with most of his people
would scout the country far as the Chiquito before returning.
Lieutenant Harris and 'Tonio stayed with him, and the general's escort
from "G" troop brought in the boys.
And by ten o'clock another rider came loping in. The party with the
litter were just behind, the tiny occupants worn out and sound asleep.
"Take them straight to the hospital," said Dr. Bentley. "Mrs. Archer,
Mrs. Stannard, will you come with me?"
All Almy sat up late that night. Probably not a soldier eye was closed
until long after eleven, and half the garrison clustered about the
hospital, treading on tiptoe and speaking in whispers, as the little
fellows were tenderly lifted from the litter, the weary mules were led
away, and, in the arms of Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Stannard, the sleeping
boys were borne, without word or sound, to the darkened room where, in
the broad white bed that had been the hospital matron's, lay in the
slumber of exhaustion their unconscious mother. Bentley closed the door
behind them, noiselessly as possible. The steward and his wife, both
with tear-brimming eyes, stood by to aid. Deft hands disrobed the
sleeping little forms (Mrs. Archer nearly sobbing aloud at sight of
their thinned and wasted limbs), and invested them in borrowed
"nighties" from buxom Mrs. Kelly's store. Then, cautiously,
noiselessly, the light coverlet was partly raised, the weary little
curly heads were pillowed close beside the mother's, and then, leaving
the night light turned low, stealthily they drew away and waited. "She
never sleeps more'n an hour or two at a time," whispered the steward.
"She'll be sure to wake before long," and so they lingered near the
doorway, and Camp Almy, much of it, clustered in the moonlight without.
Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and still there was no sound from the
darkened room, and then, over at the guardhouse, the sentry on Number
One started the call of eleven o'clock. Number Two, at the storehouse,
took it up in his turn and trolled off his "All's well," and then it
was Number Three's turn, out just under the edge of the bench, and
Three muffled his voice and strove to turn it into a lullaby as he
began, and, as the first words of the soldier watch cry came
floating in through the partly open window, Mrs. Archer's hand
stole forth and clasped that of Mrs. Stannard's, for the mother
had begun to stir. Then, finger on lips, in tremulous excitement,
those loving-hearted friends bent forward, and the watchers, five,
listened and gazed, the women quivering with sympathy and emotion,
for Mrs. Bennett's dark head was slowly lifting from the pillow,
and then, all on a sudden went up a piercing cry--in a very agony of
joy--incredulous, intolerable--"_Danny!_ DANNY! Oh, my God! Don't say
I'm dreaming! And JIMMY!"
And then, with lusty yowl, the younger of the startled cherubs entered
his protest against this summary awakening, and the words of ecstatic
thanksgiving were for the moment drowned in the chorus of infant
lamentation. Even the rapture of restoration to mother arms was dimmed
by consideration of present discomfort.
But within were glad-hearted friends, weeping joyfully with her.
Without were sturdy soldiers, shaking hands and slapping backs and
shoulders in clumsy delight, and somebody was moved to say he'd bet the
Old Man wouldn't care if it _was_ after taps, "and--Craney's was still
open."
And so by dozens they went trooping down, for, though cash was scant
and the paymaster overdue, the rules were suspended and Craney bade
"Barkeep" credit all comers who drank to Harris; and Case, the
bookkeeper, with white and twitching face, waylaid such men as came
from the escort with odd, insistent questioning. If 'Tonio was really
leader in the rescue, had nothing been seen of 'Patchie Sanchez? Was
Sanchez heard of--nowhere?--until, with his fifth free drink to the
health of everybody concerned, Corporal Dooley turned on Case with
"What the hell's it to you, anyhow, whether 'Tonio led or Sanchez's
dead?" and Craney, listening and watching, turned to Watts and asked
had Case begun again? If so, they couldn't too speedily check him.
"Come up here, if you're a man," insisted Dooley, "and have wan on me
to big little Harris and 'Tonio--'Tonio, bedad, even if he _did_ do up
Loot'nent Willett!"
Whereat, even in the noisy barroom there was sudden silence, save for
responsive murmurs of 'Tonio's name, for strange sympathy had come
sifting in from the columns afield. But Craney had heard in the
adjoining room and was up in an instant, Watts following suit. This
would never do. This was disloyalty to the best and gentlest and most
courteous of post commanders, and no soldier should, no employe of his
_could_, drink such a toast within Craney's doors. But he need not have
feared. Promptly a big sergeant had interposed, and caught the corporal
by the wrist, with thunderous "None of that, Dooley!" Prompt came
Case's answer, though low-toned and guarded: "I'm drinking nothing,
man, till after pay-day. _Then_ come at me and I'll settle it with you
drink for drink."
But Dooley's Irish blood was up, five fingers of tanglefoot tingling in
each fist and bubbling in his brain. Struggling in the sergeant's
grasp, he shouted his reply: "Settle be damned! How'd _you_ settle wid
Willett for the girl he did you out? Bluffed him on a queen high, and
called it square! You're nothin' but a bluffer, Case, an' all Vancouver
knowed it!" In the instant of awkward, amazed silence that followed no
man moved. Then, his face still whiter, his lips livid, Case turned to
Sergeant Woodrow. "That man has no right to be heard here--much less to
be wearing chevrons," said he. "His name's Quigley, a deserter from the
Lost and Strayed!"
It was then just midnight, and the sergeant of the guard, coming to
close the festivities, went back with an unlooked-for prisoner, who,
every inch of the way, cursed and foamed and fought, and swore hideous
vengeance on Case for a cur and a coward, so that the fury of his
denunciation reached even the general's quarters, where peace and
congratulation were having sway, and lovers were still whispering ere
parting for the night--reached even the ears of Willett himself,
reclining blissfully at the open window, with Lilian's hand in his, her
fair head pillowed on his shoulder. There in the open hearth lay the
ashes of the letters, unread, unopened, that had come to accuse him,
but even the fires of hell could not burn out the memory of the wrong
that, after all, had tracked him here unerringly, for in the few
half-drunken, all-damning words that reached him, Harold Willett heard
the trumpeting of his own disgrace. His sin had found him out.
And, barely an hour before, he had sworn to her that the Stella of whom
he had babbled in his dreams was indeed but a favorite hound he had
lost in the Columbia; that no Stella had penned a line to him in years,
and, taking her sweet, upturned face between his palms, with the soft,
tender brown eyes looking fondly down into the trustful, beautiful
blue, he had said: "My darling, like other men, I have had fancies in
boyish days, and even a flame or two, but never a love, _real_ love,
until you came into my life. In a week now I must be with my general at
Prescott, but every day, every moment of my absence, you will be the
only girl in all the world to me. I shall shrink from the mere touch of
another hand. I shall count the hours until you become my wife."
And she believed him, utterly, poor soul. He even believed himself.