The Gray Fox had returned to his own. The general commanding the
department was spending a month at head-quarters--for him, who loved
the mountains and the field, a most unusual thing. The wild tribes of
Arizona, with the exception of one specially exempted band of
Chiricahuas and a few hopeless desperadoes with a price on their heads,
were gathered to their reservations--a most unheard-of thing in all
previous annals of the territory--and a season of unprecedented gayety
had dawned on the post of Fort Whipple and the adjacent martial
settlement, the homes of the staff and their families. The general and
his good wife, childless, and boundless in their hospitality, had
opened their doors to army wayfarers. New officers were there from
'Frisco and the States. Matrons and young women, new to Arizona, had
come to enliven the once isolated posts of the desert and mountain.
Major Dennis, of one supply department, was accompanied by a young and
lovely and lively wife, who danced, if Dennis did not. Major Prime, of
another, had recently been joined by his wife and two daughters,
bright, vivacious girls, just out of school and into society, and,
perhaps most important of all, Colonel and Mrs. Darrah, of the
Infantry, had come, accompanied by their daughter Evelyn, as beautiful
and dashing a belle as had ever bewildered the bachelors about the
Golden Gate, and from every camp or post within a hundred miles or more
junior officers had been called in to Prescott, on "Board,"
court-martial duty or leave, until nearly a dozen were gathered, and
while boards and courts dragged their slow length, and maps, reports
and records of the recent campaign were being laboriously yawned over
at odd intervals during the sunshiny days, far more thought and time
and attention were being given to riding, driving, tramping and picnic
parties--even croquet coming in for honorable mention--while every
night had its "hop" and some nights their ball that lasted well toward
morning, and for the first time in its history "head-quarters" was
actually gay. Time had been in the recent past when a Fort Whipple hop
consisted, as said a cynical chief commissary, in "putting on full
uniform and watching Thompson dance a waltz," there being then but one
officer at the station equipped with the requisite accomplishment. Now
there were more dancers than girl partners. The latter were in their
glory, and the married women in clover. "_Let_ them have a good time,"
said the chief, when his pragmatical adjutant would have suggested
sending some of them back to their posts to finish maps and reports
they were only neglecting here. "But they'll be getting impatient at
division head-quarters," said the man of tape and rule. It was a whip
which often told on department commanders, but not on Crook. "_Let_
them have a good time. Every one of those youngsters has been scouting
and fighting and living on bacon and beans for the last six months, and
I like to see them dance." The office-bred officer sighed, and wondered
what the papers, or Congress, would say if they knew it. The
service-tried soldier said he'd take all the raps and responsibility,
and that ended it. So here were the young gallants of the cavalry and
infantry, active, slender, sinewy, clear-eyed, bronze-cheeked fellows,
as a rule, capital dancers and riders, all-round partners, too, though
few had a penny laid by for a rainy day, and several had mortgaged pay
accounts. There was Billy Ray, from Camp Cameron, who could outride a
_vaquero_, and "Legs" Blake from McDowell, who could outclimb an
Apache, and Stryker, of the scouts, who had won fame in a year, and
"Lord" Mitchell, his classmate, whom the troopers laughed at for a fop
the first few months, and then worshipped for his daring after the
pitched battle at the Caves. There were three or four young benedicts
with better halves in the far East, who had forgotten little of their
dancing days, and not too much of their wooing, and there were lesser
lights among the subs, and two or three captains still uncaught, and
even one or two men of whom others spoke not too highly, like Craven,
and "that man Gleason," to whom Blake would not speak at all. Then
there were Steele and Kelly from Wickenberg and Date Creek, and Strong
was to come up from Almy, bringing with him in chains the desperado,
'Patchie Sanchez, secreted by his own people when charged with the
killing of the interpreter, but tamely sold when a price was set on his
head. And the commander sent still another missive to Archer, whom the
luckier general held in especial affection, enclosing one from the good
wife to Mrs. Archer, begging that she and Lilian should be their guests
for a week, "and as long thereafter as practicable," that the
engagement might be ratified and celebrated, "for we all think Mr.
Willett the most fortunate of men."
And then, of course, there were Wickham and Bright, the general's other
aides, who were famous entertainers, and then, above all,
perhaps--pitted for the first time against all the soldier beaux of
Arizona--there was the general's latest acquisition, handsome,
graceful, charming Hal Willett, who had, with characteristic modesty,
made no mention of the fact that he was an engaged man until Mrs.
Stannard's letter to Mrs. Crook told all about it, and we, who knew and
loved Mrs. Stannard, knew just why she wrote, and never blamed her, as
did Willett.
The very night of the very day it came he was dancing gloriously with,
and had been saying things to, Evelyn Darrah that she one day earlier
had listened to with bated breath. Now his mustache swept her pretty
ear as he lowered his head in the midst of the loveliest "glide," and
murmured something more, whereat she had suddenly swung herself out of
the circle of his arm, swept him a stately courtesy and fairly
startled--_stunned_ him by the question: "Isn't that just a little
high--for a gentleman's game, Mr. Willett?"
The very words were enough to amaze him! "What on earth do you mean?"
he demanded, as soon as he recovered self-control.
"I mean," said she, straightening to her full height again, and looking
him fairly in the eyes, "that for an engaged man you have exceeded, or,
as you would say, 'raised the limit.'"
There were dozens dancing, chatting, laughing about them, and some few
watching, for his attentions, first to pretty Mrs. Dennis, and then the
devotions by means of which he had swept aside all other suitors of
Evelyn Darrah, had set all tongues to wagging. "The old Willett over
again," said Bright, who had known him at the Point. Only that day had
the mail come up from Almy and McDowell, and he ought to have known
what it would betray. There must have been other letters--men's
letters--for at mess there had been sly allusions to the fluctuations
of fortune, the comparative values of "straights" and "pats," and this
girl had turned and taunted him with the very words of that infernal,
and he had hoped, forgotten game. Moreover, she, a brilliant,
beautiful, practised woman of society, by no means the delicate and
sensitive little desert flower whose worship he had won so readily, had
dared to fence with him, had interested, piqued, fascinated, and now
wellnigh bewitched him. He was not yet well of his wounds by any manner
of means. He was still weak--far too weak to ride or climb or do much
in the way of walking, but he could look, and be most interesting
lolling in an invalid chair. Women had come and ministered to him in
his convalescence, and pretty Mrs. Dennis had made quite a fool of
herself, said certain elders, but when it came to cutting in for Evelyn
Darrah, Willett had had to be up and doing, even finally, for her and
her alone, as he murmured, daring to dance. There was nothing else he
did so supremely well, and men and women watched them enviously,
perhaps, yet delightedly, and men and women were watching now as he
followed her to her seat, dropped to the one beside her, and bent
absorbedly over her again, pale, agitated, and they saw her speaking,
saw him vehemently pleading, saw him prevailing, for his pallor and
emotion lent force to his impassioned words. Practised belle, coquette,
flirt she might have been, but the woman is rare indeed who can utterly
disbelieve, in face of such a combination, that she at least is loved.
Stella's impassioned letters once lay in unbroken packages upon his
mantel. Another star had risen and set, and sent its missives only to
the ashes of his grate, and now this very night, hidden in his desk,
lay long, close-written, criss-crossed, exquisite pages, the
outpourings of a young and guileless and glorious nature, and they,
too, lay, as did that early Stella's, unread, unheeded, almost
undesired, for the man was inflamed by this dauntless woman's defiance
of him, and the devil in him was urging: woo her, win her, conquer her,
_crush_ her, come what may!
That night was but one of several in quick succession. On every hand he
had to smile, and say conventional words of thanks for the pointed and
repeated congratulations showered upon him. Men and women went out of
their way at every turn to remind him, as it were, that he was a
mortgaged man; and yet, so strangely was he constituted, life for him
at the moment seemed to have but one object worth attaining--Evelyn
Darrah. Day and night he sought her, pursued her, and men began to shun
him, and he never heeded. Women began to shrink from her, and she saw,
yet, for to some there is the gambler's madness in the game, she _let_
them shrink. What were their slights in comparison with the thrilling
joy of this conquest? This man was at her feet, abject, pleading,
praying. It was hers to spurn or sway him as she would. Never doubting
her own power to turn him any instant adrift, she found delight in the
passion of so virile, graceful, glorious a lover, the man of whom she
had heard other women speak for three long years, and now he was
hers--hers to do with as she dared--to break or make as was her
caprice. What--what if men looked stern and women shrank? This was a
game well worth the candle, let them sneer who would.
What had promised to be a fortnight of jollification had become charged
with matters of grave moment. Strong had arrived, bringing the shackled
Sanchez, and, when hospitably bidden to stay a week and have some fun,
he said he reckoned he ought to get back as quick as possible--"the Old
Man had much to bother him," this in confidence to Bright. "The Old
Man's coming up here," said Bright, "quick as the general can coax him,
and he's just going to have a welcome that will warm the cockles of his
heart," and then, like the loyal aide he was, Bright essayed to make
Archer's adjutant see that while the general commanding had been
constrained to differ with the commander at Camp, Almy, he personally
held him in affection and esteem. "I'm afraid," said he, "General
Archer thinks he is misunderstood about this 'Tonio business,
and--and--Harris. Here's Willett, now, perfectly willing to drop the
whole case against 'Tonio and say no more about it."
"What?" said Strong, in amaze. "Why, at Almy he damned him time and
again--swore he had twice tried to kill him. If he acquits 'Tonio, whom
in God's name does he suspect?" asked Strong, a queer thought occurring
to him as he recalled the furious words of the deserter Dooley, _alias_
Quigley, another prisoner to be tried.
Bright dodged. "The queer thing about it," said he, "is that Brown
there, at McDowell, is demanding investigation, and says he believes
there was collusion in camp--men who insist that 'Tonio's a trump. And
now we have news from Harris, and he demands investigation, in 'Tonio's
name--says there's a side to the story only 'Tonio can tell, and will
tell only to the Big Chief."
Strong pondered a moment. "There's more than one queer thing we can't
fathom at Almy," said he. "Harris and 'Tonio never had anything to do
with that Sanchez crowd. 'Tother Sanchez, and Munoz, helped the chase
of 'Tonio--did their best to catch him, and yet over at McDowell
they're thick as thieves."
"Not a bit of it! They never saw each other until--well, somebody made
Brown believe the general would censure his showing favors to 'Tonio,
so what does he do but order him in with Sanchez. That night both get
away. Then 'Patchie's own people brought him back for cash. There isn't
money or blood enough in all Arizona to tempt them to lay hands on
'Tonio. Sanchez wants to talk with the general, says he can tell things
the chief would like to know. Can he?"
"How should I know?" asked Strong. "There's more of a mix in this
business than I can straighten out. It looks to me as though more than
one man had his grudge against this fine feathered bird that came down
to show us how to tackle Apaches," and Bright changed the subject, as
was his way when men or women ventured to question the methods of the
Powers. All the same, he told his general of Strong's suspicions, and
that night the general summoned both Sanchez and Strong, and there was
a scene in the moonlight, down by the old log guard-house.
Sanchez, heavily shackled and scared almost out of his wits in the
belief that he would speedily be hanged, or shot to death, fell on his
knees at sight of the tall, bearded commander, and strove to seize his
hand. In the indescribable jargon of the Indo-Mexican frontier, he
implored the general's mercy; he wailed that he was a poor and wronged
and innocent man. He had no thought of killing--only inducing the
interpreter to leave him, and the interpreter tried to shoot him. It
was to save his own life he slashed at his guardian and ran, never
knowing he had hurt him. He was frightened at McDowell; thought
soldiers planned to lynch him. He dared not stay. He had filed his
shackles and the window bars, and was watching opportunity to tear them
loose and run, when 'Tonio was put in his cell. That night he saw his
chance, climbed out and slid away to the mountains, just before the
third relief was inspected, but he did not wake or tell 'Tonio. 'Tonio
was a wicked Indian, who twice tried to kill Lieutenant Willett. 'Tonio
should be hanged. 'Tonio's people hated Sanchez, because he "always
friend to the Big Chief Crook and the Americanos." 'Tonio knew where to
find him, it seems, and set Lieutenant Harris to catch him. Now, said
Sanchez, if Big Chief only would let him go he would bring in two,
three 'Patchie-Mohaves, 'Tonio's own people, who saw 'Tonio shoot and
try to kill Teniente Willett--saw him shoot and club, shoot twice.
Sanchez called on the Blessed Virgin and all the saints to witness his
innocence, his entire truth, and the chief, with just one gesture of
disbelief and disgust, turned quietly away.
"You may as well tell him, Wickham," said he, and, with Bright at his
side, strode back to head-quarters hill, leaving Strong and his senior
aide to settle the matter.
"You damned fool!" said Blackbeard contemptuously. "It wasn't 'Tonio;
it was your own people gave you up. It wasn't 'Tonio; it was your own
brother shot Teniente Willett. His own revolver was found at the spot.
Your own people say he did it!"
"Lie! Lie!" shrieked Sanchez, livid from fright and amaze. "Jose no
have pistol that night. Jose lose him to Case--monte--two days before!
_Case_ shoot him! _Case_ shoot him! Munoz see him. 'Patchie-Mohave see
him! Look, Senor Capitan, I bring them all--all say so."
"I thought we'd be getting at bottom facts before we finished with our
greaser gang," said Wickham, with no symptom of either surprise or
emotion. "Very good, Sanchez. We'll give you the chance to swear to it
and bring your witnesses. Take him in, sergeant, and keep this to
yourself. Now bring out Dooley."
Half an hour later, just as the midnight call of the sentries was going
the rounds, Hal Willett, after whispered words of good-night to a tall
and slender shadow at Darrah's door, came swiftly up the steps of his
new quarters, and was surprised to find a little group at the adjoining
veranda. Two civilians were there, one of whom he knew to be the
sheriff. Strong was there and Wickham was giving some instructions in
low tone to the three.
"You start at dawn," were the words that caught Willett's ear, "and you
should have him at Prescott within the week. Sure you need no further
escort?"
"Sure," was the sententious answer of the tall civilian, as he
sauntered to the steps.
"What is it?" asked Willett, at a venture.
"Just a flyer, Willett," said Blackbeard, in the most off-hand manner
imaginable. "Sanchez swears it was Case who shot you, and we're having
him up to explain."
For an instant four men stood watching Willett's face. Pale at almost
any time of late, it seemed to have turned ashen in the pallid light
about them. He swayed, too, a trifle, as though from sudden shock, and
it was a second or two before he found his voice. Then:
"What infernal rot! Didn't they find my own pistol, that 'Tonio had
stolen, where his fellows or he had dropped it in their flight?"
"O, Lord, yes," was the airy answer, "five miles away. But Harris found
the real one, right there at the spot. Case won it from Sanchez just
two days before. So he'll be here with 'Tonio the end of the week."