Perched aloft in the very summit of a glorious mountain range, yet
nestling in the shelter of pine-covered heights sweeping in circle
around it, watered by the purest and coldest of running streams,
and revelling in an atmosphere bracing and clear as only a Sierran
atmosphere can be, the little town of Prescott and the outlying post
of Fort Whipple owed to nature all their attractiveness. They were
embowered in a veritable oasis, for, whether from east or west, north
or south, miles of desert sand or sterile and volcanic rock had to be
traversed before the eye of the traveller rested upon the glad sight
of something like civilized homes. In the days of which we write San
Francisco lay three weeks’ journey away, and more than a month, unless
one took a bumping trip to the railway by “buckboard,” was occupied
in the devious route to the Atlantic States. Rugged miners, savage
Apaches, root-grubbing Digger Indians, swarthy Mexicans, and prowling
coyotes were the inhabitants apparently indigenous to the soil, but
to prey upon their necessities those pioneers of civilization, the
shop-keeping Israelites, had established the inevitable “slop-shop,”
and those precursors of settlement, the scum and froth borne ever
upon the outermost wave of the great tide of emigration, the bar- and
gambling-hell-keepers, had planted their vile booths around the plaza,
and stood guard with self-cocking revolver over their stock in trade
ere ever the outlines of that plaza were staked.
A governor in course of time had been duly expatriated to look after
the interests of the United States in this hopelessly turbulent
neighborhood, and for some years twice the realized revenue was spent
in keeping up communication with his exiled excellency. Eventually, as
a means of recruiting a population fast killing itself off, to the no
great detriment of society in general, but the undoubted jeopardy of
the commercial interests of those merchants who had shipped their goods
thither in hopes of fabulous profit, a few lodes were duly “salted”
by experienced hands of Californian education, the inflammatory
announcement was made that Arizona was teeming with mineral wealth, and
gold, silver, copper, and iron could be picked up by the bucketful.
A swarm of eager adventurers pushed in to try their luck, and having
invested their last shilling in the attempt, were compelled to stick
there and swindle others into coming and doing likewise, and finally
it was brought about that three regiments and a brigadier-general of
the United States army had to be scattered broadcast over this barren
land to whip into subjection the Apache hordes, who looked with not
undeserved hatred upon the original white invaders, and one of these
regiments was so composed of horses and men as to comply with the
generally accepted requirements which in this country entitle it to the
designation of cavalry.
Two years of sharp work and stubborn fighting in the mountains had
won for the —th the peace they were now enjoying, but had effected
many important changes on their muster-rolls. Some of their best and
bravest had been sacrificed in the thankless task, and bright hopes,
buoyant, loyal, gallant hearts, lay buried under the worthless soil
with no other honors than their comrades’ parting volley, no other
notice than the pithy explanation of the yearly register in its list of
casualties, “Killed in affair with Indians,” every bit as complimentary
and gratifying to mourning widow or stricken parent as though it read
“in pothouse brawl.” What though the regiment could tell (when it chose
to talk of those things) of deeds of heroism that rivalled the blazoned
records of the great war or matched the later knightliness of Beresford
at Ulundi? What though in hand-to-hand encounter young striplings from
the Point had won their spurs or received their death-wound, and dying
had, like Philip Sydney, spurned the cooling drink craved in their
burning agony that an humbler comrade, needing it more than they who
could but die, might drink and live? What though in the proud, yet
untold record of their campaigns, thirst and starvation, bitter cold
and scorching heat, lonely death in a distant land, the torture of
carriage through miles of mountain wilderness that festering wounds
might receive the care only to be looked for days’ journey away, all
were borne uncomplainingly, unflinchingly for duty’s sake? What though
not one defeat had marred the wreath of hard-won conquests, that never
had officer or man like craven Cary turned his back upon wounded friend
or advancing foe? What mattered it that their general, himself as
reckless in exposure as their hardiest trooper, sought again and again
the recognition their deeds demanded? An all-powerful if not all-wise
Congress had decreed that Indian warfare was not war in the sense that
permitted any honor or reward to be extended to its participants. As
a Western and consequently friendly Representative once put it, a man
might sit in an easy-chair through four years of a great rebellion,
and without ever hearing the whistle of a bullet be “brevetted” all
the way up from captain to major-general, but let him get shot into
smithereens in hand-to-hand struggle with the Indians of our mountains
and prairies, why, that wasn’t war said the Senate, and so the
recommendations of the general and the nominations of the President
went into the Congressional waste-basket, and except the copper-bronze
medal worn by some few enlisted men,—an affair similar in appearance
and presumably equal in intrinsic value to the old-fashioned cent,—the
regiment had gone unrewarded.
But peaceful times seemed to have come. Band after band of hostile
Apaches had surrendered and been gathered on the reservations. Scouting
expeditions became infrequent, visits began to be exchanged between the
detached posts, and at department headquarters balls and “hops” were
of weekly occurrence. The arrival of ladies from the States brought
about a revival in the latent interest in Eastern fashions, feminine
conversations became less intelligible to masculine ears, and feminine
garments as noted at the dancing-parties became scant as to skirt and
entangling as to trains. Those heroines who had gone into Arizona
with the —th had originally astonished the Mexican señoritas by the
balloon-like expansions of dress-goods worn just below the small
of the back, alluded to as _paniers_, and maintained in position by
“bustles.” Now it seemed that a new order of things was to come into
vogue, and Mrs. Wilkins, an exponent in fashions, whatever she might
be in linguistics, had already won enviable distinction by appearing
at Sandy in what she assured her friends to be the “very latest style
of _pol_linay.” The other ladies readily forgave the brief ascendency
thus acquired in consideration of the sly merriment occasioned by her
unconscious slaughter of the proper name.
And so it happened that all was jollity in the Territory when Grace
Pelham arrived at Prescott, and so it chanced that two nights after
her arrival there were gathered from far and near, from Bowie, Lowell,
Apache, and Grant, along the southern line of posts, from Yuma and
Mohave, from all over Arizona little squads of officers and ladies,
eager as children, after their long exile, to join in the festivities
consequent upon the coming of her ladyship and the colonel’s daughter.
The day of the staff ball had come. Every instant of Grace’s waking
hours had been occupied with receiving visits, driving, riding, and
dining. The delegation from Sandy went _en masse_, at soon as the
proper toilets could be effected after the rough and dusty drive, to
pay its respects to madame and to loyally welcome the younger lady.
Glenham, a radiant, intensified Glenham, was already there, and
there the ladies and their lords left him when they retired to their
temporary homes. “He’s simply dead in love with her,” said Mrs. Raymond
to Mesdames Turner and Wilkins. “Yes,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “and her
ladyship’s dead in love with his money,” and somehow or other Mrs.
Pelham was duly informed of the remark before the setting of a second
sun.
Glenham _was_ dead in love with her. From morning till night he hung
about the girl; he it was who secured the first ride, the only one
before the ball; he who was accepted as her escort thereto; he who
accompanied her to the croquet ground or band concert, who alone of the
subalterns was invited to the general’s house to sit by the side of the
sweet, fair guest and dine with them _en famille_.
“It’s a put-up job,” said the slangy and sulky young fellows who were
vainly striving to “cut in” and catch an unoccupied moment; but between
them and the apparently unconscious object there ever interposed that
placidly smiling, imperturbably watchful mother (“that confounded
old tabby,” said Bay of Camp Cameron). It was all plain sailing for
Glenham, all rock, shoal, and sand-bar for them.
“But where’s Truscott?” said Colonel Pelham, suddenly, the morning of
the ball; and with a pang of self-reproach, Arthur Glenham for the
first time remembered that his friend was left behind. “A telegram
reached him just as we were starting,” he explained, “and he said it
would be impossible for him to start until later. He made us come on
without him, but I surely thought he would be here last night.”
“’Deed and you’re wrong there, Mr. Glenham,” broke in Mrs. Wilkins. “I
can tell you the whole thing in a jiffy, colonel. With Captain Canker
in command there was no chance of little Glenham’s getting away, and
it’s just my belief that Mr. Truscott stayed back in his place. Ah,
Miss Gracie,” she added, mischievously, “there’s one young man that
don’t come to his knees even for you.” After which graceful piece of
_badinage_ the lady confronted Lady Pelham, and the two dames squarely
met one another’s glance, the war began right there.
In the silence that followed Glenham stood like one in a maze, the
colonel turned sharply on his heel and left the room. Ray and Captain
Tanner nearly collided with him in the hall, and came in upon the group
wondering what old Catnip was damning that man Canker for this time.
Half an hour later Captain Canker, seated in the adjutant’s office
at Camp Sandy, received a dispatch by telegraph in these words:
“Department commander desires Lieutenant Truscott’s presence to-night,
unless services urgently needed.” Canker ground his teeth, threw the
paper to the adjutant, thrust his hands in his pockets, and strode to
the door. There he turned and angrily spoke, “You can go, of course,
but this is a damned piece of interference on somebody’s part.”
Truscott glanced at the telegram and went on with his writing without a
word.
Canker walked away half across the parade, then stopped, pondered a
moment, and returned. “Mr. Truscott, I can’t spare any more teams or
men. If you go you must ride, and you cannot take your orderly. I don’t
intend to allow government horses to be ruined by fifty-mile gallops
while I’m in command,” and with that he was off.
Truscott looked at the clock, sent a few lines to his servant, finished
his work, and, as the noonday sun beat hotly down, with Sandy far
behind, he crossed the first range and rode rapidly over into the gorge
of Cherry Creek—alone.