under cover of the out-building, while the four girls exerted
themselves to keep the fire from showing inside. Delay until help
could arrive from Whipple was what all were struggling to gain; but
the increasing heat and smoke showed the defenders at last that they
could no longer put off retiring to the covered way.
The word was given and all entered it, and the men with shovels began
to close the entrance. When it was a little more than half closed the
hole in the roof had become triangular, resembling the space between
two spokes and a felloe of a wheel. On the earth, or felloe side of
the triangle, there was no fire; but the other sides were burning
fiercely.
Making a sudden dash, and before any one could realize her intention,
Brenda leaped past the shovellers, sprang over the embankment they
were throwing up, and by the aid of a bench sprang up the four-foot
wall, through the flame-bordered aperture, and disappeared, her
clothing apparently in a blaze. The war-whoops immediately ceased.
No attempt at pursuit or rescue was made. The Arnolds and the
strangers felt that it would be useless, and only result in the death
of the pursuers. The work of closing the passage was resumed and
completed, and all sat down to await the slow flight of time and the
possible arrival of the soldiers.
After listening to the story of the Arnolds I concluded that Brenda
had fallen a victim to the cruelty of the Apaches, and that we should
find her mutilated and disfigured body. A rapid and excited search was
at once began. Far and wide, over plain, through ravines, and into the
foot-hills rode the soldiers, leaving no part of the country for
several miles around unsearched; but not a trace of the missing girl
was discovered.
Once more the detachment gathered near the ruins of the Arnold home,
and began preparations for returning to Whipple. The remains of the
dead wife and mother were lifted from beneath the charred timbers and
deposited in a grave near by. While the burial was taking place, the
two scouts, Weaver and Cooler, were absent, looking for the Apache
trail. Day was dawning, and as it was probable when they returned that
the command could start, I ordered the horses fed from the loose
forage scattered about, and the men to prepare their breakfast.
The scouts returned as the men were dispersing from their meal, and
Cooler placed in my hand a dainty lock of flaxen hair, wound around
the middle with a strand of the same.
"I found it," said the scout, "beside the ravine yonder, a little more
than two miles from here. The young miss is alive, and dropped it for
a 'sign.' The redskins all left in that direction."
Whatever Brenda's three cousins may have lacked in education and
cultivation, they wanted nothing in affection. They gathered about the
little tress, took it daintily in their palms, kissed it again and
again, and moistened it with tears. Low sobs and endearing names for
the brave darling who had been willing to sacrifice her life to
preserve theirs fell from their lips. Poor, rude, frontier maids, they
had shown an equal bravery all through the defence, and proved
themselves to be worthy descendants of the race that lived through the
colonial struggles with the Indians of the Mohawk Valley. The three
girls gathered about me, and, clinging to my arms, besought me to go
to the rescue of their cousin.
"Yes, yes, girls," I replied; "everything shall be done that possibly
can be. We will start at once, and I hope to bring her back to you."
Turning to the father, I said, "Mr. Arnold, I will leave you a
luncheon for the road, and you must try to make the distance to
Prescott on foot."
"Yes, sir; we can do it easy, thank you."
"I would leave you some of the men as escort, but in such an
expedition I need more than I have."
"That's all right, Mr. Dunkin; 'f I had a beast I'd go with ye.
There'll be no Apaches round these parts agin for a considerable
spell," and his eyes ran sadly over the ruins of his home, the wreck
of his property, resting finally on the grave of his wife.
Yes, Brenda was alive, and a prisoner of the Apaches, spared by them,
probably, as children sometimes are after such raids, for adoption. It
was plainly our duty to rescue her from the fate of a continued life
with her captors.
XVIII
ON THE TRAIL OF THE APACHES
After a further delay, to allow the scouts and their broncos to
breakfast, the party mounted and turned to the west. Calling Paul
Weaver to ride by my side, I questioned him about the region before
us.
"I suppose you are familiar with this part of the country, Paul?"
"Ought t' be. Trapped and hunted here since I was twenty, and I'm nigh
on to sixty-five now."
"Have these Apaches a camping-place near here?"
"Yes; they spend a part of every year here-abouts, gatherin' mezcal.
From the direction they've took, I b'lieve they're goin' to Santy
Maree Creek."
"That flows into Bill Williams Fork, does it not?"
"Yes, an' 't has a northern and southern branch. One of th' favorite
campin'-places of th' Mezcalleros 's on th' southern branch."
"How far is it from here?"
"'Bout fifty mile."
"Easy of approach?"
"Toler'ble; good ridin' all th' way, 'cept a bit of bowlder country on
a divide."
"Is the camp open to attack?"
"Wide open arter yer git into th' valley. There's a waterfall, or,
rather, a piece of rips ther' that 'll drown th' n'ise of our comin'."
"Isn't it strange Indians should camp in such a place?"
"They're Mezcallero 'Paches, and the'r food, th' mezcal, grows thick
round ther'. 'Sides, ther's no other place on th' stream combinin'
grazin' and waterin', and they've never been hunted into that region
yit."
"Well, Paul, they will be now."
I urged the men on as fast as possible, taking care not to exhaust the
horses and unfit them for a long pursuit. The soldiers were animated
by a strong desire to punish the Indians for their treatment of the
family in Skull Valley, and were excited by the fear that the gentle
and beautiful young girl in their hands might fall a victim to some
barbaric cruelty before they could be overtaken, so that the animals
were constantly urged close to their powers of endurance.
Near the middle of the forenoon, as the soldiers were riding up a
cañon, on each side of which rose rugged sandstone precipices, we came
to a fork in the trail and the cañon. Not only the track parted, but,
judging from footprints, most of the captured stock had passed to the
right. Weaver said the right-hand path led to the northern branch of
the Santa Maria, and the left to the southern.
I halted the detachment, perplexed. To divide my party of twenty-nine
in order to follow both trails seemed to me to be inviting disaster.
To take the whole number over a wrong trail and not rescue Brenda was
a course to be dreaded. I called up the scouts, Weaver and Cooler, for
a consultation.
"Don't you think it is probable," I asked, "that a girl who was
thoughtful enough to drop a 'sign' to show she is alive and a captive,
would be likely to give a hint here as to which trail she was taken
over?"
"That's prob'ble, liftinint," replied Weaver. "'F you'll hold th' boys
here a bit, George an' I'll ride up th' two trails a piece an' look
for signs."
"Go quite a distance, too. She might not get an opportunity to drop
anything for some time after leaving the fork."
"That's true, sir," said Cooler; "the redskins would naturally be
watching her closely. Which way will you go, Paul?"
"Let the liftinint say," answered the elder scout, tightening his belt
and readjusting his equipments for resuming his riding.
"All ready, then," said I. "You take the right, Weaver, and George the
left. While you are gone we'll turn out the stock."
The scouts departed, and a few moments later the horses of the command
were cropping the rich grass of the narrow valley, sentinels were
placed to watch them and look for the return of the guides, and the
rest of the men threw themselves upon the turf to rest.
An hour passed away, when Weaver was seen returning from the northern
trail. As he approached he held something above his head. Directing
the horses to be made ready, I walked forward to meet him, and
received from his hand a small bow of blue ribbon, which I at once
recognized to be the property of Brenda.
It now appeared certain the girl captive had been taken over the road
to the right; so, without waiting for the return of Cooler, the men
were ordered into their saddles, and we started along the northern
trail. Our march had not long continued, however, when Private Tom
Clary, who was riding in the rear, called to me. Looking back, I saw
the young scout galloping rapidly forward and waving his hat in a
beckoning manner.
A halt was ordered, and Cooler rode up to me and placed in my hand _a
lock of flaxen hair, bound with a thread of the same_. Placed by the
other they were twin tresses, except that the last was slightly singed
by fire.
Well, tears glistened on the eyelids of some of the bronzed veterans
at the sight of the tiny lock of hair. We had barely escaped taking
the wrong trail.
"God bliss the darlint," said grizzled Tom Clary. "There's not a
ridskin can bate her with their tricks. We'll bring her back to her
frinds, b'ys, or it'll go hard wid us."
Clary's remarks were subscribed to by many hearty exclamations on the
part of his fellow-soldiers. We had no difficulty in understanding
that the Apaches had expected to be pursued and had dropped the ribbon
to mislead us, and that Brenda had dropped her "sign" to set her
friends right.
I asked the guides if it was not probable the Apaches had set a watch
on the overlooking heights to see which road we should take at this
point.
"It's sartin', liftinint," answered Weaver; "they're watchin' us sharp
jest now."
"Then we had better continue on the northern trail awhile and mislead
them, you think?"
"That's it, liftinint. That's th' best thing to do. We needn't reach
their camp until after midnight, an' we might 's well spend th' time
misleadin' em."
"Yes, and it'll be better to reach them a few hours after midnight,
too," added Cooler; "they sleep soundest then."
"Then we will go on as we began for some time longer," I replied, and
the soldiers again moved at a brisk canter over the northern trail.
An hour passed, and a halt was made in a grassy nook, where the horses
were turned out to graze until dusk. Our route was then retraced to
the fork and the march resumed over the southern branch.
Night overtook us on a high ridge covered with loose, rounded
bowlders, over which it was necessary to lead the horses slowly, with
considerable clatter and some bruises to man and beast. The rough road
lasted until a considerable descent was made on the western side, and
ended on the edge of a grassy valley.
At this point Weaver advised that the horses should be left and the
command proceed on foot; for if the Indians were in camp at the rapids
it would be impossible to approach mounted without alarming them,
while if on foot the noise of the rushing water would cover the sound
of all movements.
Six men were sent back to a narrow defile to prevent the attacking
party from being surprised by the detachment of Indians which had
taken the northern trail, should they intend to rejoin their friends
at the rapids. Upon the recommendation of the scouts I determined to
defer making an attack until after three o'clock, for they assured me
that at that time the enemy would be feeling quite secure from pursuit
and be in their deepest sleep.
The horses were picketed, guards posted, and a lunch distributed, and
all not on duty lay down to wait. Time dragged slowly. About one
o'clock a noise on the opposite side of the creek attracted attention,
and Cooler crept away in the darkness to ascertain its cause. In half
an hour he returned with the information that the party of Mezcalleros
who had taken the northern trail had rejoined their friends and turned
their animals into the general herd. Upon learning this I despatched a
messenger to call in the six men sent to guard the defile.
When the time for starting arrived one man only was left with the
picketed horses, and the rest of us slipped down the slope to the
river-bottom, taking care not to rattle arms and equipments, and began
a slow advance along a narrow pathway, the borders of which were
lined with the spiked vegetation of the country.
Moving on for some time, I judged from the sound of flowing water that
we were nearing the camp, and, halting the party, sent the scouts to
reconnoitre. They returned with the information that the camp was
close at hand, and contained thirteen mat and skin covered tents, or
huts, and that the stolen stock and Indian ponies were grazing on a
flat just beyond. No guards were visible.
The flat about the encampment was covered with Spanish-bayonet,
soapweed, and cacti, with here and there a variety of palmetto, which
attains a height of about twenty-five feet, the trunks shaggy with a
fringe of dead spines left by each year's growth. Cooler suggested
that at a given signal the trunks of two of these trees should be set
on fire to light up the camp, and enable the soldiers to pick off the
Apaches as they left their shelter when our attack should begin. He
also proposed that we yell, saying: "If you out-yell 'em, lieutenant,
you can out-fight 'em."
Although I seriously doubted whether twenty-five white throats could
make as much noise as half a dozen red ones, I consented to the
proposition. I sent nine men to the flat upon which the ponies and
cattle were grazing, with orders to place themselves between the creek
and herd, and when the firing began drive the animals into the hills.
When these instructions had been given, Surgeon Coues asked me if the
firing would be directed into the tents.
"Yes, doctor," I replied.
"Of course, Miss Brenda is in one of them," he observed.
"Yes, and if we shoot into them indiscriminately we are quite as
likely to hit her as any one."
"Can you think of any way of locating her?"
"No; I am at a dead loss. We will try Cooler's plan of yelling, and
perhaps that will bring the Indians out."
I sent Clary, who had been directed to remain near me, for Sergeant
Rafferty, and when the sergeant appeared directed him to forbid any
one to fire a shot until ordered to do so.
XIX
THE ATTACK ON THE APACHE CAMP
Orders were passed and dispositions so made that one-half the force
was placed on each flank of the camp. All movements were made at a
considerable distance from the place to be attacked, and the utmost
care taken not to make a sound that would alarm the sleeping foe. Once
on the flanks, the men were to creep up slowly and stealthily to
effective rifle range. When the trunks of the palmettos were lighted
all were to yell as diabolically as possible, and fire at every Indian
that showed himself.
The front of the camp looked towards the creek, which flowed over
bowlders and pebbles with a great rush and roar. The Indians were
expected in their flight to make a dash for the stream, and attempt to
pass through the shoal rapids to the wooded bluffs beyond. My
instructions were for the men to screen themselves on the flanks,
behind the yuccas, Spanish-bayonet, emole, and cacti. Accompanied by
Tom Clary and Paul Weaver, I selected a clump of vegetation on the
northern side, from which the front of the tents could be observed.
Sergeant Rafferty, with George Cooler, was on the opposite flank, and
the lighting of a tree on my side was to be the signal for one to be
lighted on the other, and for the yelling to begin.
This plan was carried out. The flash of one match was followed
promptly by the flash of another. Two flames burst forth, and rapidly
climbed the shaggy trunks of the little palms, lighting up the whole
locality. At the same instant an imitation war-whoop burst from
vigorous lungs and throats.
Every one held his rifle in readiness to shoot the escaping Apaches,
but not a redskin showed his jetty head. The soldiers yelled and
yelled, practising every variation ingenuity could invent in the vain
attempt to make their tame white-man utterances resemble the
blood-curdling, hair-raising, heart-jumping shrieks of their Indian
foes, now so strangely silent. Not a savage responded vocally or
otherwise.
But for the presence of the captive girl in one of the thirteen tents
the attack would have begun by riddling the thinly covered shelters
with bullets at low range.
The two burning trees had gone out and two others had been lighted,
and it soon appeared evident that if something was not done to bring
out the foe the supply of torches would soon be exhausted and nothing
accomplished. In the darkness the advantage might even turn to the
side of the redman.
Surgeon Coues, who reclined near me, asked: "Do you think any of those
fellows understand English?"
"Perhaps a few common phrases. They know Spanish fairly well from
living for some centuries near the Mexicans."
"Are they quite as old as that, lieutenant?"
"You know what I mean, doctor."
"Why not speak to Brenda in English, and ask her to try to show us
where she is? The Apaches will not understand--will think you are
talking to your men."
"An excellent idea, doctor. I'll try it."
Private Tom Clary was sent along both flanks with orders for all
yelling to cease and for perfect quiet to be maintained. Then, acting
upon the surgeon's suggestion, I called, in a clear, loud voice:
"Brenda, we are here--your friends from the fort. Your relatives are
safe. Try to make a signal, or do something by which we can learn
where you are. Take plenty of time, and do nothing to endanger your
life."
A long silence ensued, during which two more pillars of fire burned
out. I was beginning to fear I should be obliged to offer terms to the
Indians, leaving them unhurt if they would yield up their captive and
the stolen stock; but before I had fully considered this alternative
Clary, who was returning along the rear of the line of tents from his
recent errand, approached and said: "Liftinint, as I was crapin' along
behoind th' wiggies I saw somethin' loike a purty white hand stickin'
out from undher th' edge of th' third from this ind."
"Show it to me," said I. "I'll go with you."
Making a slight détour to the rear, the soldier and I crept up to the
back of the tent indicated, pausing at a distance of twenty feet from
it.
Nothing definite could be made out in the darkness. A narrow, white
object was visible beneath the lower edge. Sending Clary back a few
yards to light up a palm, I fixed my eyes on the object mentioned, and
as the flames leaped up the trunk perceived by the flaring light a
small, white hand, holding in its fingers the loose tresses of
Brenda's hair. The question was settled. The captive girl was in the
third tent from the right of the line.
Waiting until the fire went out, Clary and I made our way back to our
former station.
"Go around the lines again, Clary, and tell Sergeant Rafferty to move
his men to a point from which he can cover the rear of the camp, and
open fire on all the tents except the third from the right."
"All roight, sor; th' b'ys 'll soon mak' it loively for th' rids."
"Tell the sergeant to light up some trees."
"Yes, sor."
I then crept slowly back to my own flank, and ordered a disposition of
my half of the party so as to command the space in front of the line
of tents. In another instant the flames were ascending two
tree-trunks, and the rapid cracking of rifles broke our long reserve.
With the first scream of a bullet through their flimsy shelters the
Indians leaped out and ran for the river. Few fell. Rapid zigzags and
the swinging of blankets and arms as they ran confused the aim of the
soldiers. In less than five minutes the last Apache was out of sight,
and the firing had ceased.
We dashed up to the tents, and I rushed to the one from which I had
seen the hand and tress thrust out, and called, "Brenda!" There was no
response or sound. Looking into the entrance, I saw in the dim light
of the awakening day the figure of a girl lying on her back, her feet
extended towards me, and her head touching the rear wall. The right
arm lay along her side, and the left was thrown above her head, the
fingers still holding her hair.
A terrible fear seized my heart. I again called the girl by her name,
but received no answer. I went in, and with nervous fingers lighted a
match and stooped beside her. Horror-stricken, I saw a stream of blood
threading its way across the earthern floor from her left side. I
shouted for Dr. Coues, and the surgeon hurried in. From his
instrument-case he took a small, portable lamp, and, lighting it, fell
upon his knees beside the prostrate girl.
During the following few moments, while the skilled fingers of the
firm-nerved surgeon were cutting away clothing to expose the nature of
the wound, my thoughts found time to wander to the distant family, on
its way to the fort, and to the boy sergeants there. I thought what a
sad message it would be my province to bear to them, should this dear
relative and cherished friend die by savage hands.
There was little hope that the pretty girl could live. To me she
seemed already claimed by death. She who had made our long and weary
march from Wingate to Whipple so pleasant by her vivacity and
intelligence, and had latterly brightened our occasional visits to
Skull Valley, was to die in this wretched hole.
But the _tactus eruditus_ of the young surgeon was continuing the
search for some evidence that the savage stab was not fatal, and his
mind was busy with means for preserving life, should there be a
chance. I watched his motions, and assisted now and then when asked,
and waited with strained patience for a word upon which to base a
hope.
At last the surgeon gently dropped the hand whose pulse he had long
been examining, and said: "She is alive, and that is about all that
can be said. You see, her hands, arms, and neck are badly scorched by
the dash she made through the fire at the ranch. Then this wicked
knife-thrust has paralyzed her. She has bled considerably, too, but
she lives. Press your finger upon this artery--here."
"Can she be made to live, doctor?"
"The knife has not touched a vital part, but it may have done
irreparable injury. I can tell more presently."
Nothing more was said, except in the way of direction, for some time,
the surgeon working slowly and skilfully at the wound. At last,
rearranging the girl's clothing and replacing his instruments in their
case, he said: "If I had the girl in the post-hospital, or in a
civilized dwelling, with a good nurse, I think she might recover."
"Can't we give her the proper attendance here, doctor?" I asked.
"I fear not. She ought to have a woman's gentle care, for one thing,
and some remedies and appliances I haven't with me for such a delicate
case. It is the long distance between here and the fort, and the rough
road, that make the outlook hopeless. She cannot survive such a
journey."
"Then we will remain here, doctor," said I. "Write out a list of what
you want, and I will send a man to Whipple for tents and supplies, a
camp woman, Frank, Vic, and the elder Arnold girl."
"Duncan, you are inspired!" exclaimed the doctor. "I'll have my order
ready by the time the messenger reports, and then we'll make Brenda
comfortable."
A letter was written to Captain Bayard, the surgeon's memoranda
enclosed, and a quarter of an hour afterwards fleet-footed Sancho was
flying over the sixty miles to Fort Whipple as fast as Private Tom
Clary could ride him. Three days later a pack-train arrived, with a
laundress from the infantry company, Frank Burton, and Mary Arnold,
and with stores and supplies necessary for setting up a sick-camp. The
wounded girl mended rapidly from the start.
In due time Brenda recovered sufficiently to bear transportation to
Prescott, where she joined her uncle and cousins. Rapid changes
quickly followed. I received orders directing me to report for duty at
once at the Seabury Military School, and by the same mail came letters
from Colonel Burton directing his sons to accompany me. At the end of
the next fortnight, just as we were packed for a journey to the
Pacific coast, Brenda received instructions from her maternal
relatives to make the same journey, and joined us.
Frank and Henry's project to transport their ponies East, and their
plans for Manuel and Sapoya, were also carried out. Boys and ponies
became a prominent contingent to the corps of cadets under my military
instruction during the following three years.