It was two long days' cavalry march from Sancho's to Camp Cooke, and
many a time it had taken three. Midway, very nearly, the Hassayampa
emptied its feeble tribute into the murky Gila. There was water enough,
such as it was, for man and beast along the way, but, except in the
winter months, both man and beast preferred the night hours for the
journey. In order to provide mounts for the three officers Blake had
left as many of his men at Cooke, and pushed ahead with the veteran
president two hours before the dawn. That his march was watched from
afar by mounted men he knew as soon as the sun rose upon his pathway,
but Blake's only concern was that they kept at respectful distance. Not
more than half a dozen did he see, and these were as single scouts or in
pairs. He felt little anxiety for Turnbull and Loring; they, too, were
well guarded. The only thing he hated about the whole affair was having
to dismount any of his men, but there were only two ambulances at Cooke,
one was undergoing repairs and, the inspector being present, the post
surgeon wisely protested against the other being sent to the distant
south. It was the plan of the party to ride leisurely to Sancho's, there
to await the coming of the stage, which should pass through on its way
to Yuma Saturday noon.
And early Friday evening the troop went into bivouac at the same old
willow clump, and Sancho, profusely and elaborately courteous, had come
forth, sombrero in hand, to implore the caballeros to partake of his
hospitality. His brother was returned from a visit to Guaymas and
Mazatlan, and he had brought wine of the finest and cigars such as
Arizona never had known, and Sancho was manifestly disconcerted at the
regrets or refusals, coldly courteous on the part of Loring, blunt and
brusque on the part of Blake. The veterans, however, saw no harm in
going and were sumptuously entertained by mine host in the best room of
the ranch. Blake caused a strong guard to be posted at camp, a most
unusual thing, and one instantly noted among Sancho's people, and after
making the rounds and giving strict instructions to the three sentries,
and further ordering side lines as well as lariats for the horses--all
this as a result of a low-toned conference with Loring--he came back to
find that officer with his valise rolled in a blanket and used as a
bolster, while the owner lay on his back gazing dreamily up at the
stars. A trooper was silently making down the bedding of the other
officers. The sand was soft and dry, no campfire was needed, no tent, no
mattress. All four were hardened campaigners and the night was warm and
dewless.
For a moment or two Blake fidgeted about. Good wine and cigars were as
acceptable him as to anybody. It was Sancho and Sancho's brother he
could not stomach, and he would not be beholden to either.
"You can think of nothing else in the way of precaution, Loring?" he
presently asked, as he threw himself down beside him, puffing at his
little brier-root.
"Nothing."
"It would take a nervier gang than Arizona owns to try and rob this
outfit," and Blake looked complacently around among the shadowy forms of
the troopers flitting about the bivouac.
"We are all right so long as we've got you and your men," said Loring
quietly.
"Well, there's no order that can come in time to take us away from you,
old man. I'll send one platoon ahead at daybreak to camp halfway, and
they'll be fresh to ride into Yuma with you Sunday morning."
Loring nodded appreciatively.
From the open doorway of the ranch came the faint clink of glasses and
the murmurous flow of voices. Presently the boom of the veterans' jovial
laugh swelled the "concourse of sweet sounds," and Blake stirred
uneasily.
"Wonder what that old thief is giving them," muttered he. "Uncle
Billy's telling his bear story."
Quarter of an hour passed. The infant moon had sunk below the westward
horizon. The sounds of joviality increased, and Blake's mouth watered.
"Damn those heartless profligates!" he muttered. "Reckon I'll have to go
and reconnoiter. You don't mind being left to your own reflections,
Loring?"
"Go ahead," said Loring, and so presently the tall, shadowy form of "the
longest-legged officer in Arizona" was dimly seen stalking forth from
the gloom of the willows and threading its way through the open
starlight toward the bright and welcoming doorways of the ranch. Only
one or two of the usual loungers had been seen about the premises since
the cavalry came in. Sancho and his brother were practically destitute
of other guests than the officers whom they were entertaining. Slowly
and more slowly did the lieutenant saunter, open-eared, toward the scene
of revelry. More than half the distance had he gone when, suddenly from
another and smaller clump of willows below the ranch there came
floating on the still night, faint and cautious, the musical tinkle of a
guitar, and then soft, luring, yet hardly sweet or silvery, the voice of
a girl was timidly uplifted in song. Blake knew it at once. "The
daughter of my brother" was out there in the willows, a most unusual
thing. Blake remembered how her eyes had spoken to him twice before, how
she had thrown herself upon him the night of Higgins' arrest. Could it
be, was it possible, that she was signaling to him now? Much as his
curiosity and interest had previously been aroused by the occasional
peeps he had had at this attractive little Mexican girl, the events of
that night had intensified them. True, it was a moment of thrilling
excitement. Higgins, cornered like a rat, had drawn and fired, not with
either aim or idea of shooting his accuser, but in the hope of so
startling both officers that in the confusion he could leap to the back
doorway and escape. Loring's imperturbable nerve and practiced fist had
defeated that scheme and laid the deserter low, and Higgins was now
languishing at Yuma, awaiting trial on triple charges. But Blake for a
second or two had felt the clasp of soft arms about him, the wild
flutter of a maiden heart much below his own, and Blake was human.
Somewhere he had met that slender girl before. Twice he had danced at
the _bailes_ in Tucson, and once attended a masquerade, where for nearly
an hour he had enjoyed the partnership of and been tantalized by a maid
of just about the stature of this dark-eyed "daughter of my brother."
Blake knew as well as does the reader that this was no time for
philandering, and had been told, but not yet taught, the wisdom of
keeping well away from the damsels who, like the sirens of old, twanged
the vibrating strings and sang their luring songs. Why should she have
flung herself between him and the desperadoes at that perilous moment
and thrown her arms around him unless--unless she was the girl he had
been making love to, in broken Spanish, during the _fiesta_ at Tucson?
He would not have let Loring know where he was going, or why, for a good
deal. But once away from him, Blake was alone with no one to interpose
objection, and--he went. In three minutes he had made his cautious way
to the westward willows, and his heart began beating in spite of his
determination to be guarded and even suspicious, for there sat the
little señorita alone. That fact in itself should have opened his eyes,
and would have done so a year or two later, but Blake was still a good
deal of a boy, and in another moment he stepped quickly to her side and
almost swept the ground with his broad-brimmed scouting hat, as he bowed
low before her. Instantly the song ceased, the guitar dropped with an
æolian whine upon the sand, and as Blake stooped to raise it she sprang
to her feet--a half-stifled cry upon her lips. With smiling
self-assurance he bowed low again as he would have restored the
instrument to the little hands that were half-upraised as though to warn
him back; but she began coyly retreating from the bench on which she had
been seated, and he quickly followed, murmuring protest and reassurance
in such Spanish as he could command, declaring he had never yet had
opportunity to thank her for a deed of daring that perhaps had saved his
life (he knew it hadn't--the long-legged, nimble-tongued reprobate), and
trembling, timorous, sweetly hesitant she lingered; she even let him
seize her hand and only faintly strove to draw it away. She began even
to listen to his pleading. She shyly hung her pretty head and coyly
turned away and furtively peeped across the starlit level toward the
ranch, where two dark forms serape-shrouded, were lurking at the corner
of the corral. They had come crouching forward a dozen yards when
something, some sudden sound, drove them back to shelter, and in the
next moment Blake heard it, and the girl, too, for like a frightened
fawn she darted away and went scurrying to the rear entrance of the
ranch, leaving him to confront and hail two horsemen, "Gringos,"
evidently, who came loping in on the Yuma trail, and at his voice the
foremost leaped from saddle and called:
"Is it Lieutenant Blake? We've come with dispatches, sir, from Yuma,"
and, unfastening his saddle-bag, the trooper placed a packet in the
officer's hand.
"Come this way," said Blake briefly, leading toward the light, and
inwardly bemoaning an ill-wind that had blown him far more good than he
dreamed. A few strides took him to the door of the ranch. The dispatches
were for the president of the late court at Camp Cooke, for Turnbull,
for Loring and for himself. Sending the courier to camp, he tore open
his order--a brief letter of instructions to furnish such escort as
might be deemed sufficient for the safe conduct of Lieutenant-Colonels
Vance and Turnbull to Tucson. Then he waited to hear from them. With
Sancho eagerly scanning their faces the two veterans had opened and read
their orders, then looked up at each other in evident surprise.
Presently they arose, and, begging their host to excuse them a moment
and beckoning Blake to follow, stepped into the lighted bar beyond.
Another court had been convened, another officer was to be tried, and
the two who had officiated as seniors at Camp Cooke were directed to
proceed at once to the old Mexican capital for similar duty there.
Before sunrise, escorted by a dozen troopers, Vance and Turnbull were on
their way, their farewell words to Blake being an injunction to see
Loring and his precious charges safe to Yuma City.
As long as he lived Gerald Blake was destined to remember the Saturday
that dawned upon them as the little party rode away south-eastward. Even
the men seemed oddly depressed. Neither to Turnbull, to Loring nor to
Blake had this detachment suggested itself as possible. What with having
to send a large portion of his command forward on the Yuma road so as to
provide comparatively fresh horsemen to accompany the stage with its
relays of mules, Blake found himself at reveille with just eighteen men
all told, awaiting the coming of that anxiously-expected vehicle. He
prayed that it might bring at least one or two officers from Grant or
Bowie. He vainly sought another peep at or word with Pancha; but,
though Sancho was everywhere in evidence, grave, courteous, hospitable,
imperturbable; though one or two ranchmen rode in and out during the
morning, and there was a little gathering, perhaps half a dozen of men
and _mozos_, apparently awaiting the coming of the stage at noon, the
women kept out of sight. At twelve the old lorgnette was brought to bear
on the eastward trail, but, to the apparent surprise of the loungers,
one o'clock came and no stage, and so did four and five and then Blake
and Loring took counsel together in the seclusion of the willow copse,
while their men, silent and observant, gathered about the horses thirty
yards away, grooming and feeding and looking carefully to their shoeing,
for there was portent on the desert air and symptoms of lively work
ahead.
At six came Sancho, oppressed with grievous anxiety as to the safety of
the stage. There has been rumors of Apache raids to the east of
Maricopa. Only three days before he had warned the caballeros--the
gentlemen of the court who were going back to Grant and Bowie, to be on
their guard every inch of the way beyond the Wells, and now his heart
was heavy. He feared that, disdainful of his caution, they had driven
straight into ambush. Ought not the Teniente Blake to push forward at
once with his whole force and ascertain their fate? Blake bade him hold
his peace. If harm had come to that stage, said he, it was not on the
eastward, but the westward run, not at the hands of Apaches, but of
outlaws, and Sancho went back looking blacker than night and saying in
the seclusion of the corral, to beetle-browed _hermano mio_ and his
dusky wife, things that even in Spanish sounded ill and would not be
publishable in English. Both officers by this time felt that there was
mischief abroad. It was decided between them that if by midnight the
stage did not arrive, Loring, with the precious packet in one saddle-bag
and the court proceedings in the other, should take eight men as escort
and gallop for the west until he reached the platoon sent forward at
dawn. From that point the danger would be less, and with either the same
or a smaller number of fresh riders he could push on for Yuma, sending
all the others back to join Blake, who meantime, with what little force
he had, would scout eastward for news of the stage.
But that plan was destined never to be carried out. The long day came to
an end. The darkness settled down over sandy plain and distant mountain.
The silence of midnight reigned over the lonely bivouac and the somber
ranch, yet had not Blake given orders that every man must remain close
to the horses throughout the evening, adventurous spirits from the troop
could surely have heard the ominous whisperings within the corral and
marked the stealthy glidings to and fro. At nine o'clock the famous roan
was cautiously led forth from the gateway and close under the black
shadow of the wall, and not until well beyond earshot of the willows was
he mounted and headed eastward. At ten Loring was sleeping soundly in
preparation for the night ride before him, and Blake, nervously puffing
at his pipe, was listening to the low, murmurous chat where the guard
were gathered about their watchfires, when soft, timid, luring, sweet,
again he heard the tinkle of that guitar. It ceased abruptly. There was
a minute of silence, then, a trifle louder, it began again; again ceased
as though waiting reply, and Blake sat up and listened. Once more, not
at the westward willows, not at the ranch, not on the open plain, but
somewhere close at hand, close to his side of the bivouac, away from the
guard, away from the occasionally stamping, snorting horses, and equally
far from the dark, shadowy buildings of the stage station, and Blake
slowly, noiselessly got to his feet and, after listening one moment to
Loring's deep, regular breathing, buckled on his revolver belt and stole
forth into the starlight. Yes, there was the sound again--a few notes, a
bar or two of the song Pancha was singing at the willows the night
before, and close to the edge of the willows crouched the musician. With
his hand on the butt of his revolver, Blake strode slowly toward the
shrinking form, and, beckoning, it rose and moved swiftly away.
"Halt where you are," growled the lieutenant, "if you want me to stay
here."
For answer there came the same softly played bars and another gesture as
though imploring him to come farther away from hearing of the ranch or
even of his bivouac, and, whipping out his revolver, the tall trooper
sprang forward and a heavy hand came down on the shoulder of the
shawl-hidden form, and there, trembling, imploring, ay weeping, was
Pancha. Before he could speak one word she began, and, to his amaze,
began in English--broken English to be sure, disjointed, incoherent,
tremulous--and he listened, at first incredulous, then half-convinced,
then utterly absorbed, too absorbed to note that a dark form went
scurrying from the shelter of some stunted brush straight toward the
ranch, whence presently a bright light shone forth and loud voices
harshly shouted the name of Pancha! Pancha! whose wrist he still
grasped--Pancha! who, weeping, had implored him to hasten with all his
men, that the stage was not three miles away with officers from Grant
aboard, that wicked men had planned to murder them to prevent their
joining him, and now, in terror, she sought to break away. She begged
him to release her. They would kill her if they knew----
And even as she pleaded, far out on the dark, eastward plain there
suddenly uprose a chorus of yells, a rattling fusillade, and Blake
darted back to the bivouac, shouting as he ran, "Up with you, 'C' troop!
Mount, men, mount!" and then all was stir and bustle and excitement.
Springing from their blanket beds the troopers threw their carbine
slings over their shoulders and flew to their horses. "Never mind your
saddles--no time for that!" yelled Blake, as he slipped the bit between
the teeth of his startled charger, then threw himself astride the naked
back. "Up with you and come on!" Then with a dozen ready fellows at his
heels away he darted into the gloom, guided only by the yells and
flashes far out over the sandy plain. In less than two minutes every
trooper in the little command had gone spurring in pursuit, and
Lieutenant Loring, suddenly aroused from slumber, revolver in hand,
looking eagerly about for explanation of the row, found himself standing
guard over his treasure-laden saddle-bags--utterly alone.
Then came the whish of a riata through the pulseless air, the quick
whir-r-r of the horse-hair rope through the loop as it settled down over
his head, a snap as it flew taut, a sudden and violent shock as his feet
were jerked from under him, the crack of his revolver--aimless, a
stunning blow on his prostrate head, then oblivion.