All manner of men were gathered at the station of the Union Pacific in
Omaha that August morning. Some of the members of the court, thus
unexpectedly absolved from a disagreeable duty, had obtained brief leave
of absence and were going to spend a few days in the East before
returning to their commands. They were there to take the train. Others
had come to see them off; others, like Truman and Leonard, to welcome
the coming witnesses. Far up into the fastnesses of the Big Horn had
gone the couriers from the frontier forts, bearing brief orders that had
come by telegraph, and even Winthrop's command, having an almost idyllic
time of it hunting and fishing in the mountains, was required to yield
up some of its officers and men at the beck of the law. A long ride had
these fellows to Fetterman and thence over the Medicine Bow to Rock
Springs. Davies was of this party, but Cranston and Corporal Brannan had
a ride still longer. The bulk of the army of witnesses, oddly enough,
was marshalled by Lieutenant Archer at the field hospital at Pawnee, and
this distinguished young staff officer was coming "with blood in his
eye," as wrathful a man as lived and swore in army blue that long,
eventful summer. To think that he who so prided himself on plainscraft
should have been so utterly hoodwinked by Captain Differs, of all men,
was worse to him than gall and wormwood, but he came now fairly snapping
with righteous indignation, fresh from another study of the famous field
over which he rode with the last man to part with Lieutenant Davies the
night of the tragedy of Antelope Springs,--Devers's long-missing
sergeant, McGrath.
Separated from his young officer in the gathering darkness by the
eagerly searching Indians, detected by them and shot through the leg, he
had taken refuge in a ravine until dawn, and then the cries of the
coyotes had attracted him to the scene of the massacre, and the sight of
his mutilated comrades had unmanned him utterly. Feeling sure the
Indians were still in the neighborhood, he had determined that if seen
he would adopt the plan told him by an old scout long months
before,--that of feigning insanity and boldly seeking their company.
Indians regard the insane as specially guarded by the Great Spirit and
look upon them with superstitious fear, but McGrath little dreamed how
narrow would become the border between the real and the feigned. Fleeing
in dismay from the sight of his slaughtered comrades, he had followed
the ravine to the timbered valley, lurked there two days and nights in
constant fear and nervous dread and suffering, and finally swooned from
exhaustion. When he waked with sudden, awful start, two Indian faces
were bending over him. Then he had fallen into the hands of the foe at
last.
But he was in better luck than he had dared to dream. They were of a
peaceful band, wanderers from the fold of Red Cloud who had sought the
lower valley for peace and protection. They had a hunting lodge and led
him thither, and their squaws gave him food and ministered to him as
best they knew how in the mad fever that followed. McGrath never
realized how long he was ill, but when he came to himself it was bitter
cold and he was living somehow among these strange people,--a small
village of them in the heart of the Bad Lands. Not for months did he
recover strength. Not until May did he try to ride or walk beyond the
limits of their camp. They were poor; they had no spare ponies, and they
made him understand he was many, many "sleeps" from his friends with
hordes of marauding hostiles intervening, and so induced him to remain
with them in hiding until the rebellious tribes were driven from the
reservations and Red Dog himself fled to their fastness. Then again had
McGrath to remain in hiding, secreted by his humble friends, and there
he lay when Winthrop's bugles sounded the charge and his own old troop
came dashing in. He was so worn, ragged, and changed that he had
difficulty in making even "A" Troop know him, but, once they did, their
joy was boundless, for McGrath was a popular man, and the meeting
between him and Davies was something long to be remembered, for each
believed the other dead. Then, as the wounded were led back to the Ska
and he recovered strength and was happy in seeing his Indian protectors
lavishly fed, clothed, and rewarded, he began to talk of the events of
the campaign of the previous summer and to inquire why the captain was
away now; and then Hastings and Archer took him in hand, and later poor
stricken Haney, conscious of the approaching end, begged to see him, and
then came Haney's broken confession. No wonder Hastings and Archer were
confident they had Differs "done for" now.
These, the wounded and convalescent, were still at Pawnee hospital
awaiting telegraphic summons from the judge-advocate, but Archer was
already on the ground, and Cranston and Davies and others, reunited,
presumably, the previous morning at Rock Springs Station, were due at
Omaha by this very train for which all hands were waiting. So was
another principal witness, who, however, might decline to testify
because of the danger of self-incrimination. The detectives sent to
Butte the previous day went too late. Langston's trailers were ahead of
them, and deserter Howard, in irons, was being forwarded under charge
of a corporal of infantry from Ransom, arrested two days before in a
restaurant at Butte.
"Verily," said Truman, "there is quite a batch of interesting evidence
trundling over the Union Pacific to-day," and this was before he had
read that significant despatch from Scott.
But when he read and had pondered over it a moment, the captain suddenly
left the company of his fellows and strode away after Leonard, now
gloomily pacing the platform a dozen yards away.
"Man alive!" said he, "if they left last night what could they do but
take this train?"
Leonard nodded, darkly. Then again, after a moment's silence, Truman
spoke.
"Could he have been so mad, do you think, as not to have thought of
that,--of some one being on that train?"
"No one at the fort knew. How was he to suspect when up to yesterday we
all supposed Davies would come down the Yellowstone."
Truman shuddered. "She ought to be in now," said he. "Just think of the
tragedy there may have been."
The train was late,--half an hour late, said the official at the
train-despatcher's office. No, there hadn't been any accident or
excitement up the road that he'd heard of. He really didn't know what
caused it. Did she reach and leave Braska on time? Yes, the delay
occurred this morning somewhere,--began after leaving Kearney.
Then there had been no excitement, no tragedy farther up the road. There
was comfort in that, said Truman. But there had been a sensation at old
Fort Scott, such as these counsellors little dreamed of.
For a brief time after their return from the cantonment Mrs. Davies and
her new friend, Mrs. Plodder, had kept house together. In those days
when so many of our officers were almost constantly in the field, it
became quite the thing for some of the ladies left at the garrisons to
club together, share expenses, and thereby economize. Old No. 12 was
still at Mira's service, but she couldn't bear the house, she said, and
so the ladies moved their furniture into an abandoned bachelor den next
to Flight's, and for a few days all went merrily. Then there came a
servants' squabble, and their cook differed with Mrs. Flight's
maid-of-all-work, and, refusing arbitration, was impudent to her
employers. Mrs. Plodder was an Amazon in whom there was no weakness. She
discharged the cook and sent her back to Braska. Then they "messed" with
Mrs. Flight, and about this time the hops began and the visits from town
and the drives, and Mrs. Plodder presently conceived it to be her duty
to remonstrate with Mira, who wept and stormed, and after a time, as
Willett's visits began to grow frequent, Mrs. Plodder said she would not
remain under the same roof with Mira, and moved over and kept house with
Mrs. Darling. The Cranston household had gone East some time before
this, and, as Mira could not bear the chaplain's worthy wife, and Mrs.
Stone had become estranged, and Mrs. Darling, with Mrs. Plodder, had
decided that she was openly encouraging Mr. Willett's devotions and told
her so, and as Mrs. Leonard held aloof from them, one and all, it must
be admitted that the poor brainless child was restricted in her choice
of friends and intimates. Davies had had but brief time in which to give
her instructions, and there is no use in setting forth their purport. He
asked Mrs. Cranston, if a possible thing, to give his wife the benefit
of her experience and aid her in any way Mira might need, and Margaret
warmly assured him that she was ready at any time and glad to be of any
and every service to Mrs. Davies, but even in so saying she felt well
assured that there was little hope of being of use. What made the matter
worse was that this summer Congress adjourned without making provision
for the pay of the army, even while expecting it to perform rather more
than its customary functions; but here Cranston stepped in and insisted
on placing at Mrs. Davies's disposal a certain sum in Courtenay's bank
at Braska. Davies could return it when Uncle Sam resumed payment, and so
Mira had been provided with a check-book and taught its use. She was, at
least, to have no financial anxieties. The regiment had to remain long
in the field and the Cranstons went home, as Davies expected and had
advised that Mira go with them to Chicago. Even if her people could not
make her welcome at Urbana, she could board there with former friends in
perfect comfort, and be ready to rejoin him by and by. Many and many an
army wife and mother had similarly to live a Bedouin life that summer.
One cavalry regiment, the --th, for instance, was scattered from
Cheyenne to Chicago, facing riotous mobs one month and chasing Indians
all over the upper Yellowstone the next. One thing Davies firmly yet
gently strove to impress upon Mira,--that her intimates at Scott were
not at all the women with whom a poor and debt-burdened officer's wife
should foregather. He begged her to be guided by Mrs. Cranston and Mrs.
Leonard, and wrote a brief line to the chaplain, commending Mira to his
care, and then he had to go.
But once back at Scott, where she could sport the lovely toilets with
which her hopeful aunt had supplied her, Mira went the way of the
empty-headed. Admiration, adulation were to her as the breath of life.
So long as she was perfectly innocent of wrong intent how could
people--how dare people rebuke her? She told Willett the horrid things
Mrs. Darling, Mrs. Plodder, and Mrs. Stone were reported to have said,
and he replied that it was all because they envied her her beauty and
were jealous of the attentions she won. She almost told him what the
chaplain said, but that sent the burning blushes to her forehead, yet
she dreaded what the old soldier of the cross might have written to her
husband. She knew he would surely condemn the renewal of her association
with Mr. Willett, but so long as he wasn't there to say so, and so long
as she intended the association to be purely platonic, as a rebuke to
all who had rebuked her, she proposed to assume that no objection
existed.
The news that he had been sent for and was coming in as a witness in
Captain Devers's court startled her inexpressibly, despite her conscious
rectitude. She told Willett that very evening, as they were driving
slowly among the willow-wooded islands, and he looked imploringly into
her eyes, and Mrs. Flight and Mr. Burtis on the back seat could see that
he was talking eagerly, earnestly, pleadingly, and that her eyes were
downcast, her cheeks aflame, and still they did not take alarm. "She's
too much in love with herself and her own good looks ever to do that
foolish thing," said Mrs. Flight to those who asked her why she didn't
warn her. Willett himself, so Burtis afterwards declared, had said in
answer to some friendly words of remonstrance on the Sunday night
preceding the meeting of the court, that the girl was as heartless and
cold as a stone. No one need worry on her account. It was plain to
Burtis that the young fellow was well-nigh insane about her, and he had
sent a letter ten days before to Langston urging him to come and look
after his kinsman; but Langston was far away at the time and never knew
that Willett had quit the sea-shore and gone back to the charmer in
mid-continent,--never knew, indeed no one ever knew until too late, that
it was she herself who baited the line that drew him there.
There was a gathering at the post on Tuesday evening and all the few
society men were out from Braska. The ladies, in their summer toilets,
sat on the verandas and told one another and their visitors from town
how dreadful it was to be so long bereft of their husbands and
protectors, and Mrs. Flight and Mrs. Darling said they wished with all
their hearts the court had called some witnesses from the infantry.
Surely they knew as much about the matter as some of the cavalry who had
been summoned. There was Mrs. Davies who could expect her husband within
the week, while it might be months before they set eyes on theirs. They
seemed to take comfort in harping on this theme for Willett's benefit,
He sat near Mira's side, as she reclined languidly in her wicker chair,
his eyes glowing, his hands and lips twitching at times, listening and
occasionally addressing low-toned, eager words to her. "Mr. Davies will
have finished his testimony by Thursday at the latest," said Mrs.
Flight, decisively; "I heard Mrs. Leonard say so to the chaplain
to-day," and here she glanced meaningly at Mira; "so what's to prevent
his being here early Friday morning? I know I'd let no grass grow under
my feet."
And Mira could only say she surely hoped so, but she couldn't tell. The
last letter from him was away up near the mouth of Powder River
somewhere, and he thought then they mightn't be home before November;
but she was plainly unwilling to discuss the matter, and with evident
relief took Willett's arm when the musicians presently were heard tuning
up at the hop-room.
But it was noticed then how flushed and excited she looked, how quickly
she seemed to tire of the dance and went out on the veranda for cooler
air, and presently they were missed and were gone from the room the rest
of the evening, so that the hop broke up early, and the anxious women
hurrying homeward were incensed to find her in a dark, vine-covered
corner of the veranda of the quarters, Willett in close attendance. "I
didn't feel like dancing," was her sole explanation. "I begged Mr.
Willett to go back to you, but he wouldn't." And Burtis, later, had to
shout angrily for him before he could get him into the wagon and off for
town.
She slept that night in the room adjoining Mrs. Flight's, and slept but
little, said that lady later. She seemed ablaze with nervous excitement
and utterly unlike her usual self,--placid and satisfied except when
subjected to reproof. She had gone thither right after the departure of
the men and shut her would-be mentor out. Mrs. Flight afterwards
declared she saw the coming catastrophe and was determined to avert it
if a possible thing, but Mira said she had a dreadful headache and
wouldn't talk. Mrs. Flight, considering that she had a duty to perform,
began, however, from outside. The result was a quarrel and Mira's
announcement from behind the door that she would not speak to Mrs.
Flight again. When Wednesday came she refused to leave her room. It had
been arranged that three of the ladies were to drive to town with the
sole cavalier left at the post, a lieutenant of the Fortieth, and Mira
was one of them, but they supposed she had abandoned the plan. To the
surprise of everybody she appeared, satchel in hand, arrayed in sober
travelling garb, and asked the driver of the ambulance to help their
servant bring out her trunk, and took her seat in the Concord while it
was being tossed into the boot. It was Mrs. Darling who ventured to ask
what it meant, and Mira calmly explained. She had determined to go and
meet her husband in Omaha. They were amazed, yet what could they do or
say? It was after luncheon-time and she merely urged that they should
drive rapidly so as to get her to the bank before it closed, and then
she left them, saying she would remain at the hotel at the station until
her train arrived. It was due soon after midnight.
Before returning to the post the others, Mrs. Darling and Mrs. Plodder,
called upon Mira at the hotel, for they were oppressed with strange
fears. They strove to remonstrate with her, pointed out that Mr. Davies
would be with her in three days. Mira said it might not be for a week.
Well, wasn't it unusual for a lady to be going alone? Not at all. She
would sleep all the evening in her room, and the landlord would place
her in charge of the conductor. Surely Mrs. Plodder had come from Omaha
alone. That was different, said Mrs. Plodder, in rueful recognition of
the fact that a plain woman is exempted from annoyances which a beauty
has to suffer, yet would suffer indefinitely rather than be plain. "But,
_dear_ Mrs. Davies, is it not very expensive?" said Mrs. Darling. "Not
when I have passes all the way to Chicago," said Mira. So they had to
return to the fort at dusk, though Mrs. Plodder did suggest staying all
night and seeing her off. They had not set eyes on Willett. They both
entertained, though neither expressed, a hope that he was not to be of
the party. They asked for Willett casually when they met Mr. Burtis.
Burtis said with perfect truth that he was out at the ranch, that he had
hoped to be here to meet the ladies, but was called out by urgent
business.
It was dark, and they were tired, hungry, and worried when they got back
to the post, and the lieutenant on escort found the ladies strangely
preoccupied and silent. The first thing on reaching home was to go in
search of the chaplain. As a devoted friend of Mr. Davies he should be
informed of this odd freak of Mira's, and, if there were any grounds for
their fears, there was still time to avert what would bring such awful
scandal about their social circle. They assumed that they were coming
back with sensational news, forgetful of the fact that garrison servants
helped pack Mira's trunk, and garrison eyes had seen it start with her
for town. The chaplain's wife knew all about it before two o'clock, and
the chaplain would have known it, too, had he not been long miles away
at the death-bed of an old soldier turned cow-boy. Not until after the
east-bound train was whistling far down the valley and the dawn was in
the sky did an inkling reach him. Somebody said he thought the least Mr.
Willett could have done was to come over and see how his best "puncher"
was getting on, and somebody else replied, in low tone, that any one
could see Willett had no thoughts for anything or anybody outside of
Fort Scott, whereupon somebody Number 1 replied that Willett had been at
his "shack" most of the afternoon, packing some things and burning
others, and had taken the midnight train at Duncan Switch, ten miles
west of Braska.
And even while the news of his going was bringing strange comfort to the
good old man, who rejoiced that this wolf in the sheepfold was even
temporarily out of the way, there came a messenger from the distant post
and a packet was handed in for him. Some letters and a note from his
wife.
"Expecting you home during the evening, I did not send these, but they
may be important. Mrs. Davies suddenly made up her mind to go to Omaha
this afternoon, and was to take the night train at Braska." Here the
other letters dropped to the floor, and the reader's eyes filled with
sudden consternation and dismay. Not until his ambulance had been
hitched and brought to the door did he cease his restless pacing to and
fro. Kneeling a brief moment at the bedside of the unconscious and
fast-failing sufferer, he bade his fellows hurried adieu and drove with
speed to town, a long eight miles. It was then broad daylight, but he
stirred up the sleepy telegraph operator and asked about wiring after
the train. "Grand Island's the place to catch 'em," said the operator.
"They breakfast there at seven." And the chaplain flushed and glanced
keenly at the man. Why should he speak of catching anybody or anything?
Was all the valley already aware of this shameful flight? The hotel
stood not a stone's throw away. There must be no unnecessary scandal
about this business. He needed to see the proprietor, and roused him,
too. Boniface came down anything but smiling, yet thawed a trifle at
sight of the man whom all Nebraska seemed to know and swear by.
Certainly, Mrs. Davies spent the evening at the hotel in her room, and
he put her aboard the sleeper at 12.20, the moment the train came in. He
had wired to Pawnee and secured her section and checked her trunk to
Omaha. She had her tickets, she said. Was Mr. Davies aboard or--anybody
else to meet her? Not that the landlord knew of. The porter showed her
in and said her section was ready. Everybody else was sound asleep,
apparently, but there were some soldiers in the forward cars. Some of
them got out and had a cup of coffee at the stand, and "piled aboard as
she pulled out." They had a prisoner, a deserter, in manacles. Then the
chaplain wired to Duncan Switch, and the answer came that Mr. Willett
left there, bound for Omaha, at midnight, and then he wired the
conductor of the train at Grand Island, and later to Leonard at Omaha,
then sat him down to wait and watch and pray.
The sleeping-car, said the conductor afterwards, was fuller than usual
that night. Some officers got aboard at Rock Springs, and sat up quite
late, chatting with others who had boarded them at Butte and Pawnee.
There were five officers in all. One of them, who had not taken a berth,
went forward about ten o'clock and made a "roost" in the day car. The
conductor heard the others talking about it, and how the lieutenant
would never spend an unnecessary cent, and some of them thought he was
foolish, and others said he was right, and they respected him for it.
These gentlemen slept late, saying they would rather breakfast after
they got to Omaha. The lady who came aboard at Braska was the first one
up in the morning. She was astir with the sun, and came back from the
dressing-room as soon as the porter had made up her section, looking as
fresh and fair as the day. Presently a gentleman joined her,--a man he
had often seen on the road,--who travelled, as most cattlemen did in
those days, with a pass, and who boarded them at Duncan Switch, and went
at once to his berth. He seemed very much surprised to meet the lady,
but sat down and talked with her until we whistled for Grand Island, and
there, said the conductor, "as I bustled off the train, the operator
handed me a despatch just at same minute that the brakeman came to tell
me we had a cracked wheel on the smoker. One look at the wheel told me
that the car must be left behind, so I ordered out the passengers while
another car was being put on."
But the telegram took more than one look. It puzzled him, said the
conductor. It was sent by the chaplain, a man he knew well, and in brief
words it said, "The lady in Section 7 is the wife of Lieutenant Davies,
Eleventh Cavalry. She needs escort to Omaha, where Lieutenant Leonard
will meet her. If any army officer is aboard, show him this and
introduce him. She should not leave the train."
"Now, there were officers on the car, but they were not yet up,"
continued the official. "Of course I supposed at once that she must be
out of her mind, and that was the trouble. Just at that moment I caught
sight of the young lieutenant who had spent the night in the forward
car. He was a tall, slender fellow, with thick, close-cropped brown
beard and clear blue eyes, and he had got that poor devil of a prisoner
and his guard together, and was fetching them back along the track to
the coffee-stand that happened to be right opposite where the sleeper
stopped. 'Will you read this, and see if you know what to make of it?'
said I, handing him the despatch, and then, as he stopped to read, my
brakeman asked me some question, and I turned around to answer, and
there, just stepping off the Pullman, was Mr. Willett, looking back and
giving his hand to the lady herself. The handcuffed prisoner was just
opposite them at the moment, between two soldiers, and then the next
thing I knew I heard an awful scream, and the lady had covered her face
with her hands and fallen back on the steps, right at the feet of an
officer who was just coming out, and the prisoner thought he saw a
chance, perhaps, and gave a spring and dove like a rat under the car,
the guard clumsily following, and Mr. Willett stared about him one
instant, with a face that turned the color of chalk, then he too gave a
sort of stifled exclamation, 'My God!' and sprang up the steps and over
the platform of the day-car and was out of sight in the flash of an eye.
We heard shouts of 'Halt, halt, or we fire!' from the guards on the
other side of the car, and then two quick shots a little distance away,
and another wail or cry from the lady, and then I felt some one brush by
me, and the lieutenant sprang to her side, lifted her in his arms as he
reached the steps, and carried her, without a word, into the car by an
open window, where she cowered and sobbed and shivered and moaned, and
he all the time bending over and striving to soothe and calm her."
But when that train drew up at the station at Omaha an ambulance
received the bleeding, pain-distorted form of the prisoner Howard, shot
through the leg in his mad effort to escape. Leonard and Truman,
scanning every face as the passengers stepped off the cars, waved their
hands in greeting to the knot of officers on the sleeper platform, and
Leonard sprang aboard, inquiry in his snapping black eyes. They made way
silently for him to enter, and then he knew not whether to believe his
senses.
"Leonard," said Davies, quietly, "my wife came on to surprise me at
Omaha, not expecting me this way. I supposed she'd already come in with
the Cranstons. She was hardly well enough for the journey. Will you
kindly order a carriage?"
She was driven away in the very dust of the ambulance that was trundling
one poor wounded fellow to hospital, the conductor lamenting that a
woman so young and lovely should be thus afflicted. No one else aboard
that train could dream from Davies's words or manner that any other
explanation for her coming existed than that she was simply hastening to
Omaha to meet him.
But no claimant appeared for the handsome leather bag and hat-box and
umbrella left in Section 10.
A few days later when the witnesses were scattering back to their
stations, or going on brief leaves of absence before so doing, Cranston
took his soldierly-looking corporal, the recruit of the previous year,
to gladden the eyes of the mother so eagerly awaiting him in Chicago;
but before starting they had been summoned to the hospital where Howard
lay, where "Brannan" formally, though still with sorrow and reluctance,
identified him as Powlett. Leonard was there with the leather
writing-case and its contents, at sight of which Brannan's last barrier
of compunction fell, and Davies stood by the bedside, looking pale,
haggard, and ten years older, and Colonel Rand, the inspector of the
department, and another sad-faced fellow, Langston. And Archer was
there, and Hastings, when Sergeant Haney's formal confession was read.
There was little sensation over it. Everybody seemed to know just about
what it would be. He said nothing to directly accuse Captain Devers of
conspiracy, but Haney had been his first sergeant for five years, and
the devious ways of his troop commander had necessitated the existence
of a right bower who could swear straight and strong to what the captain
thought should be established. They got to know each other thoroughly,
and each lived in mortal dread of some betrayal on the other's part.
There was a squad of six or eight men in the troop which practically
"ran things," and Haney was its head. For years these men had triumphed
over all efforts to break their line, just as Devers had baffled those
which would have cornered him, but they could see plainly that the
captain was nearing the end of his "tether," and his downfall meant
theirs. The catastrophe of Antelope Springs brought matters to a climax.
Half the men in the troop heard Major Warren's orders to Devers, and all
knew he had slighted if not disobeyed them. This, if proved, meant ruin
to the ring, and the plan to shift the blame on Davies's shoulders,--to
make the investigating officer believe the troop had marched right down
along the ridge within supporting distance, and that Davies had become
terror-stricken and had hidden instead of instantly communicating with
his captain, was the result. Devers, indeed, boldly announced that as
his theory and explanation of the whole affair, and Haney, Finucane,
Boyd, and the intelligent Howard were there ready to swear to it and
save the captain the trouble. So long as Davies and McGrath never turned
up to combat the accusation all would go well. The captain didn't tell
them in so many words they must swear to the ridge trail as the one they
pursued the evening of the tragedy, but he did not oppose it. He asked
them for their recollection of the matter and made his map, as did Mr.
Archer his report, accordingly.
Then when it was found that Recruit Brannan as well as certain old hands
resented the idea of Mr. Davies being held accountable, they had to
muzzle him. Brannan declared he would warn the lieutenant the moment he
returned to the troop, so they made up their minds that he must be
discredited, if not ruined. Howard said that there was in his
writing-case a sealed packet that contained evidence that would send him
to State's prison and "kill" him in the lieutenant's eyes; and this,
indeed, was no idle threat, for Powlett, fearing detection if he either
sold or kept the watch he had torn from Davies's pocket after the
cowardly assault, had sealed it in one package and tied Mira's gushing
letters in another, and long before had induced the unsuspecting boy to
promise to keep and guard them for him as a sacred trust. Only as a last
resort, said Haney, were they to exhibit the proofs of Brannan's
apparent criminality. Meantime, by sending him to the agency or tempting
him with liquor they hoped to keep him harmless.
But Howard soon began striking for leadership. He held the secrets of
his captain and two of his sergeants and was safely out of the troubles
that involved him at home. (He had been wise enough to confide these to
no one and to make poor Brannan swear to preserve his secret.) He was
beginning to hear from relations and receive money from them. He began
to put on airs over everybody, captain and all, and though Haney hated,
and was jealous of his influence, he dared not offend him. They knew it
was he who was seen prowling about Davies's quarters, but they could not
account for it, and strove to make it appear that Brannan was the
culprit. And then he began "sparking" Robideau's daughter in town, and
had become moody, nervous, excitable; talked about mysterious spies and
trailers, and then, suddenly and unaccountably, deserted after a spree
in Braska that had cost him much money,--after a mad scrape in which he
had terrified Mrs. Davies and thrashed Mr. Willett. Who he was or what
he was Sergeant Haney didn't know, but that he was a villain with a
history and a capacity for further devilment was certain. Haney had
still more to tell. The captain had sent for him and told him of the
adjutant's being in conference with the chaplain and Mr. Davies, and he
felt sure it was about the Antelope Springs matter. He was sure they had
his map, the one on which Archer based his report, and that this would
some day be brought up in evidence against him. It was locked for the
night in the second drawer of the adjutant's desk, said he, and Haney
understood. The drawer was chiselled that night and the map and papers
taken, but not until the robbery was known all over the post did the
captain see the map and see that it wasn't his original at all, but
simply a copy. Except for information obtained in the memoranda, they
had robbed the desk to no purpose.
Howard was gone before this, but there was Brannan's writing-case in
Haney's possession, why not throw further suspicion upon him? and so
there were the papers hidden in the hopes of further damning him should
he ever appear as a witness against them. For all this and much more the
poor dying sinner craved forgiveness, and, hearing promptly of the
confession, through Finucane, who had fled with horse, equipments, and
everything, Howard, in hiding and in want at Butte, wired to his
captain, hoping to extract more money, for Devers had been a thrifty,
and was regarded a wealthy, man.
And then when this confession had been made known to the wounded
sufferer the chaplain spoke. "You see the case that is building up
against you, Powlett, and just as soon as you are able to sit or stand
the court will meet for your trial. You have assault with intent to
kill, at Bluff Siding if not at Urbana, highway robbery, theft,
desertion, conspiracy, and kindred crimes to answer for; would it not be
infinitely better that you should confess fully and at once? Even the
men whom you have so bitterly wronged join in no clamor against--they
would even spare--you."
But Powlett was a villain game, and answered only with a sneer. It was
that packet of Mira's letters handed to Davies with his father's watch
that supplemented Brannan's story and told him all. Mira could not live
without adorers, could not resist the longing to flaunt her victims in
the faces of other girls, and Powlett was a conquest indeed until his
rascality at the institute became known. Then he had to flee, but such
was his infatuation that he returned in hopes of seeing her. She did
meet him in secret, for it was sweet to see his despair. She refused to
meet him again, however, and then he charged her with faithlessness and
demanded to be told the truth about Davies. If that fellow reappeared as
her lover he swore to kill him, and then she bade him go and never see
her more, with the result already known. And at Bluff Siding in the
crowd and confusion he might have killed Davies but for Brannan's
watchful eye and warding hand. That was the last pound that broke the
back of Brannan's feeling of friendship and gratitude. He would no more
of Powlett, yet remained true to his pledge of secrecy. Mira's dream of
joy and triumph as an army bride met its first rude shock when, under
her window at Scott, she heard stealthy footsteps and the soft, low
whistling of a familiar air, the signal with which he used to summon her
to their trysting-place at home. The mad fool thought either to recover
his ascendency over her or revenge himself by tormenting, and then, when
her husband was sent to the agency and he saw opportunity of meeting and
terrorizing her, he was infuriated with new jealousy by her flirtation
with Willett. Even there at Scott he must have written and made further
threats, for the freshest and newest of the precious collection of her
letters found in "Brannan's" case referred to something of the kind.
Driven to desperation, she wrote that she would expose him to her
husband and Captain Cranston if he again presumed to address her, and
finally wrote this last:
"My husband will be here within forty-eight hours and I have fully
resolved to confess all to him: that you, who made the cowardly assault
and left him for dead at Urbana, and have been guilty of such abominable
crimes, are here, in this garrison, a soldier in his troop. If you
remain it is at your peril. On my knees I swear it." And with this
melodramatic conclusion Mira had really frightened him. He had sense
enough to know that, with all the other complications in which he was
involved, this exposure was more than he could stand. He made other
efforts to see and plead with her, but they were fruitless, and his own
melodramatic _coup_,--his last appearance, as he supposed, before her
eyes, then followed. After that, desertion.
Davies read but two of these missives, the first and the last. He
restored them to her without a word. She was lying in the seclusion of
her shaded room at the hotel when he returned from the hospital, the
chaplain with him. They spoke few words together on the way, and parted
on the corridor, near her door, for there Davies turned and faced his
friend.
"And you must go back to Scott to-night, sir?"
"Yes." The chaplain was still grasping his hand and looking into the
sad, stern face with anxiety and tenderness and unspoken longing in his
eyes. "I will see to all you have charged me with." He placed his other
hand upon the broad shoulder before him. "My son, though I never met, I
knew, your father, and that told me what to look for in you." And now
the rich, deep voice was tremulous, and the kind old eyes were dim with
unshed tears. "The hand of the Lord has been laid in heaviness upon you,
but 'those whom He loveth He chasteneth.' Even could I lift the burden
of your sorrow as easily as I raise this hand, I should falter, because,
as I believe in God, so do I believe that through trial even such as
this your light shall yet shine before men so pure and strong that men
themselves shall be purer and stronger because of it."
There was a moment's pause. Davies stood with bowed head. Cranston,
coming into the hall-way, stopped at sight of them and tiptoed back,
motioning to others to wait. Then the chaplain spoke again,--
"You will write--as soon as--you have decided?"
"I have decided," was the low, calm answer.
"And----?"
"Yes, we go to-night. She is not too ill to move, and once at Urbana--no
one need know."
"Do you mean----?" began the chaplain.
"I mean," said Davies, looking calmly and with dry, tired eyes into the
chaplain's face, "that she is utterly alone in the world,--homeless,
friendless. Who knows but that her story may be true, despite
indications? What would be her fate if I were to fail her now? It was
'for better, for worse,' chaplain. I have tried to do my duty in the
past. God help me to do it to the end."
The tears were running down the old clergyman's face when, around the
corner, he came suddenly on Cranston and his friends, and they seemed to
understand.
* * * * *
There was a new post commander at Scott when the first snows fell that
winter, for honest Pegleg had retired and Leonard had a colonel after
his own heart, and the Fortieth sang songs of praise when the campaign
was over, and moved into quarters and renewed acquaintances with their
families and "assurances" with the Eleventh when they happened to meet
along the Union Pacific, and said they sorely missed them at the post,
as probably they did, but the Eleventh didn't care to go back. It was
too near civilization, said Truman. Tintop had his warriors under his
own wing after the close of the fighting season, and they were having
grand times at Ransom. There this winter were most of the familiar names
and faces. The Cranstons, Trumans, and Hays, Boynton, Hastings, and
Sanders, battle-scarred heroes, most of them, and dozens of others in
the congenial circle; but Margaret Cranston sorely missed her boys, who
were big enough now to be at school, and far too big to be staying
around garrison. She missed, too, their fair teacher and her friend, but
Agatha Loomis firmly told her she had decided not to return to the
frontier now that she no longer had her pupils. To the unspeakable
indignation and grief of her cousin, she had chosen what Margaret termed
"a life of drudgery" as a teacher in Mrs. Forester's seminary for young
ladies, only a few miles out of Chicago. Even there had Langston
followed, but in vain. That, however, was a subject on which Margaret
had promised to dilate no more. She had done her best, she said, for
Agatha. She had striven to aid and abet this distinguished and worthy
gentleman in his suit. She thought the difference of some twenty-five
years between his age and her cousin's a feeble consideration as against
his sterling worth and wealth. Agatha owned that she respected and
esteemed him highly,--looked up to him, in fact,--but as a maid of
twenty looks up to the man of forty-five. She did not love and therefore
would not marry him. The whole regiment seemed to feel for him, but he
came to them no more. He was East again, and seeking resignation in the
one safe solace, hard and constant work.
But the Davieses, where were they? Time and again was that question
asked. He hurried back for the grand chase they had in September when
Chief Joseph made his memorable rush cross continent. He left Mira at
Urbana installed in lodgings near her father's home. He went back to her
in December when the troops returned, and then came orders announcing
that Lieutenant Percy Davies, Eleventh Cavalry, was detailed on
temporary duty at division head-quarters. It was at this time that Aunt
Almira urgently offered him and her pretty niece, his wife, the
hospitality of her home, begging that he, her boy's friend and
fellow-soldier and admiration, should bring her and be their guest in
Chicago as long as they could possibly stay, and Aunt Almira was amazed
at the refusal, grateful, gentle, courteous though it was in every way.
Mira, junior, had been devoted to society when there before, was it
possible she had so soon tired of it all? Davies had some topographical
work to do, it soon transpired, for the lieutenant-general wanted
certain maps made of the Bad Lands traversed during the campaigns of the
two years, and the Gray Fox recommended the silent, observant young
graduate, whose field-notes had proved so accurate and complete. Not
oftener than once a week did Davies go in to consult the chief engineer
at head-quarters. The work he did in quiet at Urbana, and it might
detain him several months. Aunt Almira thought it really strange that he
could succeed in it at all. She was sure that the descriptions her boy
had given of the Bad Lands were so vividly accurate that he must know
them even better than did her nephew-in-law, the lieutenant. She asked
her husband if it did not seem almost as though Davies might be afraid
to have her lambkin take any part in it lest it should rob the officer
of the credit, but that hard-headed old railway-man thought not. He
shared her gratification in the wonderfully improved appearance of the
boy, and secretly marvelled at his apparent reformation. He had several
talks with him, gave her for him abundant money, so that on his home
visit he might dress as became his mother's son and enjoy himself like a
gentleman. He expected him to turn up speedily somewhere on a tremendous
drunk, and was rejoiced and surprised that he did not. Aunt Almira had
planned a grand dinner to which should be bidden the general and staff,
the Cranstons and others, all in honor of the home-coming of their
fellow-soldier, her son, and was utterly bewildered and crestfallen when
the latter laughingly told her to go ahead with the dinner, but count
him out; corporals didn't dine with their generals and captains, despite
the teachings of the modern military drama. The mother indignantly
protested. The son was firm. If her boy, said she, wasn't good enough to
sit at table with the President of the United States then she wasn't. If
that was the result of his joining the cavalry, the sooner he resigned
and quit the better, and then he saw the indignant tears and teased no
more, but took her in his arms and soothed and strove to explain. Soothe
he could, but explain he could not. She gave up the dinner until after
he had gone back to his regiment, for go he would, as he meant to be a
sergeant inside of two years, and when she found that the sole
difference between sergeant and corporal in our blessedly democratic
service was simply half an inch or so more of stripe on his trousers,
and brought him no nearer the commission and little farther from the
rank and file, she marvelled that the Department of War could be so
slow to appreciate a soldier ready to do so much for so little. Go back
to "C" Troop he would and did, and was proud of it, and her husband
comforted her by saying "Bran" was a man at last.
But if the Eleventh heard but little of the Davieses for a time, they
had abundant news of Devers, and much comfort did he seem to find in
sending to them stacks of local papers, and in writing long,
argumentative letters in which he sought to convince his readers that he
was a wronged and injured man. When Trooper Howard came up for the trial
which resulted in his going in irons for a five years' tour in prison,
an effort was made to get Devers before the court as a witness, and a
_subpoena duces tecum_ was duly served upon him in his far distant
home within sight of the sounding sea, but it did not fetch him. Devers
explained that as a civilian he had no interest in the proceedings and
could not be required to obey the mandate of a purely military court, a
view in which the judiciary of the great republic, ever steadfast in the
principle that military must be subservient to the civil power,
virtually sustained him. It was perfectly competent for a court-martial
to summon a civilian witness, said the bench, but it had no recourse in
case the civilian treated both court and summons with contempt, and
Devers's fellow-citizens in the far East, headed by the editor of the
_Mooselemeguntic Mirror_, congratulated their returned hero on the
spirited and just rebuke he had administered to a satrapy which should
have no place among an enlightened people. Indeed, the _Mirror's_
interviews and editorials were both full of brilliant mendacity just
now. Devers's story was in every issue, more or less of it, and West
Point jealousy was the theme of many a paragraphic fling. Brilliant,
daring, conspicuous as had been Devers's services during the civil war
and on the wild frontier, he had never succeeded in winning recognition,
owing to the persistent calumnies of his seniors, who, graduates of the
great national charity school on the Hudson, were leagued to down any
man whose ability, dash, and daring made him the object of their narrow
jealousy and the victim of their inordinate greed. After years of
patient service, loyal and dutiful, their distinguished fellow-citizen,
said the _Mirror_, had been relieved from his command on trumped-up
charges, and, though he pleaded hard to be allowed to go with them in
any capacity, even as an humble trooper in the ranks, his company took
the field on the late campaign without him, and, deprived of the
services of their beloved captain, met with grievous and irreparable
disaster. Even then his enemies were not silenced. The faithful soldiers
who clamored for the restoration of their captain were driven to death
or desertion. He himself begged to be confronted with his accusers, but
met denial, delay, and deceit at every hand. One pretext after another
was resorted to in postponing the meeting of the court, and at last,
worn out with long struggle against prejudice, injustice, and organized
enmity, he had thrown up his commission in a thankless service and
returned to the welcoming arms of his fellow-citizens. The _Mirror_, in
which Devers had a controlling interest, inquired whether the time had
not come for the recall of the amiable fossil then misrepresenting the
district in Congress, and the unanimous election of Colonel Devers as
his successor. The governor, needing the support of the _Mirror_ in a
coming campaign, gladly availed himself of the opportunity of rewarding
a war-tried veteran, and named the returning soldier an aide-de-camp
with the rank of colonel on his staff, and humble subalterns of
artillery from the two-battery post at the entrance of Mooselemeguntic
Bay looked with awe upon the future military committeeman of the --th
Congress, yet were charmed with his affability at the governor's ball,
where his new uniform fitted him better than did those of his associate
aides, and where the artillerymen heard things confirmatory of their
convictions that their comrades of the cavalry really had no idea how to
fight Indians. Devers was on the high-road to fame and Congress, and
might indeed have made successful run had the election occurred within
four months after his return, but four months was too long for him to
live without differing, and little by little the _Mirror_ became dimmed
and Devers's image faded out of public sight.
Only once did it revive, and that was when, several years after, all on
a sudden there appeared in the columns of the army paper notice that a
bill had been introduced in Congress providing for the restoration to
the army, with the rank he would have held had he remained continuously
in the cavalry service, of Jared B. Devers, formerly captain Eleventh
Cavalry, who had tendered his resignation some years before owing to
disagreements with certain officers representing the West Point element,
which was hostile to him, and friends in Washington warned the Eleventh
that old Differs had strong political backing.
And then did the Eleventh arise in its wrath. Good old Tintop had been
gathered to his fathers by that time. Riggs was rusting out of active
service, Pegleg was buried and Mrs. Pegleg was married again,--a
lieutenant this time; but there was no lack of men to remember how he
had managed by political influence at Washington to secure the
acceptance of his resignation the moment he saw how surely, if brought
to trial, the case would go against him, and the Eleventh published a
memorial, signed by almost every surviving officer who was with it in
the old days. The bill if passed would make Devers a major well up on
the list, for Warren was now lieutenant-colonel of the --th, Truman
major of the Fourth, Cranston senior captain, Boynton and Hastings were
junior troop commanders, Sanders a senior first and regimental
quartermaster. All these and other names appeared attached to the
remonstrance, and that bill was never even reported in committee. It was
learned that in the course of some years of differing with his business
associates, the gentle Devers, though still a colonel on his native
heath, had nearly wrecked the "Mirror" and his fortune with it, and so
bethought him of this scheme of restoration to the army. Leonard was by
this time an assistant adjutant-general, and prompt to act. There was a
jubilee at Ransom the evening after his despatch was received reporting
arrival of the regimental protest and the remarks thereon by members of
the military committee. The officers gathered in the club-room and drank
long life to Leonard and confusion to Devers, and then little Sanders
tuned up his guitar and sang. He was just back from leave, and a
popular lyric of the day was one they called "The Accent On," for the
last line of every verse was "with the accent on" some syllable of the
last word of the previous line. There was nothing especially poetic or
refined about the composition, but the newspapers were ringing the
changes on it. A popular comedian had sung and made much of it, and its
composer had presumably made something if not much out of it, and
Sanders was sure of laughter and applause when he sang it at the
"stags." One verse was of a man who came home in a maudlin state and his
wife remarked, "Well, you are beautiful. With the accent on the full."
Another was of a man who wanted unlimited credit at a bar and was told,
"I like not your arithmetic. With the accent on the tick." All very poor
literature, perhaps, but it amused, and this night after singing three
verses of the old song, Sanders "turned loose" on a verse of his own
which, when heard, the mess applauded and chorused to the echo, and
broke up singing again and again Sanders's telling hit in the last line:
We had a cap in our corps
Who left us years ago,
Who never said a manly word
Nor struck a manly blow.
He never faced when he could dodge,
He only spoke to slur,
And now he is a colonel,
But the accent's on the cur.
And that was Devers's requiem in the Eleventh Horse as well as in the
house of Congress. He never vexed them more.
One of the old names was lacking on the list that accompanied the
remonstrance,--that of the man of whom, nearly a decade before, Devers
"only spoke to slur." Lieutenant Davies would not sign. He was with the
regiment too, but, just as of old, eschewed the club-room and all
gatherings of the kind. They had taken the paper to him and he read,
pondered, and said no. Gray it was, now captain of "I" Troop, with which
Davies was on duty as first lieutenant, who draughted the paper, and
confidently presented it to his subaltern. "Why not?" said he, in
surprise. "No man ever did more to injure you except perhaps----" And
here Gray broke off short in sudden confusion.
"Perhaps that is why I prefer not to be quoted against him," said
Davies, quietly. And mentally kicking himself, as he expressed it, for
making such a "break" as in his bungling half allusion to the exception,
Gray hastened away to tell of it. His story came to unsympathetic ears.
"In my opinion," said Sanders, "if you mean that other fellow, he didn't
injure Parson half as much as he hurt himself."
That, too, was an old story in the Eleventh by this time. Six long
months was Davies absent from the regiment on his map-work at division
head-quarters. Then came the customary call to the field for another
season of scouting and campaigning, and he rejoined his troop, somewhat
pallid and graver looking, the result probably of long days of toil over
his drawing board. He was only a few hours at Ransom before they
marched, but the ladies wanted to know all about Mrs. Davies and what
she was to do in his absence. Mrs. Davies would remain at Urbana, said
he, where her father and sister dwelt, and those were indeed his
injunctions to her, and for a month after his departure she observed
them, then repaired to Chicago and Aunt Almira's roof. Davies by this
time was with his troop scouting near Yellowstone Park, far beyond reach
of telegrams or letters. Society was unusually gay that summer. There
was dancing, boating, dining, summer resorting, and one of the loveliest
of summer resorts within an hour's run of the great city was Forest
Glen, the seat of the famous seminary where Agatha Loomis was enjoying
the quiet of her vacation, and one night, strolling with Mrs. Forrester
over to the hotel to watch the dancers and hear the lovely music, she
came face to face in the soft moonlight with a couple so absorbed in
their conversation that not until they were actually brushing by did
they look up, and even Mrs. Forrester saw the sudden confusion and
dismay in their faces. The man turned white and made a hurried movement
as though to lift his hat. The woman flushed, almost angrily. Miss
Loomis bowed calmly and coldly and passed on without a word.
The next day, however, she called at the Glen House, where the two
Almiras, aunt and niece, were spending the week, and asked for Mrs.
Percy Davies. Mrs. Davies was out. Miss Loomis wrote a few words in
pencil, slipped them into an envelope, sent that up, and the next day
called again, and Mrs. Davies begged to be excused. Miss Loomis sadly
went home, penned a long letter to Mrs. Davies, and on the following
morning sent it. In half an hour her messenger and note returned. Mrs.
Davies had left for home that morning. Urbana was not far away, and two
days later Miss Loomis was there inquiring for Mrs. Davies on her native
heath. She had not returned. She was visiting her aunt at Forest Glen,
and then Agatha knew she had come too late. She had striven to prove to
the poor empty-headed, empty-hearted girl that she had at least one
friend. She had hoped to plead, to point out the right, and, if
possible, save her from herself and the impending step, but all to no
purpose. Two years later, among the papers of her unhappy boy, a
sorrowing mother found two little notes written, like Beatrix Esmond's,
to lure her lover on. One was dated Fort Scott in the summer of '77. "We
are desolate again with all our soldiers in the field, but we pray for
happier days. Have you no new waltz music for us?" And this reached him
at the sea-shore. The second was posted on the railway and addressed to
his club in New York. "I am even more desolate than last year. Shall I
never hear from you again?" It contained a self-addressed envelope. And
that was why her boy postponed until later in the summer the voyage his
physician had advised, and why he lived apart from friends and kindred,
in Paris most of the time, until the death of his wretched companion
within a year of their flight. Then Langston, at his mother's prayer,
went over and fetched him home. It had been a year soon given over to
recrimination, bitter reproaches, and frequent and increasing
estrangement. Willett was but the moody wreck of his old self when
restored to the one faithful friend who clung to him as only mothers
will, in spite of all.
The Eleventh was a thousand miles or so away the summer of poor Mira's
final escapade, and not until she was across the sea did the news reach
her husband. She wrote a few words of farewell such as would be expected
of her. "You never loved me," she said, "never understood me, and in
every way I was made to feel that I was only a burden, only a doll. You
have mured me here in prison, where I have no soul to sympathize with
me, and I can bear it no longer. You will not miss me. Indeed, I know
too well how soon you will find solace, and where. Henceforth I dedicate
my life to one who adores me, whose soul responds to every thought of
mine. Adieu."
It was predicted about this time that Davies would resign, shoot
Willett, or study for the ministry. Many men thought that he bore his
wrongs so meekly that he had mistaken his calling. One man, a sergeant,
said as much in Corporal Brannan's presence, and the result was a scene
that called for the intervention of the guard and the adjudication of a
court-martial. Brannan lost his chevrons, but gained an enthusiastic
friend and champion in Cranston, who sifted out the cause of the
fight,--a matter scrupulously hidden from the court. Brannan went into
the Ute campaign the following year a sergeant, and out of the army with
an Indian bullet through his arm and into his chest, where the doctors
couldn't find it. Little by little the doting mother at home began to
learn how very far away that longed-for commission might be. Her boy
himself flouted the idea. "I haven't the education," he said, "and would
be ill at ease and out of place among them." And so the magnate was
steadily importuned, and when at last the young fellow came home after
the Milk River campaign, and generals like Sheridan and Crook praised
his pluck and devotion, and the doctors said he simply couldn't go back
to service, they got him his discharge,--a medal of honor came
later,--and presently in the long list of railway officials of the Q. R.
and X. appeared his name as assistant general passenger agent, and for a
couple of years the way that great corporation dealt out passes to the
army was a matter that finally came up at directors' meeting and led to
a preliminary to the Interstate Commerce Law of '87, and a restriction
of the powers of the assistant. But there was no longer any hitch in the
maternal schemes for elaborate dinners to generals and staff. They
enjoyed meeting "the sergeant," as he rejoiced in being called, as much
as he could wish, and if they did not quite look upon him as she did, as
the central figure, the one Prince Paramount of the late campaign, there
was at least warmth and cordiality and comradeship enough to gratify
even a mother's heart.
But the Parson did not resign. He was away from the regiment again a
long month after Mira's flight, and again after her death, returning
suddenly on each occasion because of the imminence of Indian hostilities
which for a time seemed breaking out in new spots with every spring.
Between Cranston and himself there was ever the same firm and steadfast
friendship. He sought no intimacies anywhere, but in the same calm,
grave, consistent way he went about his duties in garrison, waking up to
something like enthusiasm or excitement only when "on the trail." For
three years after his brief absence in the summer of '79 he never left
his troop a day. A wonderfully good drill officer was the Parson, with a
powerful, ringing voice. "Make a splendid exhorter," said some of the
boys. He was an accurate tactician, too, and a man who had the faculty
of getting admirable results out of his command "without ever a cuss
word," said Truman, a thing which that old-time troop leader could not
understand. Davies lived hours in the open air, but read and studied
much. Popular he was not, and never cared to be; but, honored and
respected by one and all and loved by little children, he went his
earnest way, and little by little Margaret Cranston found herself
leaning more and more upon his opinions as to the pursuits and studies
of her boys, and would sit with her needle-work listening to the long
discussions between him and her husband, who read not much outside the
papers, and presently it got to be the established thing for the Parson
to read aloud to them when he came, and though Wilbur scandalized her by
going to sleep and snoring on two occasions, he soon began to wake up
and talk and discuss, and others, dropping in, either stayed to take
part in Cranston's impromptu lyceum or took their chatter elsewhere. The
second and third winters at old Laramie were some of the loveliest, said
Margaret afterwards, she ever knew, and Mr. Davies had become one of
themselves. His promotion to "I" Troop and transfer to a different post
was nothing short of a domestic calamity.
But not until that promotion and transfer occurred--though who shall say
there was significance in the fact?--was Mrs. Cranston able to induce
Miss Loomis to visit the frontier again. They were together all the
summer of '81, at the sea-shore with the boys, while Captain Cranston
and Davies and others were scorching on the plains, and Miss Loomis
evidently needed rest and salt air and water. The next winter she gave
up her duties at the seminary and joined the Cranstons on a trip down
the Mississippi, eventually returning with her cousin to Wyoming, for
her health seemed to have suffered from the long confinement at the
school. Bob Gray, with "I" Troop, was away up at Fort McKinney then, but
an important court met at the old station down on the Platte, and, as
luck would have it, Lieutenant Davies was sent in as judge-advocate.
Just why Mrs. Cranston should have made no mention to Miss Loomis of his
coming is a matter only a woman can explain, but she kept the matter to
herself until the evening of his arrival. It was their first meeting in
four years. The court was in session a month, and three evenings out of
four Davies spent as of old at Cranston's fireside. Sanders suggested
that the Parson seemed to be "taking notice" again. But Davies went back
to his station and Miss Loomis went on about her daily avocations,
reading aloud while Margaret's busy needle flew, or playing sweet old
melodies at the piano. The young officers were rather afraid of her. She
was "a somewhat superior old maid," said a youngster whom she had found
it expedient to repress. Some women declared her a trifle
unapproachable, unsympathetic perhaps, but even that did not seem to
disconcert her. Something happened ere long that did, however, for a few
months after adjournment of the court Davies reappeared at Laramie. He
had actually taken a leave of absence, and now he was at Cranston's six
evenings out of seven, and garrison gossip began in good earnest. Was
the Parson seeking solace where poor Mira always said he would? If so,
he had little to build on by way of encouragement. The Cranstons missed
him sorely when he went back to Gray, and Miss Loomis frankly referred
to him as "most instructive" and much broadened and improved. She missed
him as any one must miss so well-informed a companion. Four years before
she used to exasperate Margaret by standing up for him no matter what he
did; now she vexed her by refusing to see anything remarkable in him
whatever. Davies wrote with increasing frequency from Fort McKinney to
Mrs. Cranston, and Margaret always wanted to read the letters aloud,
which was bad generalship in a would-be match-maker.
Then one day came the tidings that head-quarters and six troops were to
be stationed together, "C" and "I" among them, and Miss Loomis returned
to Chicago. "I'll never forgive you as long as I live," said Margaret.
"I know just why you won't stay, and you needn't have worried
yourself,--he's far too proud to importune a woman who won't listen
to--to reason."
But Mrs. Cranston meant love, not reason, and the two are miles or
oceans apart. Mr. Davies might be too proud to worry a woman who
couldn't appreciate reason, but a woman worth the winning was worth the
wooing, and not a little of it. Business called him to Urbana several
days the following winter, and something kept him several weeks. He
resumed duty in the spring, steadfast as ever, but even less disposed
to take part in garrison affairs. Mrs. Cranston wrote fiercely and
frequently to Agatha, and, for aught I know, called her opprobrious
things. For another year she refused to return to them. Then came a
winter indeed of discontent, and the Eleventh was ordered to far away,
burning, blistering Arizona, all but Cranston's troop, excepted at the
last moment and detailed for service at the School of Application.
Agatha again came to stay with them, and here at last Margaret Cranston
learned the momentous fact that, after all these years, something had
happened: they were actually corresponding.
She learned more within the fortnight that followed. One exquisite May
evening just as the sunset gun had fired and all the bordering walks and
piazzas were thronged with gayly-dressed groups, women and children
mainly, watching the scene on the parade, there was some stir among the
clerks and orderlies and a gentle movement over on the porch of the
colonel commanding. The long line of officers dispersed as usual at
dismissal of parade, and Cranston came strolling over homeward chatting
with his friend and next-door neighbor, Captain Blake, of the --th.
Blake's lovely wife was even then on Cranston's veranda, for she and
Miss Loomis seemed to have taken a fancy to each other from the moment
of their meeting. Margaret, as usual, met her hero at the steps, just as
a young officer came excitedly and hurriedly down the brick walk from
the colonel's. It was Blake who heard him calling some tidings to other
households and who hailed him as he neared them and was bustling by.
"What's the row, Tommy?"
"Big fight in Arizona," was the startling answer. "Captain Hastings and
Parson Davies killed."
And Nannie Blake saw in amaze the light go out of her companion's eyes
and every vestige of color from her face. Her arms were about her in an
instant, and none too soon. Oh, the blessing of those clinging,
clustering vines! No one else saw how they had to fairly carry her
within doors, but Agatha's secret was revealed.
There was little exaggeration in the first story of that savage battle
in the cañon. Many a gallant fellow lay stripped and bloated when the
relief party reached the scene a few days later, but Davies, though
pierced through and through, still lived, and was moved and borne away
weeks later to bracing mountain air, and found many a reason for wanting
to live for many a year. Two men had gone to him fast as trains could
speed, Cranston and our old friend the chaplain. It was the former who
within the week that followed that engagement announced another. It was
the latter who within the fortnight joined her hand in his, white,
feeble as it was, and poured out his very heart and soul in the fervent
prayer for blessing on this man and this woman now at last made one.
* * * * *
That seems a long time ago. The regiment is famous now for its troop
commanders,--stalwart fellows in the prime of life who have brought the
training of men and mounts to a point of excellence such enthusiasts as
Cranston only dreamed of in the old campaigning days, when there was
little opportunity for experiment or practice in any other branch of
the trooper's art than that developed on the trail of savage foe.
Already the men who were stripling soldiers in '76 are wearing
patriarchal--long since they assumed patronizing--airs towards those who
came too late to learn campaigning when the Indian was not hemmed in by
railways, but ruled the Plains, proud monarch of all he surveyed.
Already silver threads are streaking the beards and temples of even such
rollicking spirits as Sanders, while Boynton is gray as the chargers of
the troop he commands. Cranston's squadron was cheered to the skies when
it marched away from Chicago after its month of riot duty, and on the
plains of Evanston during the manoeuvres the visitors thronged to see
the feats in horsemanship displayed by the men of Davies's troop. Even
in the Eleventh he was held to be the most brilliant instructor as well
as the most judicious and successful troop commander. Old-time dragoons
simply couldn't understand it. Here was a man who would neither drink,
swear, nor flare up and boil over when things went wrong on drill, but
preserved a calm, even-tempered, dignified bearing at all times. True,
he had native gifts which were not shared by all his kind,--a deep,
resonant voice, a ringing word of command, a fine physique, an admirable
seat, and an easy, practised hand, all of which were combined with a
consummate knowledge of his art. He was equally at home in saddle or
squad-room, and at all times was friend and almost father to his men.
"A" Troop, once the worst-drilled in the Eleventh, and universally known
as the "Differentials," is now called "the Parson's Flock," but there is
no irreverence in the term, for soldiers honor men like him whose faith
is backed by courage long tried on many a field. There isn't a man in
Cranston's squadron who would not resent an affront to their pet troop
commander, as they would were the major himself the object of aspersion,
and as for Agatha, his wife,--Florence Nightingale was not more beloved.
They were talking of it all the other evening, seated among the tents on
the broad, level prairie just before the separation for the winter
stations was announced. The old chaplain was there to say farewell to
his own stalwart son, now wearing his first shoulder-straps in the
regiment his father had known so long and well. "Sometimes," said the
dominie, "I look back almost wistfully on those old days with all their
danger and privation, and while the life our fellows lead to-day knows
little of the temptation and trial encountered twenty years ago, it
seems to lack its vim and vigor. Sometimes I almost wish my boy could
have begun--with you."
Davies was silent a moment. "It was a hard experience," said he,
finally. "It seems odd to think that to some of us there was more peace
on the war-path than at home, more rest in the field than in the fort.
Perhaps the reason why one's sterner qualities were so constantly called
into play was that not only in action but in all the surroundings of our
daily life we seemed forever 'under fire.'"
THE END.
WORKS OF
Captain Charles King, U.S.A.
UNDER FIRE. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
MARION'S FAITH. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
CAPTAIN BLAKE. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
FOES IN AMBUSH. Cloth, $1.25.
KITTY'S CONQUEST. Cloth, $1.00.
STARLIGHT RANCH, and OTHER STORIES. Cloth, $1.00.
LARAMIE; OR, THE QUEEN OF BEDLAM. Cloth, $1.00.
THE DESERTER, and FROM THE RANKS. Cloth, $1.00.
TWO SOLDIERS, and DUNRAVEN RANCH. Cloth, $1.00.
A SOLDIER'S SECRET, and AN ARMY PORTIA. Cloth, $1.00.
WARING'S PERIL. Cloth, $1.00.
Editor of
THE COLONEL'S CHRISTMAS DINNER, and OTHER STORIES. Cloth, $1.25.
AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE, and OTHER STORIES. Cloth, $1.00.
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