An Apache Princess: A Tale of the Indian Frontier

  CHAPTER XIV

  AUNT JANET BRAVED

  Nightfall of a weary day had come. Camp Sandy, startled from sleep inthe dark hour before the dawn, had found topic for much exciting talk,and was getting tired as the twilight waned. No word had come from theparty sent in search of Downs, now deemed a deserter. No sign of himhad been found about the post. No explanation had occurred to eitherCutler or Graham of the parting between Elise and the late "striker."She had never been known to notice or favor him in any way before. Hersmiles and coquetries had been lavished on the sergeants. In Downsthere was nothing whatsoever to attract her. It was not likely she hadgiven him money, said Cutler, because he was about the post all thatday after the Plumes' departure and with never a sign of inebriety. Hecould not himself buy whisky, but among the ranchmen, packers, andprospectors forever hanging about the post there were plenty ready toplay middleman for anyone who could supply the cash, and in this waywere the orders of the post commander made sometimes abortive. Downswas gone, that was certain, and the question was, which way?

  A sergeant and two men had taken the Prescott road; followed it toDick's Ranch, in the Cherry Creek Valley, and were assured the missingman had never gone that way. Dick was himself a veteran trooper ofthe ----th. He had invested his savings in this little estate andsettled thereon to grow up with the country--the Stannards' winsomeMillie having accepted a life interest in him and his modest property.They knew every man riding that trail, from the daily mail messengerto the semi-occasional courier. Their own regiment had gone, but theyhad warm interest in its successors. They knew Downs, had known himever since his younger days when, a trig young Irish-Englishman, someLondoner's discharged valet, he had 'listed in the cavalry, as heexpressed it, to reform. A model of temperance, soberness, andchastity was Downs between times, and his gifts as groom of thechambers, as well as groom of the stables, made him, when a model,invaluable to bachelor officers in need of a competent soldierservant. In days just after the great war he had won fame and money asa light rider. It was then that Lieutenant Blake had dubbed him"Epsom" Downs, and well-nigh quarreled with his chum, Lieutenant Ray,over the question of proprietorship when the two were sent to separatestations and Downs was "striking" for both. Downs settled the matterby getting on a seven-days' drunk, squandering both fame and money,and, though forgiven the scriptural seventy times seven (during whichterm of years his name was changed to Ups and Downs), finallyforfeited the favor of both these indulgent masters and becamethereafter simply Downs, with no ups of sufficient length to restorethe average--much less to redeem him. And yet, when eventually"bobtailed" out of the ----th, he had turned up at the old arsenalrecruiting depot at St. Louis, clean-shaven, neat, deft-handed,helpful, to the end that an optimistic troop commander "took him onagain," in the belief that a reform had indeed been inaugurated. But,like most good soldiers, the commander referred to knew little ofpolitics or potables, otherwise he would have set less store by thestrength of the reform movement and more by that of the potations.Downs went so far on the highroad to heaven this time as to drinknothing until his first payday. Meantime, as his captain's mercury,messenger, and general utility man, moving much in polite society atthe arsenal and in town, he was frequently to be seen aboutHeadquarters of the Army, then established by General Sherman as faras possible from Washington and as close to the heart of St. Louis. Helearned something of the ins and outs of social life in the gay city,heard much theory and little truth about the time that LieutenantBlakely, returning suddenly thereto after an absence of two months,during which time frequent letters had passed between him and ClariceLatrobe, found that Major Plume had been her shadow for weeks, herescort to dance after dance, her companion riding, driving, dining dayafter day. Something of this Blakely had heard in letters fromfriends. Little or nothing thereof had he heard from her. The publicnever knew what passed between them (Elise, her maid, was betterinformed). But Blakely within the day left town again, and within theweek there appeared the announcement of her forthcoming marriage,Plume the presumably happy man. Downs got full the first payday afterhis re-enlistment, as has been said, and drunk, as in duty bound, atthe major's "swagger" wedding. It was after this episode he fellutterly from grace and went forth to the frontier irreclaimably"Downs." It was a seven-days' topic of talk at Sandy that LieutenantBlakely, when acting Indian agent at the reservation, should haveaccepted the services of this unpromising specimen as "striker." Itwas a seven-weeks' wonder that Downs kept the pact, and sober as ajudge, from the hour he joined the Bugologist to the night thatself-contained young officer was sent crashing into his beetle showunder the impact of Wren's furious fist. Then came the last pound thatbroke the back of Downs' wavering resolution, and now had come--what?The sergeant and party rode back from Dick's to tell Captain Cutlerthe deserter had not taken the Cherry Creek road. Another party justin reported similarly that he had not taken the old, abandoned GriefHill trail. Still another returned from down-stream ranches to say hecould not have taken that route without being seen--and he had notbeen seen. Ranchman Strom would swear to that because Downs was in hisdebt for value received in shape of whisky, and Strom was rabid at theidea of his getting away. In fine, as nothing but Downs was missing,it became a matter of speculation along toward tattoo as to whetherDowns could have taken anything at all--except possibly his own life.

  Cutler was now desirous of questioning Blakely at length, andobtaining his views and theories as to Downs, for Cutler believed thatBlakely had certain well-defined views which he was keeping tohimself. Between these two, however, had grown an unbridgeable gulf.Dr. Graham had declared at eight o'clock that morning that Mr. Blakelywas still so weak that he ought not to go with the searching parties,and on receipt of this dictum Captain Cutler had issued his, to wit,that Blakely should not go either in search of Downs or in pursuit ofCaptain Wren. It stung Blakely and angered him even against Graham,steeling him against the post commander. Each of these gentlemenbegged him to make his temporary home under his roof, and Blakelywould not. "Major Plume's quarters are now vacant, then," said Cutlerto Graham. "If he won't come to you or to me, let him take a roomthere." This, too, Blakely refused. He reddened, what is more, at thesuggestion. He sent Nixon down to Mr. Hart's, the trader's, to ask ifhe could occupy a spare room there, and when Hart said, yes, mostcertainly, Cutler reddened in turn when told of it, and sentLieutenant Doty, the adjutant, to say that the post commander couldnot "consent to an officer's occupying quarters outside the garrisonwhen there was abundant room within." Then came Truman and Westerveltto beg Blakely to come to them. Then came a note from Mrs. Sanders,reminding him that, as an officer of the cavalry, it would be castingreflections on his own corps to go and dwell with aliens. "CaptainSanders would never forgive me," said she, "if you did not take ourspare room. Indeed, I shall feel far safer with a man in the house nowthat we are having fires and Indian out-breaks and prisoners escapingand all that sort of thing. _Do_ come, Mr. Blakely." And in that blueflannel shirt and the trooper trousers and bandanna neckerchief,Blakely went and thanked her; sent for Nixon and his saddle-bags, andwith such patience as was possible settled down forthwith. Truth totell it was high time he settled somewhere, for excitement, exposure,physical ill, and mental torment had told upon him severely. Atsunset, as he seemed too miserable to leave his room and come to thedining table, Mrs. Sanders sent for the doctor, and reluctantlyBlakely let him in.

  That evening, just after tattoo had sounded, Kate Sanders and Angelawere having murmured conference on the Wrens' veranda. Aunt Janet hadgone to hospital to carry unimpeachable jelly to the several patientsand dubious words of cheer. Jelly they absorbed with much avidity andher words with meek resignation. Mullins, she thought, after hisdreadful experience and close touch with death, must be in receptivemood and repentant of his sins. Of just what sins to repent poor Patmight still be unsettled in his mind. It was sufficient that he hadthem, as all soldiers must have, said Miss Wren, and now that hisbrain seemed clearing and the fever gone and he was too weak and
helpless to resist, the time seemed ripe for the sowing of good seed,and Janet went to sow.

  But there by Mullins's bed, all unabashed at Janet's markeddisapprobation, sat Norah Shaughnessy. There, in flannel shirt andtrooper trousers and bandanna neckerchief, pale, but collected, stoodthe objectionable Mr. Blakely. He was bending over, saying somethingto Mullins, as she halted in the open doorway, and Blakely, lookingquickly up, went with much civility to greet and escort her within. Tohis courteous, "Good-evening, Miss Wren, may I relieve you of yourbasket?" she returned prompt negative and, honoring him with nofurther notice, stood and gazed with Miss Shaughnessy at thefocus--Miss Shaughnessy who, after one brief glance, turned a broadIrish back on the intruder at the doorway and resumed her murmuring toMullins.

  "Is the doctor here--or Steward Griffin?" spoke the lady, to the roomat large, looking beyond the lieutenant and toward the single soldierattendant present.

  "The doctor and the steward are both at home just now, Miss Wren,"said Blakely. "May I offer you a chair?"

  Miss Wren preferred to stand.

  "I wish to speak with Steward Griffin," said she again. "Can you gofor him?" this time obviously limiting her language to the attendanthimself, and carefully excluding Mr. Blakely from the field of herrecognition. The attendant dumbly shook his head. So Aunt Janet triedagain.

  "Norah, _you_ know where the steward lives, will you--" But Blakelysaw rebellion awake again in Ireland and interposed.

  "The steward shall be here at once, Miss Wren," said he, and tiptoedaway. The lady's doubtful eye turned and followed him a moment, thenslowly she permitted herself to enter. Griffin, heading for thedispensary at the moment and apprised of her visit, came hurrying in.Blakely, pondering over the few words Mullins had faintly spoken,walked slowly over toward the line. His talk with Graham had in ameasure stilled the spirit of rancor that had possessed him earlier inthe day. Graham, at least, was stanch and steadfast, not a weathercocklike Cutler. Graham had given him soothing medicine and advised hisstrolling a while in the open air--he had slept so much of thestifling afternoon--and now, hearing the sound of women's voices onthe dark veranda nearest him, he veered to the left, passed around theblackened ruin of his own quarters and down along the rear of the linejust as the musician of the guard was sounding "Lights Out"--"Taps."

  And then a sudden thought occurred to him. Sentries began challengingat taps. He was close to the post of No. 5. He could even see theshadowy form of the sentry slowly pacing toward him, and here he stoodin the garb of a private soldier instead of his official dress. Itcaused him quickly to veer again, to turn to his right, the west, andto enter the open space between the now deserted quarters of thepermanent commander and those of Captain Wren adjoining them to thenorth. Another moment and he stopped short. Girlish voices, low andmurmurous, fell upon his ear. In a moment he had recognized them. "Itwon't take me two minutes, Angela. I'll go and get it now," were thefirst words distinctly heard, and, with a rustle of skirts, KateSanders bounded lightly from the piazza to the sands and disappearedaround the corner of the major's quarters, going in the direction ofher home. For the first time in many eventful days Blakely stoodalmost within touch of the girl whose little note was even thennestling in an inner pocket, and they were alone.

  "Miss Angela!"

  Gently he spoke her name, but the effect was startling. She had beenreclining in a hammock, and at sound of his voice struggled suddenlyto a sitting posture, a low cry on her lips. In some strange way, inthe darkness, the fright, confusion,--whatever it may have been,--shelost her balance and her seat. The hammock whirled from under her, andwith exasperating thump, unharmed but wrathful, the girl was tumbledto the resounding floor. Blakely sprang to her aid, but she was up inthe split of a second, scorning, or not seeing, his eager,outstretched hand.

  "My--Miss Angela!" he began, all anxiety and distress, "I hope you'renot hurt," and the outstretched hands were trembling.

  "I _know_ I'm not," was the uncompromising reply, "not in the least;startled--that's all! Gentlemen don't usually come upon one thatway--in the dark." She was panting a bit, but striving bravely,angrily, to be calm and cool--icy cool.

  "Nor would I have come that way," then, stupidly, "had I known youwere--here. Forgive me."

  How could she, after that? She had no wish to see him, so she hadschooled herself. She would decline to see him, were he to ask for herat the door; but, not for an instant did she wish to hear that he didnot wish to see her, yet he had haplessly, brusquely said he wouldn'thave come had he known she was there. It was her duty to leave him,instantly. It was her desire first to punish him.

  "My aunt is not at home," she began, the frost of the Sierras in hertone.

  "I just left her, a moment ago, at the hospital," said he, steadfastlyignoring her repellent tone. Indeed, if anything, the tone rejoicedhim, for it told a tale she would not have told for realms andempires. He was ten years older and had lived. "But--forgive me," hewent on, "you are trembling, Miss Angela." She was, and loathedherself, and promptly denied it. He gravely placed a chair. "You fellheavily, and it must have jarred you. Please sit down," and steppingto the _olla_, "let me bring you some water."

  She was weak. Her knees, her hands, were shaking as they never shookbefore. He had seen her aunt at the hospital. He had left her auntthere without a moment's delay that he might hasten to see her,Angela. He was here and bending over her, with brimming gourd of coolspring water. Nay, more, with one hand he pressed it to her lips, withthe other he held his handkerchief so that the drops might not fallupon her gown. He was bending over her, so close she could hear, shethought, the swift beating of his heart. She knew that if what AuntJanet had told, and her father had seen, of him were true, she wouldrather die than suffer a touch of his hand. Yet one hand had touchedher, gently, yet firmly, as he helped her to the chair, and the touchshe loathed was sweet to her in spite of herself. From the moment oftheir first meeting this man had done what no other man had donebefore--spoken to her and treated her as a grown woman, with a man'sadmiration in his fine blue eyes, with deference in word and chivalricgrace in manner. And in spite of the mean things whispered abouthim--about him and--anybody, she had felt her young heart going out tohim, her buoyant, joyous, healthful nature opening and expanding inthe sunshine of his presence. And now he had come to seek her, afterall the peril and excitement and trouble he had undergone, and now,all loverlike tenderness and concern, was bending over her andmurmuring to her, his deep voice almost as tremulous as her hand. Oh,it couldn't be true that he--cared for--was interested in--that woman,the major's wife! Not that she _ought_ to care one way or another,except that it was so despicable--so unlike him. Yet she had promisedherself--had virtually promised her father--that she would hold faraloof from this man, and here he stood, so close that theirheart-beats almost intermingled, and he was telling her that he wishedshe had kept and never returned the little butterfly net, for now,when it had won a value it never before had known, it was his fate tolose it. "And now," he said, "I hope to be sent to-morrow to join yourfather in the field, and I wish to tell you that, whenever I go, Ishall first come to see what you may have to send to him. Will you--behere, Miss Angela?"

  For a moment--silence. She was thinking of her duty to her father, ofher implied promise, of all that Janet had told her, and so thinkingcould not for the moment answer--could not meet his earnest gaze. Darkas it was she felt, rather than saw, the glow of his deep blue eyes.She could not mistake the tenderness of his tone. She had so believedin him. He seemed so far above the callow, vapid, empty-headedyoungsters the other girls were twittering about from morn till night.She felt that she believed in him now, no matter what had been said orwho had said it. She felt that if he would but say it was all amistake--that no woman had crossed his threshold, all Camp Sandy mightswear to the truth of the story, and she would laugh at it. But howcould she ask such a thing of him? Her cheeks took fire at thethought. It was he who broke the silence.

  "Something has happened to break your
faith in me, Miss Angela," saidhe, with instant gravity. "I certainly had it--I _know_ I had it--nota week ago"; and now he had dropped to a seat in the swaying hammock,and with calm strength and will bent toward her and compelled herattention. "I have a right to know, as matters stand. Will you tellme, or must I wait until I see your father?" With that Neil Blakelyactually sought to take her hand. She whipped it behind her at theinstant. "Will you tell me?" he repeated, bending closer.

  From down the line, dancing along the wooden veranda, came the soundof swift footfalls--Kate Sanders hurrying back. Another moment and itwould be too late. The denial she longed to hear from his lips mightnever be spoken. If spoken at all it must be here and now, yet howcould she--how could _she_ ask _him_?

  "I will tell you, Mr. Blakely." The words came from the window of thedarkened parlor, close at hand. The voice was that of Janet Wren,austere and uncompromising. "I got here in time to hear yourquestion--I will answer for my niece--"

  "Aunt Janet--No!"

  "Be quiet, Angela. Mr. Blakely, it is because this child's father saw,and I heard of, that which makes you unworthy the faith of a young,pure-hearted girl. Who was the--the creature to whom you opened yourdoor last Wednesday midnight?"

  Kate Sanders, singing softly, blithely, came tripping along themajor's deserted veranda, her fresh young voice, glad, yet subdued,caroling the words of a dear old song that Parepa had made loved andfamous full ten years before:

  "And as he lingered by her side, In spite of his comrade's warning The old, old story was told again At five o'clock in the morning."

  Then came sudden silence, as springing to the sandy ground, the singerreached the Wrens' veranda and saw the dim form of Mr. Blakely,standing silently confronting a still dimmer form, faintly visible atthe side window against the soft, tempered light of the hanging lampin the hall.

  "Who was the creature?" I repeat, were the strange words, in MissWren's most telling tone, that brought Kate Sanders to a halt,startled, silent.

  Then Blakely answered: "Some day I shall tell Miss Angela, madam, butnever--you. Good-night."