CHAPTER XVIII
A STRANGER GOING
At the first faint flush of dawn the little train of pack mules, withthe rations for the beleaguered command at Sunset Pass, was started onits stony path. Once out of the valley of the Beaver it must clamberover range after range and stumble through deep and tortuous canons. Aroad there was--the old trail by Snow Lake, thence through the famousPass and the Sunset crossing of the Colorado Chiquito to old FortWingate. It wormed its way out of the valley of the broader streamsome miles further to the north and in face of the Red Rock country tothe northeast, but it had not been traveled in safety for a year. BothByrne and Plume believed it beset with peril, watched from ambush byinvisible foes who could be relied upon to lurk in hiding until thetrain was within easy range, then, with sudden volley, to pick off theofficers and prominent sergeants and, in the inevitable confusion,aided by their goatlike agility, to make good their escape. Thirtysturdy soldiers of the infantry under a veteran captain marched asescort, with Plume's orders to push through to the relief of SergeantBrewster's command, and to send back Indian runners with full accountof the situation. The relief of Wren's company accomplished, the nextthing was to be a search for Wren himself, then a determined effort tofind Blakely, and all the time to keep a lookout for Sanders's troopthat must be somewhere north of Chevlon's Fork, as well as for the twoor three little columns that should be breaking their way through theunblazed wilderness, under the personal direction of the generalhimself. Captain Stout and his party were out of sight up the Beaverbefore the red eye of the morning came peering over the jagged heightsto the east, and looking in upon a garrison whose eyes were equallyred and bleary through lack of sleep--a garrison worn and haggardthrough anxiety and distress gravely augmented by the events of thenight. All Sandy had been up and astir within five minutes after NorahShaughnessy's startling cry, and all Sandy asked with bated breath thesame question: How on earth happened it that this wounded waif of theApaches, this unknown Indian girl, dropped senseless at their doorwayin the dead hours of the night, should have in her possession the veryscarf worn by Mrs. Plume's nurse-companion, the Frenchwoman Elise, asshe came forth with her mistress to drive away from Sandy, as was herhope, forever.
Prominent among those who had hastened down to Sudsville, after thenews of this discovery had gone buzzing through the line of officers'quarters, was Janet Wren. Kate Sanders was staying with Angela, forthe girls seemed to find comfort in each other's presence and society.Both had roused at sound of the clamor and were up and half dressedwhen a passing hospital attendant hurriedly shouted to Miss Wren thetidings. The girls, too, would have gone, but Aunt Janet sternly badethem remain indoors. She would investigate, she said, and bring themall information.
Dozens of the men were still hovering about old Shaughnessy's quartersas the tall, gaunt form of the captain's sister came stalking throughthe crowd, making straight for the doorway. The two senior officers,Byrne and Plume, were, in low tones, interrogating Norah. Plume hadbeen shown the scarf and promptly seconded Norah. He knew it atonce--knew that, as Elise came forth that dismal morning and passedunder the light in the hall, she had this very scarf round herthroat--this that had been found upon the person of a wounded andsenseless girl. He remembered now that as the sun climbed higher andthe air grew warmer the day of their swift flight to Prescott, Elisehad thrown open her traveling sack, and he noticed that the scarf hadbeen discarded. He did not see it anywhere about the Concord, but thatproved nothing. She might easily have slipped it into her bag or underthe cushions of the seat. Both he and Byrne, therefore, watched withno little interest when, after a brief glance at the feverish andwounded Indian girl, moaning in the cot in Mrs. Shaughnessy's room,Miss Wren returned to the open air, bearing the scarf with her. Onemoment she studied it, under the dull gleam of the lantern of thesergeant of the guard, and then slowly spoke:
"Gentlemen, I have seen this worn by Elise and I believe I know howit came to find its way back here--and it does not brighten thesituation. From our piazza, the morning of Major Plume's start forPrescott, I could plainly see Downs hanging about the wagon. Itstarted suddenly, as perhaps you remember, and as it rolled awaysomething went fluttering to the ground behind. Everybody was lookingafter the Concord at the moment--everybody but Downs, who quicklystooped, picked up the thing, and turned hurriedly away. I believe hehad this scarf when he deserted and that he has fallen into the handsof the Apaches."
Byrne looked at the post commander without speaking. The color hadmounted one moment to the major's face, then left him pallid asbefore. The hunted, haggard, weary look about his eyes had deepened.That was all. The longer he lived, the longer he served about thiswoebegone spot in mid Arizona, the more he realized the influence forevil that handmaid of Shaitan seemed to exert over his vain, shallow,yet beautiful and beloved wife. Against it he had wrought and pleadedin vain. Elise had been with them since her babyhood, was his wife'salmost indignant reply. Elise had been faithful to her--devoted to herall her life. Elise was indispensable; the only being that kept herfrom going mad with home-sickness and misery in that God-forsakenclime. Sobs and tears wound up each interview and, like many astronger man, Plume had succumbed. It might, indeed, be cruel to robher of Elise, the last living link that bound her to the blessedmemories of her childhood, and he only mildly strove to point out toher how oddly, yet persistently, her good name had suffered throughthe words and deeds of this flighty, melodramatic Frenchwoman.Something of her baleful influence he had seen and suspected beforeever they came to their exile, but here at Sandy, with full force herealized the extent of her machinations. Clarice was not the woman togo prowling about the quarters in the dead hours of the night, nomatter how nervous and sleepless at home. Clarice was not the woman tobe having back-door conferences with the servants of other households,much less the "striker" of an officer with whose name hers, as amaiden, had once been linked. He recalled with a shudder the events ofthe night that sent the soldier Mullins to hospital, robbed of hiswits, if not of his life. He recalled with dread the reluctantadmissions of the doctor and of Captain Wren. Sleep-walking, indeed!Clarice never elsewhere at any time had shown somnambulistic symptoms.It was Elise beyond doubt who had lured her forth for some purpose hecould neither foil nor fathom. It was Elise who kept up thisdiscreditable and mysterious commerce with Downs,--something that hadculminated in the burning of Blakely's home, with who knows whatevidence,--something that had terminated only with Downs's maddesertion and probable death. All this and more went flashing throughhis mind as Miss Wren finished her brief and significant story, and itdawned upon him that, whatever it might be to others, the death ofDowns--to him, and to her whom he loved and whose honor hecherished--was anything but a calamity, a thing to mourn. Toogenerous to say the words, he yet turned with lightened heart and metByrne's searching eyes, then those of Miss Wren now fixed upon himwith austere challenge, as though she would say the flight and fate ofthis friendless soldier were crimes to be laid only at his door.
Byrne saw the instant distress in his comrade's face, and, glancingfrom him to her, almost in the same instant saw the inciting cause.Byrne had one article of faith if he lacked the needful thirty-nine.Women had no place in official affairs, no right to meddle in officialmatters, and what he said on the spur of his rising resentment wasintended for her, though spoken to him. "So Downs skipped eastward,did he, and the Apaches got him! Well, Plume, that saves us ahanging." And Miss Wren turned away in wrath unspeakable.
That Downs had "skipped eastward" received further confirmation withthe coming day, when Wales Arnold rode into the fort from a personallyconducted scout up the Beaver. Riding out with Captain Stout's party,he had paid a brief visit to his, for the time, abandoned ranch, andwas surprised to find there, unmolested, the two persons and all theproperty he had left the day he hurried wife and household to theshelter of the garrison. The two persons were half-breed Jose and hisHualpai squaw. They had been with the Arnolds five long years, wereknown to all the Apaches, and had eve
r been in highest favor with thembecause of the liberality with which they dispensed the _largesse_ oftheir employer. Never went an Indian empty-stomached from their door.All the stock Wales had time to gather he had driven in to Sandy. Allthat was left Jose had found and corraled. Just one quadruped wasmissing--Arnold's old mustang saddler, Dobbin. Jose said he had beengone from the first and with him an old bridle and saddle. No Indiantook him, said he. It was a soldier. He had found "government boottracks" in the sand. Then Downs and Dobbin had gone together, but onlyDobbin might they ever look to see again.
It had been arranged between Byrne and Captain Stout that the littlerelief column should rest in a deep canon beyond the springs fromwhich the Beaver took its source, and, later in the afternoon, push onagain on the long, stony climb toward the plateau of the upperMogollon. There stood, about twenty-five miles out from the post on abee line to the northeast, a sharp, rocky peak just high enough abovethe fringing pines and cedars to be distinctly visible by day from thecrest of the nearest foothills west of the flagstaff. Along the sunsetface of this gleaming _picacho_ there was a shelf or ledge that hadoften been used by the Apaches for signaling purposes; the renegadescommunicating with their kindred about the agency up the valley.Invisible from the level of Camp Sandy, these fires by night, or smokeand flashes by day, reached only those for whom they wereintended--the Apaches at the reservation; but Stout, who had known theneighborhood since '65, had suggested that lookouts equipped withbinoculars be placed on the high ground back of the post. Inferior tothe savage in the craft, we had no code of smoke, fire, or, at thattime, even sun-flash signal, but it was arranged that one blaze was tomean "Unmolested thus far." Two blazes, a few yards apart, would mean"Important news by runner." In the latter event Plume was to push outforty or fifty men in dispersed order to meet and protect the runnerin case he should be followed, or possibly headed off, by hostiletribesmen. Only six Indian allies had gone with Stout and he had eyedthem with marked suspicion and disfavor. They, too, were Apache Yumas.The day wore on slowly, somberly. All sound of life, melody, ormerriment had died out at Camp Sandy. Even the hounds seemed to feelthat a cloud of disaster hung over the garrison. Only at rareintervals some feminine shape flitted along the line of desertedverandas--some woman on a mission of mercy to some mourning,sore-troubled sister among the scattered households. For several hoursbefore high noon the wires from Prescott had been hot with demand fornews, and with messages from Byrne or Plume to departmentheadquarters. At meridian, however, there came a lull, and at 2 P. M.a break. Somewhere to the west the line was snapped and down. At 2.15two linesmen galloped forth to find and repair damages, half a dozen"doughboys" on a buckboard going as guard. Otherwise, all day long, nosoldier left the post, and when darkness settled down, the anxiousoperator, seated at his keyboard, was still unable to wake the spiritof the gleaming copper thread that spanned the westward wilderness.
All Sandy was wakeful, out on the broad parade, or the officers'verandas, and gazing as one man or woman at the bold, black upheaval amile behind the post, at whose summit twinkled a tiny star, a singlelantern, telling of the vigil of Plume's watchers. If Stout made evenfair time he should have reached the _picacho_ at dusk, and now it wasnearly nine and not a glimmer of fire had been seen at the appointedrendezvous. Nine passed and 9.15, and at 9.30 the fifes and drums ofthe Eighth turned out and began the long, weird complaint of thetattoo. Nobody wished to go to bed. Why not sound reveille and letthem sit up all night, if they chose? It was far better than tossingsleepless through the long hours to the dawn. It was nearly time for"taps"--lights out--when a yell went up from the parade and all Sandystarted to its feet. All on a sudden the spark at the lookout bluffbegan violently to dance, and a dozen men tore out of garrison, eagerto hear the news. They were met halfway by a sprinting corporal, whomthey halted with eager demand for his news. "_Two_ blazes!" he panted,"two! I must get in to the major at once!" Five minutes more theAssembly, not Taps, was sounding. Plume was sending forth his fiftyrescuers, and with them, impatient for tidings from the far front,went Byrne, the major himself following as soon as he could change toriding dress. The last seen of the little command was the glinting ofthe starlight on the gun barrels as they forded the rippling streamand took the trail up the narrow, winding valley of the Beaver.
It was then a little after ten o'clock. The wire to Prescott was stillunresponsive. Nothing had been heard from the linesmen and theirescort, indicating that the break was probably far over as the AguaFria. Not a sign, except Stout's signal blazes at the _picacho_, hadbeen gathered from the front. Camp Sandy was cut off from the world,and the actual garrison left to guard the post and protect the women,children and the sick as eleven o'clock drew nigh, was exactly fortymen of the fighting force. It was believed that Stout's couriers wouldmake the homeward run, very nearly, by the route the pack-train tookthroughout the day, and if they succeeded in evading hostile scouts orparties, would soon appear about some of the breaks of the upperBeaver. Thither, therefore, with all possible speed Plume had directedhis men, promising Mrs. Sanders, as he rode away, that the moment arunner was encountered he would send a light rider at the gallop, onhis own good horse--that not a moment should be lost in bearing themthe news.
But midnight came without a sign. Long before that hour, as though bycommon impulse, almost all the women of the garrison had gatheredabout Truman's quarters, now the northernmost of the row and in plainview of the confluence of the Sandy and the Beaver. Dr. Graham, whohad been swinging to and fro between the limits of the Shaughnessys'and the hospital, stopped to speak with them a moment and gently drewAngela to one side. His grave and rugged face was sweet in itstenderness as he looked down into her brimming eyes. "Can you not becontent at home, my child?" he murmured. "You seem like one of my ownbairns, Angela, now that your brave father is afield, and I want tohave his bonnie daughter looking her best against the home-coming.Surely Aunt Janet will bring you the news the moment any comes, andI'll bid Kate Sanders bide with you!"
No, she would not--she could not go home. Like every other soul in allCamp Sandy she seemed to long to be just there. Some few had even goneout further, beyond the sentries, to the point of the low bluff, andthere, chatting only in whispers, huddled together, listening inanxiety inexpressible for the muffled sound of galloping hoofs on softand sandy shore. No, she _dare_ not, for within the four walls of thatlittle white room what dreams and visions had the girl not seen? and,wakening shuddering, had clung to faithful Kate and sobbed her heartout in those clasping, tender, loyal arms. No beauty, indeed, wasKate, as even her fond mother ruefully admitted, but there was that inher great, gentle, unselfish heart that made her beloved by one andall. Yet Kate had pleaded with Angela in vain. Some strange, forcefulmood had seized the girl and steeled and strengthened her against evenJanet Wren's authority. She would not leave the little band ofwatchers. She was there when, toward half-past twelve, at last themessage came. Plume's own horse came tearing through the flood, andpanting, reeking, trembling into their midst, and his rider, littleFifer Lanigan, of Company "C," sprang from saddle and thrust hisdispatch into Truman's outstretched hand.
With women and children crowding about him, and men running to thescene from every side, by the light of a lantern held in a soldier'sshaking hand, he read aloud the contents:
"BIVOUAC AT PICACHO, 9 P. M.
"C. O. CAMP SANDY:
"Reached this point after hard march, but no active opposition, at 8 P. M. First party sent to build fire on ledge driven in by hostiles. Corporal Welch shot through left side--serious. Threw out skirmishers and drove them off after some firing, and about 9.20 came suddenly upon Indian boy crouching among rocks, who held up folded paper which I have read and forward herewith. We shall, of course, turn toward Snow Lake, taking boy as guide. March at 3 A. M. Will do everything possible to reach Wren on time.
(Signed) "STOUT, Commanding."
Wit
hin was another slip, grimy and with dark stains. And Truman'svoice well-nigh failed him as he read:
"November --th.
"C. O. CAMP SANDY:
"Through a friendly Apache who was with me at the reservation I learned that Captain Wren was lying wounded, cut off from his troop and with only four of his men, in a canon southwest of Snow Lake. With Indian for guide we succeeded reaching him second night, but are now surrounded, nearly out of ammunition and rations. Three more of our party are wounded and one, Trooper Kent, killed. If not rushed can hold out perhaps three days more, but Wren sorely needs surgical aid.
(Signed) "BLAKELY."
That was all. The Bugologist with his one orderly, and apparentlywithout the Apache Yuma scouts, had gone straightway to the rescue ofWren. Now all were cut off and surrounded by a wily foe that countedon, sooner or later, overcoming and annihilating them, and even by thetime the Indian runner slipped out (some faithful spirit won byBlakely's kindness and humanity when acting agent), the defense hadbeen reduced just one-half. Thank God that Stout with his supplies andstalwart followers was not more than two days' march away, and wasgoing straightway to the rescue!
It was nearly two when Plume and his half-hundred came drifting backto the garrison, and even then some few of the watchers were along thebluff. Janet Wren, having at last seen pale-faced, silent Angela toher room and bed, with Kate Sanders on guard, had again gone forth toextract such further information as Major Plume might have. Even atthat hour men were at work in the corrals, fitting saddles to half adozen spare horses,--about all that were left at the post,--and MissWren learned that Colonel Byrne, with an orderly or two, had remainedat Arnold's ranch,--that Arnold himself, with six horsemen from thepost, was to set forth at four, join the colonel at dawn, and togetherall were to push forward on the trail of Stout's command, hoping toovertake them by nightfall. She whispered this to sleepless Kate onher return to the house, for Angela, exhausted with grief and longsuspense, had fallen, apparently, into deep and dreamless slumber.
But the end of that eventful night was not yet. Arnold and hissextette slipped away soon after four o'clock, and about 4.50 therecame a banging at the major's door. It was the telegraph operator. Thewire was patched at last, and the first message was to the effect thatthe guard had been fired on in Cherry Creek canon--that PrivateForrest was sorely wounded and lying at Dick's deserted ranch, withtwo of their number to care for him. Could they possibly send asurgeon at once?
There was no one to go but Graham. His patients at the post were doingfairly well, but there wasn't a horse for him to ride. "No matter,"said he, "I'll borrow Punch. He's needing exercise these days." SoPunch was ordered man-saddled and brought forthwith. The orderly cameback in ten minutes. "Punch aint there, sir," said he. "He's been goneover half an hour."
"Gone? Gone where? Gone how?" asked Graham in amaze.
"Gone with Miss Angela, sir. She saddled him herself and rode away nottwenty minutes after Arnold's party left. The sentries say shefollowed up the Beaver."