An Apache Princess: A Tale of the Indian Frontier

  CHAPTER XXII

  SUSPENSE

  Sandy again. Four of the days stipulated by Lieutenant Blakely had runtheir course. The fifth was ushered in, and from the moment he rodeaway from the bivouac at the tanks no word had come from theBugologist, no further trace of Angela. In all its history thegarrison had known no gloom like this. The hospital was filled withwounded. An extra surgeon and attendants had come down from Prescott,but Graham was sturdily in charge. Of his several patients Wrenprobably was now causing him the sorest anxiety, for the captain hadbeen grievously wounded and was pitiably weak. Now, when aroused attimes from the lassitude and despond in which he lay, Wren wouldpersist in asking for Angela, and, not daring to tell him the truth,Janet, Calvinist that she was to the very core, had to do fearfulviolence to her feelings and lie. By the advice of bluff old Byrne andthe active connivance of the post commander, they had actually, thesestern Scotch Presbyterians, settled on this as the deception to bepracticed--that Angela had been drooping so sadly from anxiety anddread she had been taken quite ill, and Dr. Graham had declared shemust be sent up to Prescott, or some equally high mountain resort,there to rest and recuperate. She was in good hands, said thesearch-conspirators. She might be coming home any day. As for the troopand the campaign, he mustn't talk or worry or think about them. Thegeneral, with his big field columns, had had no personal contact withthe Indians. They had scattered before him into the wild countrytoward the great Colorado, where Stout, with his hickory-builtfootmen, and Brewster, with most of Wren's troop, were stirring upApaches night and day, while Sanders and others were steadily drivingon toward the old Wingate road. Stout had found Brewster beleaguered,but safe and sound, with no more men killed and few seriously wounded.They had communicated with Sanders's side scouts, and were finding andfollowing fresh trails with every day, when Stout was surprised toreceive orders to drop pursuit and start with Brewster's fellows andto scout the west face of the mountains from the Beaver to the heightsopposite the old Indian reservation. There was a stirring scene atbivouac when that order came, and with it the explanation that AngelaWren had vanished and was probably captured; that Blakely had followedand was probably killed. "They might shoot Blakely in fair fight,"said Stout, who knew him, and knew the veneration that lived for himin the hearts of the Indian leaders, "but they at least would neverbutcher him in cold blood. Their unrestrained young men might do it."Stout's awful dread, like that of every man and woman at Sandy, andevery soldier in the field, was for Angela. The news, too, had beenrushed to the general, and his orders were instant. "Find the chiefsin the field," said he to his interpreter and guide. "Find Shield'speople, and say that if a hair of her head is injured I shall huntthem down, braves, women, and children--I shall hunt them anyhow untilthey surrender her unharmed."

  But the Apaches were used to being hunted, and some of them reallyliked the game. It was full of exhilaration and excitement, and not afew chances to hunt and hit back. The threat conveyed no terror to therenegades. It was to the Indians at the reservation that the tidingsbrought dismay, yet even there, so said young Bridger, leaders andfollowers swore they had no idea where the white maiden could be, muchless the young chief. They, the peaceable and the poor servants of thegreat Father at Washington, had no dealings with these others, hisfoes.

  About the post, where gloom and dread unspeakable prevailed, there wasno longer the fear of possible attack. The Indian prisoners in theguard-house had dropped their truculent, defiant manner, and becomeagain sullen and apathetic. The down-stream settlers had returned totheir ranches and reported things undisturbed. Even the horse that hadbeen missing and charged to Downs had been accounted for. They foundhim grazing placidly about the old pasture, with the rope haltertrailing, Indian-knotted, from his neck, and his gray hide stillshowing stains of blood about the mane and withers. They wondered wasit on this old stager the Apaches had borne the wounded girl to thegarrison--she who still lay under the roof of Mother Shaughnessy,timidly visited at times by big-eyed, shy little Indian maids from thereservation, who would speak no word that Sudsville could understand,and few that even Wales Arnold could interpret. All they would orcould divulge was that she was the daughter of old Eskiminzin, who wasout in the mountains, and that she had been wounded "over there," andthey pointed eastward. By whom and under what circumstances they sworethey knew not, much less did they know of Downs, or of how she chancedto have the scarf once worn by the Frenchwoman Elise.

  Then Arnold's wife and brood had gone back to their home up theBeaver, while he himself returned to the search for Angela and forBlakely. But those four days had passed without a word of hope. Inlittle squads a dozen parties were scouring the rugged canons andcliffs for signs, and finding nothing. Hours each day Plume would cometo the watchers on the bluff to ask if no courier had been sighted.Hours each night the sentries strained their eyes for signal fires.Graham, slaving with his sick and wounded, saw how haggard and wornthe commander was growing, and spoke a word of caution. Something toldhim it was not all on account of those woeful conditions at the front.From several sources came the word that Mrs. Plume was in a statebordering on hysteric at department headquarters, where sympatheticwomen strove vainly to comfort and soothe her. It was then that Elisebecame a center of interest, for Elise was snapping with electricforce and energy. "It is that they will assassinate madame--thesemonsters," she declared. "It is imperative, it is of absolute need,that madame be taken to the sea, and these wretches, unfeeling, theyforbid her to depart." Madame herself, it would seem, so said thosewho had speech with her, declared she longed to be again with herhusband at Sandy. Then it was Elise who demanded that they shouldmove. Elise was mad to go--Elise, who took a turn of her own, ascreaming fit, when the news came of the relief of Wren's littleforce, of the death of their brave sergeant, of the strange tale that,before dying, Carmody had breathed a confession to Lieutenant Blakely,which Blakely had reduced to writing before he set forth on his ownhapless mission. It was Mrs. Plume's turn now to have to play nurseand comforter, and to strive to soothe, even to the extent ofpromising that Elise should be permitted to start by the very nextstage to the distant sea, but when it came to securing passage, and infeverish, nervous haste the Frenchwoman had packed her chosenbelongings into the one little trunk the stage people would consent tocarry, lo! there came to her a messenger from headquarters whereColonel Byrne, grim, silent, saturnine, was again in charge. Anyattempt on her part to leave would result in her being turned over atonce to the civil authorities, and Elise understood and raved, butrisked not going to jail. Mullins, nursed by his devoted Norah, wassitting up each day now, and had been seen by Colonel Byrne as thatveteran passed through, ten pounds lighter of frame and heavier ofheart than when he set forth, and Mullins had persisted in the storythat he had been set upon and stabbed by two women opposite LieutenantBlakely's quarters. What two had been seen out there that night butClarice Plume and her Gallic shadow, Elise?

  Meantime Aunt Janet was "looking ghastly," said the ladies along thatsomber line of quarters, and something really ought to be done. Justwhat that something should be no two could unite in deciding, butreally Major Plume or Dr. Graham ought to see that, if somethingwasn't done, she would break down under the awful strain. She hadgrown ten years older in five days, they declared--was turningfearfully gray, and they were sure she never slept a wink. Spoken toon this score, poor Miss Wren was understood to say she not only couldnot sleep, but she did not wish to. Had she kept awake and watchedAngela, as was her duty, the child could never have succeeded in herwild escapade. The "child," by the way, had displayed raregeneralship, as speedily became known. She must have made her fewpreparations without a betraying sound, for even Kate Sanders, in thesame room, was never aroused--Kate, who was now well-nightheartbroken. They found that Angela had crept downstairs in herstockings, and had put on her riding moccasins and leggings at thekitchen steps. There, in the sand, were the tracks of her long,slender feet. They found that she had taken with her a roomyhunting-pouch that hung usuall
y in her father's den. She had filledit, apparently, with food,--tea, sugar, even lemons, for half a dozenof this precious and hoarded fruit had disappeared. Punch, too, hadbeen provided for. She had "packed" a half-bushel of barley from thestables. There was no one to say Miss Angela nay. She might haveridden off with the flag itself and no sentry would more than think ofstopping her. Just what fate had befallen her no one dare suggest. Theone thing, the only one, that roused a vestige of hope was thatLieutenant Blakely had gone _alone_ on what was thought to be hertrail.

  Now here was a curious condition of things. If anyone had been askedto name the most popular officer at Sandy, there would have been noend of discussion. Perhaps the choice would have lain between Sanders,Cutler, and old Westervelt--good and genial men. Asked to name theleast popular officer, and, though men, and women, too, would haveshrunk from saying it, the name that would have occurred to almost allwas that of Blakely. And why? Simply because he stood alone,self-poised, self-reliant, said his few friends, "self-centered andself_ish_," said more than Mrs. Bridger, whereas a more generous manhad never served at Sandy. That, however, they had yet to learn. Butwhen a man goes his way in the world, meddling with no one else'sbusiness, and never mentioning his own, courteous and civil, but neverintimate, studying a good deal but saying little, asking no favors andgranting few, perhaps because seldom asked, the chances are he willwin the name of being cold, indifferent, even repellent, "too high,mighty, and superior." His very virtues become a fault, for men andwomen love best those who are human like themselves, however they mayrespect. Among the troopers Blakely was as yet something of an enigma.His manner of speaking to them was unlike that of most of hisfellows--it was grave, courteous, dignified, never petulant orirritable. In those old cavalry days most men better fancied somethingmore demonstrative. "I like to see an officer flare up and--saythings," said a veteran sergeant. "This here bug-catcher is too damnedcold-blooded." They respected him, yes; yet they little understood andless loved him. They had known him too short a time.

  But among the Indians Blakely was a demi-god. Grave, unruffled,scrupulously exact in word and deed, he made them trust him. Brave,calm, quick in moments of peril, he made them admire him. Howfearlessly he had stepped into the midst of that half-frenziedsextette, _tiswin_ drunk, and disarmed Kwonagietah and two of hisfellow-revelers! How instant had been his punishment of that raging,rampant, mutinous old medicine man, 'Skiminzin, who dared to threatenhim and the agency! (That episode only long years after reached theears of the Indian Advancement Association in the imaginative East.)How gently and skillfully he had ministered to Shield's youngerbrother, and to the children of old Chief Toyah! It was this, in fact,that won the hate and envy of 'Skiminzin. How lavish was Blakely'sbounty to the aged and to the little ones, and Indians love theirchildren infinitely! The hatred or distrust of Indian man or woman,once incurred, is venomous and lasting. The trust, above all thegratitude, of the wild race, once fairly won, is to the full asstable. Nothing will shake it. There are those who say the love of anIndian girl, once given, surpasses that of her Circassian sister, andBridger now was learning new stories of the Bugologist with every dayof his progress in Apache lore. He had even dared to bid his impulsivelittle wife "go slow," should she ever again be tempted to sayspiteful things of Blakely. "If what old Toyah tells me is true," saidhe, "and I believe him, Hualpai or Apache Mohave, there isn't a decentIndian in this part of Arizona that wouldn't give his own scalp tosave Blakely." Mrs. Bridger did not tell this at the time, for she hadsaid too much the other way; but, on this fifth day of our hero'sabsence, there came tidings that unloosed her lips.

  Just at sunset an Indian runner rode in on one of Arnold's horses, andbearing a dispatch for Major Plume. It was from that sturdycampaigner, Captain Stout, who knew every mile of the old trailthrough Sunset Pass long years before even the ----th Cavalry,--thepredecessors of Plume, and Wren, and Sanders,--and what Stout said noman along the Sandy ever bade him swear to.

  "Surprised small band, Tontos, at dawn to-day. They had saddle blanket marked 'W. A.' [Wales Arnold], and hat and underclothing marked 'Downs.' Indian boy prisoner says Downs was caught just after the 'big burning' at Camp Sandy [Lieutenant Blakely's quarters]. He says that Alchisay, Blakely's boy courier, was with them two days before, and told him Apache Mohaves had more of Downs's things, and that a white chief's daughter was over there in the Red Rocks. Sanders, with three troops, is east of us and searching that way now. This boy says Alchisay knew that Natzie and Lola had been hiding not far from Willow Tank on the Beaver trail--our route--but had fled from there same time Angela disappeared. Against her own people Natzie would protect Blakely, even were they demanding his life in turn for her Indian lover, Shield's. If these girls can be tracked and found, I believe you will have found Blakely and will find Angela."

  That night, after being fed and comforted until even an Indian couldeat no more, the messenger, a young Apache Mohave, wanted _papel_ togo to the agency, but Plume had other plans. "Take him down toShaughnessy's," said he to Truman, "and see if he knows that girl." Sotake him they did, and at sight of his swarthy face the girl had givena low cry of sudden, eager joy; then, as though reading warning in hisglance, turned her face away and would not talk. It was the play ofalmost every Apache to understand no English whatever, yet Trumancould have sworn she understood when he asked her if she could guesswhere Angela was in hiding. The Indian lad had shaken his head anddeclared he knew nothing. The girl was dumb. Mrs. Bridger happened ina moment later, coming down with Mrs. Sanders to see how the strangepatient was progressing. They stood in silence a moment, listening toTruman's murmured words. Then Mrs. Bridger suddenly spoke. "Ask her ifshe knows Natzie's cave," said she. "Natzie's cave," she repeated,with emphasis, and the Indian girl guilelessly shook her head, andthen turned and covered her face with her hands.