XVII
PURSUIT OF THE APACHES
With twenty-eight men, including two scouts picked up as we passedthrough Prescott, and the post surgeon, I left for Skull Valley. Thenight was moonless, but the myriad stars shone brilliantly through therarefied atmosphere of that Western region, lighting the trail andmaking it fairly easy to follow. It was a narrow pathway, with but fewplaces where two horsemen could ride abreast, so conversation wasalmost impossible, and few words, except those of command, werespoken; nor were the men in a mood to talk. All were more or lessexcited and impatient, and, wherever the road would permit, urgedtheir horses to a run.
The trail climbed and descended rugged steeps, crossed smoothintervals, skirted the edges of precipices, wound along borders of drycreeks, and threaded forests of pine and clumps of sage-brush andgreasewood. Throughout the ride the imaginations of officers and menwere depicting the scenes they feared were being enacted in thevalley, or which might take place should they fail to arrive in timeto prevent.
It is needless to say, perhaps, that the one person about whom thethoughts of the men composing the rescuing party centred was thegentle, bright, and pretty Brenda. To think of her falling into thehands of the merciless Apaches was almost maddening.
On and on rode the column, the men giving their panting steeds no morerest than the nature of the road and the success of the expeditionrequired. At last we reached the spur of the range behind which laySkull Valley. We skirted it, and with anxious eyes sought through thedarkness the place where the ranch buildings should be. All wassilence. No report of fire-arms or whoop of savages disturbed thequiet of the valley.
Ascending a swell in the surface of the ground we saw that all thebuildings had disappeared, nothing meeting our anxious gaze but bedsof lurid coals, occasionally fanned into a red glow by theintermittent night breeze. But there was the impregnable earthwork;the family must be in that. I dashed swiftly forward, eagerly followedby my men. The earthwork was destroyed, nothing but a circular pitremaining, in the bottom of which glowed the embers of the fallenroof-timbers.
A search for the slain was at once begun, and continued for a longtime. Every square rod of the valley for a mile was hunted overwithout result, and we all gathered once more about the two cellars,in which the coals still glowed.
"It was in the cellar of the house that Sergeant Henry said the bodyof Mrs. Arnold was laid, was it not?" asked Dr. Coues.
"Yes," I replied.
"Then if all were killed after he left--shot from time to time--wouldnot their remains be likely to be beside hers?"
"Not beside hers, I think. The last stand must have been made in thefort."
"Then the bodies, or what is left of them, must lie under thatcircular bed of coals, Duncan, if they died here."
"Probably, doctor. It's an uncanny thing to do, but we must stir thecoals and see."
A thorough search revealed nothing.
"Does th' liftinint moind that Sargint Hinery mintioned a covered waythat led from th' cellar to th' spring?" asked Private Tom Clary, whowielded a rail beside me. "Perhaps th' pretty lassie and her frindsare in that."
"That is so, Clary; thank you for the suggestion," I answered. "Canyou make out the opening?"
"Nothin' sure, sor. Behoind thim wagon-tires there sames to be anatural slope of earth."
"Tip the tires over, Clary," I ordered; and presently a number oftires, from which the fire had burned the felloes, spokes, and hubs,fell into the coals, disclosing a recently filled aperture.
"Looks as if the end of a passage had been filled, doesn't it?" askedthe surgeon.
"It certainly does," I answered. "Let us go to the spring andexamine."
Accompanied by the doctor and several men, I rode to the spring. Whenwe arrived there we broke a way through the thick-set willows into anirregular mass of small bowlders. Climbing over these, we foundourselves at the mouth of a narrow passage about four feet high andtwo feet wide.
"This must be the entrance to the covered way," I remarked, andplacing my head in the crevice, I called: "Oh, Mr. Arnold, we arehere--your friends from Fort Whipple!"
"Thank Heaven!" in a man's tones, came clearly through the entrance,accompanied by a sudden outburst of sobs in girlish voices.
"We'll be there directly," spoke another man's voice--that of astranger. "We've heard your horses' hoofs jarring the ground for sometime, but we thought it safest to lay low until we were sure it wasn'tredskins."
Then followed the sound of steps, accompanied by voices, sounding atthe entrance, as a voice spoken in a long tube appears to be utteredat the listener's end. Some time elapsed before those who seemed sonear appeared; but at last there emerged from the passage Mr. Arnold,two strange men, and three girls--but no Brenda.
"Where is Brenda, Mr. Arnold?" I asked.
"Heaven only knows, lieutenant. She gave herself up to the Apaches."
"Gave herself up to the Apaches! What do you mean?"
"That's precisely what she did, lieutenant," said one of thestrangers, adding: "My name is Bartlett, from Hassayampa, and this isMr. Gilbert, from Tucson. We were on our way from La Paz to Prescottand stopped here for a meal, and got corralled by the Indians. Butabout the girl Brenda: she took it into her head, after we got intothe little fort, that unless some one could create a diversion tomislead the devils, we'd all lose our scalps."
"That beautiful young girl! Gave herself up to certain torture anddeath! Why did you allow it?"
"Allow it!" exclaimed Mr. Bartlett, indignantly. "I hope, lieutenant,you don't think so hard of me and my friend as to believe we'd haveallowed it if we'd suspected what the plucky miss meant to do!"
"Tell me the circumstances, Mr. Bartlett," said I.
The party moved slowly along the path from the spring to the fires,and as they walked Mr. Arnold and the travellers gave an account ofall that had happened after Sergeant Henry left for Fort Whipple.
The burning arrows sent to the pitch-pine roof became so numerous thatthe besieged found it impossible to prevent the flames from catchingin several places. Henry was hardly out of sight before the housebecame untenable, and the defenders were obliged to retire to thefort. When the house was consumed, and its timbers had fallen into thecellar a mass of burning brands, the space about the earthwork wasclear, and the rifles at its loop-holes kept the Indians close withinthe out-building they had occupied since the attack began. No onedared to show himself to the unerring marksmen, who watched everymovement.
For a long time silence reigned among the Indians. The whites,however, felt sure that plans were being matured which meant disasterto them.
At last these plans were revealed in a constant and rapid flight ofarrows, directed at a point between two loop-holes--a point whichcould not be reached by the besieged, and where, if a considerablecollection of burning brands could be heaped against the logs,between the earth and the eaves, the pine walls and rafters must takefire. Walls and roof were too solid to be cut away, and water couldnot reach the outside.
The defenders, when they realized what the result of a fire would be,held a consultation, and decided that in the event of the fire gettingcontrol of the fort they should retire into the covered way, block upthe entrance with earth, and remain there until help should arrive. Itwas thought the Indians would suppose all had perished in the flames.
"But they know we came here by an underground passage from the house,"said Brenda; "will they not suspect we have entered another passage ifwe all disappear?"
"P'r'aps they may," answered Mr. Arnold; "I had not thought of that.We'll have to take our chances."
"If one of us was to appear to escape from here, and join them,"continued the girl, "I think they would suppose the others hadperished, and make no search."
"That may be true, but I'll take my chances here," said Mr. Gilbert.
"So will I," said his companion. "A fellow wouldn't last a minuteoutside this fort. I prefer smothering to the death those devils willgive me."
It soo
n became evident to the besieged that the outer wall was onfire.
The sun had gone down and darkness was deepening in the valley whenthe first tongue of flame licked through a crevice in the roof andshowed that the fire had gained a foothold. Soon a hole appeared,close to the eaves, which gradually enlarged towards the centre of theroof and along the surface of the earth. With blankets the fire wasbeaten out on the sides, but it crept insidiously along between thetimber and earth covering.
In making the roof, branches of pine had been spread over the timber,and the branches in turn covered with a thick layer of straw toprevent the earth from filtering between the logs. This material wasas dry as tinder, and held the fire.
The men stood at the loop-holes and compelled the savages to remainunder cover of the out-building, while the four girls exertedthemselves to keep the fire from showing inside. Delay until helpcould arrive from Whipple was what all were struggling to gain; butthe increasing heat and smoke showed the defenders at last that theycould no longer put off retiring to the covered way.
The word was given and all entered it, and the men with shovels beganto close the entrance. When it was a little more than half closed thehole in the roof had become triangular, resembling the space betweentwo spokes and a felloe of a wheel. On the earth, or felloe side ofthe triangle, there was no fire; but the other sides were burningfiercely.
Making a sudden dash, and before any one could realize her intention,Brenda leaped past the shovellers, sprang over the embankment theywere throwing up, and by the aid of a bench sprang up the four-footwall, through the flame-bordered aperture, and disappeared, herclothing apparently in a blaze. The war-whoops immediately ceased.
No attempt at pursuit or rescue was made. The Arnolds and thestrangers felt that it would be useless, and only result in the deathof the pursuers. The work of closing the passage was resumed andcompleted, and all sat down to await the slow flight of time and thepossible arrival of the soldiers.
After listening to the story of the Arnolds I concluded that Brendahad fallen a victim to the cruelty of the Apaches, and that we shouldfind her mutilated and disfigured body. A rapid and excited search wasat once began. Far and wide, over plain, through ravines, and into thefoot-hills rode the soldiers, leaving no part of the country forseveral miles around unsearched; but not a trace of the missing girlwas discovered.
Once more the detachment gathered near the ruins of the Arnold home,and began preparations for returning to Whipple. The remains of thedead wife and mother were lifted from beneath the charred timbers anddeposited in a grave near by. While the burial was taking place, thetwo scouts, Weaver and Cooler, were absent, looking for the Apachetrail. Day was dawning, and as it was probable when they returned thatthe command could start, I ordered the horses fed from the looseforage scattered about, and the men to prepare their breakfast.
The scouts returned as the men were dispersing from their meal, andCooler placed in my hand a dainty lock of flaxen hair, wound aroundthe middle with a strand of the same.
"I found it," said the scout, "beside the ravine yonder, a little morethan two miles from here. The young miss is alive, and dropped it fora 'sign.' The redskins all left in that direction."
Whatever Brenda's three cousins may have lacked in education andcultivation, they wanted nothing in affection. They gathered about thelittle tress, took it daintily in their palms, kissed it again andagain, and moistened it with tears. Low sobs and endearing names forthe brave darling who had been willing to sacrifice her life topreserve theirs fell from their lips. Poor, rude, frontier maids, theyhad shown an equal bravery all through the defence, and provedthemselves to be worthy descendants of the race that lived through thecolonial struggles with the Indians of the Mohawk Valley. The threegirls gathered about me, and, clinging to my arms, besought me to goto the rescue of their cousin.
"Yes, yes, girls," I replied; "everything shall be done that possiblycan be. We will start at once, and I hope to bring her back to you."Turning to the father, I said, "Mr. Arnold, I will leave you aluncheon for the road, and you must try to make the distance toPrescott on foot."
"Yes, sir; we can do it easy, thank you."
"I would leave you some of the men as escort, but in such anexpedition I need more than I have."
"That's all right, Mr. Dunkin; 'f I had a beast I'd go with ye.There'll be no Apaches round these parts agin for a considerablespell," and his eyes ran sadly over the ruins of his home, the wreckof his property, resting finally on the grave of his wife.
Yes, Brenda was alive, and a prisoner of the Apaches, spared by them,probably, as children sometimes are after such raids, for adoption. Itwas plainly our duty to rescue her from the fate of a continued lifewith her captors.