XIX
THE ATTACK ON THE APACHE CAMP
Orders were passed and dispositions so made that one-half the forcewas placed on each flank of the camp. All movements were made at aconsiderable distance from the place to be attacked, and the utmostcare taken not to make a sound that would alarm the sleeping foe. Onceon the flanks, the men were to creep up slowly and stealthily toeffective rifle range. When the trunks of the palmettos were lightedall were to yell as diabolically as possible, and fire at every Indianthat showed himself.
The front of the camp looked towards the creek, which flowed overbowlders and pebbles with a great rush and roar. The Indians wereexpected in their flight to make a dash for the stream, and attempt topass through the shoal rapids to the wooded bluffs beyond. Myinstructions were for the men to screen themselves on the flanks,behind the yuccas, Spanish-bayonet, emole, and cacti. Accompanied byTom Clary and Paul Weaver, I selected a clump of vegetation on thenorthern side, from which the front of the tents could be observed.Sergeant Rafferty, with George Cooler, was on the opposite flank, andthe lighting of a tree on my side was to be the signal for one to belighted on the other, and for the yelling to begin.
This plan was carried out. The flash of one match was followedpromptly by the flash of another. Two flames burst forth, and rapidlyclimbed the shaggy trunks of the little palms, lighting up the wholelocality. At the same instant an imitation war-whoop burst fromvigorous lungs and throats.
Every one held his rifle in readiness to shoot the escaping Apaches,but not a redskin showed his jetty head. The soldiers yelled andyelled, practising every variation ingenuity could invent in the vainattempt to make their tame white-man utterances resemble theblood-curdling, hair-raising, heart-jumping shrieks of their Indianfoes, now so strangely silent. Not a savage responded vocally orotherwise.
But for the presence of the captive girl in one of the thirteen tentsthe attack would have begun by riddling the thinly covered shelterswith bullets at low range.
The two burning trees had gone out and two others had been lighted,and it soon appeared evident that if something was not done to bringout the foe the supply of torches would soon be exhausted and nothingaccomplished. In the darkness the advantage might even turn to theside of the redman.
Surgeon Coues, who reclined near me, asked: "Do you think any of thosefellows understand English?"
"Perhaps a few common phrases. They know Spanish fairly well fromliving for some centuries near the Mexicans."
"Are they quite as old as that, lieutenant?"
"You know what I mean, doctor."
"Why not speak to Brenda in English, and ask her to try to show uswhere she is? The Apaches will not understand--will think you aretalking to your men."
"An excellent idea, doctor. I'll try it."
Private Tom Clary was sent along both flanks with orders for allyelling to cease and for perfect quiet to be maintained. Then, actingupon the surgeon's suggestion, I called, in a clear, loud voice:
"Brenda, we are here--your friends from the fort. Your relatives aresafe. Try to make a signal, or do something by which we can learnwhere you are. Take plenty of time, and do nothing to endanger yourlife."
A long silence ensued, during which two more pillars of fire burnedout. I was beginning to fear I should be obliged to offer terms to theIndians, leaving them unhurt if they would yield up their captive andthe stolen stock; but before I had fully considered this alternativeClary, who was returning along the rear of the line of tents from hisrecent errand, approached and said: "Liftinint, as I was crapin' alongbehoind th' wiggies I saw somethin' loike a purty white hand stickin'out from undher th' edge of th' third from this ind."
"Show it to me," said I. "I'll go with you."
Making a slight detour to the rear, the soldier and I crept up to theback of the tent indicated, pausing at a distance of twenty feet fromit.
Nothing definite could be made out in the darkness. A narrow, whiteobject was visible beneath the lower edge. Sending Clary back a fewyards to light up a palm, I fixed my eyes on the object mentioned, andas the flames leaped up the trunk perceived by the flaring light asmall, white hand, holding in its fingers the loose tresses ofBrenda's hair. The question was settled. The captive girl was in thethird tent from the right of the line.
Waiting until the fire went out, Clary and I made our way back to ourformer station.
"Go around the lines again, Clary, and tell Sergeant Rafferty to movehis men to a point from which he can cover the rear of the camp, andopen fire on all the tents except the third from the right."
"All roight, sor; th' b'ys 'll soon mak' it loively for th' rids."
"Tell the sergeant to light up some trees."
"Yes, sor."
I then crept slowly back to my own flank, and ordered a disposition ofmy half of the party so as to command the space in front of the lineof tents. In another instant the flames were ascending twotree-trunks, and the rapid cracking of rifles broke our long reserve.With the first scream of a bullet through their flimsy shelters theIndians leaped out and ran for the river. Few fell. Rapid zigzags andthe swinging of blankets and arms as they ran confused the aim of thesoldiers. In less than five minutes the last Apache was out of sight,and the firing had ceased.
We dashed up to the tents, and I rushed to the one from which I hadseen the hand and tress thrust out, and called, "Brenda!" There was noresponse or sound. Looking into the entrance, I saw in the dim lightof the awakening day the figure of a girl lying on her back, her feetextended towards me, and her head touching the rear wall. The rightarm lay along her side, and the left was thrown above her head, thefingers still holding her hair.
A terrible fear seized my heart. I again called the girl by her name,but received no answer. I went in, and with nervous fingers lighted amatch and stooped beside her. Horror-stricken, I saw a stream of bloodthreading its way across the earthern floor from her left side. Ishouted for Dr. Coues, and the surgeon hurried in. From hisinstrument-case he took a small, portable lamp, and, lighting it, fellupon his knees beside the prostrate girl.
During the following few moments, while the skilled fingers of thefirm-nerved surgeon were cutting away clothing to expose the nature ofthe wound, my thoughts found time to wander to the distant family, onits way to the fort, and to the boy sergeants there. I thought what asad message it would be my province to bear to them, should this dearrelative and cherished friend die by savage hands.
There was little hope that the pretty girl could live. To me sheseemed already claimed by death. She who had made our long and wearymarch from Wingate to Whipple so pleasant by her vivacity andintelligence, and had latterly brightened our occasional visits toSkull Valley, was to die in this wretched hole.
But the _tactus eruditus_ of the young surgeon was continuing thesearch for some evidence that the savage stab was not fatal, and hismind was busy with means for preserving life, should there be achance. I watched his motions, and assisted now and then when asked,and waited with strained patience for a word upon which to base ahope.
At last the surgeon gently dropped the hand whose pulse he had longbeen examining, and said: "She is alive, and that is about all thatcan be said. You see, her hands, arms, and neck are badly scorched bythe dash she made through the fire at the ranch. Then this wickedknife-thrust has paralyzed her. She has bled considerably, too, butshe lives. Press your finger upon this artery--here."
"Can she be made to live, doctor?"
"The knife has not touched a vital part, but it may have doneirreparable injury. I can tell more presently."
Nothing more was said, except in the way of direction, for some time,the surgeon working slowly and skilfully at the wound. At last,rearranging the girl's clothing and replacing his instruments in theircase, he said: "If I had the girl in the post-hospital, or in acivilized dwelling, with a good nurse, I think she might recover."
"Can't we give her the proper attendance here, doctor?" I asked.
"I fear not. She ought to have a wom
an's gentle care, for one thing,and some remedies and appliances I haven't with me for such a delicatecase. It is the long distance between here and the fort, and the roughroad, that make the outlook hopeless. She cannot survive such ajourney."
"Then we will remain here, doctor," said I. "Write out a list of whatyou want, and I will send a man to Whipple for tents and supplies, acamp woman, Frank, Vic, and the elder Arnold girl."
"Duncan, you are inspired!" exclaimed the doctor. "I'll have my orderready by the time the messenger reports, and then we'll make Brendacomfortable."
A letter was written to Captain Bayard, the surgeon's memorandaenclosed, and a quarter of an hour afterwards fleet-footed Sancho wasflying over the sixty miles to Fort Whipple as fast as Private TomClary could ride him. Three days later a pack-train arrived, with alaundress from the infantry company, Frank Burton, and Mary Arnold,and with stores and supplies necessary for setting up a sick-camp. Thewounded girl mended rapidly from the start.
In due time Brenda recovered sufficiently to bear transportation toPrescott, where she joined her uncle and cousins. Rapid changesquickly followed. I received orders directing me to report for duty atonce at the Seabury Military School, and by the same mail came lettersfrom Colonel Burton directing his sons to accompany me. At the end ofthe next fortnight, just as we were packed for a journey to thePacific coast, Brenda received instructions from her maternalrelatives to make the same journey, and joined us.
Frank and Henry's project to transport their ponies East, and theirplans for Manuel and Sapoya, were also carried out. Boys and poniesbecame a prominent contingent to the corps of cadets under my militaryinstruction during the following three years.
Later, Henry went to West Point and became an officer of the army.Frank and Manuel went to college, the former becoming a distinguishedcivil engineer and the latter a prominent business man. Sapoya closedhis school career at Seabury, and rejoined his people in the IndianTerritory, becoming a valued and respected leader of his people.
On a beautiful lawn before a fine mansion on the eastern shore of theHudson River, beneath the shade of a stately elm, stands a smallmonument, upon the top of which rests a finely chiselled model of asetter dog. Beneath, on a bronze tablet, is engraved:
"BENEATH THIS STONE LIES VICTORIANA, THE LOVED AND ESTEEMED FRIEND OF CHARLES ALFRED DUNCAN, FRANK DOUGLAS BURTON, BRENDA ARNOLD BURTON, HENRY FRANCIS BURTON, MANUEL AUGUSTINE PEREA Y LUNA, SAPOYA SNOYGON PEREA."
THE END
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