An Apache Princess: A Tale of the Indian Frontier

by Charles King

  CHAPTER XIII

  WHOSE LETTERS?

  There is something about a night alarm of fire at a military post thatborders on the thrilling. In the days whereof we write the buildingswere not the substantial creations of brick and stone to be seento-day, and those of the scattered "camps" and stations in that arid,sun-scorched land of Arizona were tinder boxes of the flimsiest andmost inflammable kind.

  It could hardly have been a minute from the warning shot and yell ofNo. 5--repeated right and left by other sentries and echoed by No. 1at the guard-house--before bugle and trumpet were blaring their fiercealarm, and the hoarse roar of the drum was rousing the inmates of theinfantry barracks. Out they came, tumbling pell-mell into theaccustomed ranks, confronted by the sight of Blakely's quarters onebroad sheet of flame. With incredible speed the blaze had burst forthfrom the front room on the lower floor; leaped from window to window,from ledge to ledge; fastened instantly on overhanging roof, and theshingled screen of the veranda; had darted up the dry wooden stairway,devouring banister, railing, and snapping pine floor, and then,billowing forth from every crack, crevice, and casement of the upperfloor streamed hissing and crackling on the blackness that precedesthe dawn, a magnificent glare that put to shame the feeble signalfires lately gleaming in the mountains. Luckily there was nowind--there never was a wind at Sandy--and the flames leaped straightfor the zenith, lashing their way into the huge black pillar of smokecloud sailing aloft to the stars.

  Under their sergeants, running in disciplined order, one company hadsped for the water wagon and were now slowly trundling that unwieldyvehicle, pushing, pulling, straining at the wheels, from its nightberth close to the corrals. Rushing like mad, in no order at all, themen of the other company came tearing across the open parade, and werefaced and halted far out in front of officers' row by Blakely himself,barefooted and clad only in his pyjamas, but all alive with vim andenergy.

  "Back, men! back for your blankets!" he cried. "Bring ladders andbuckets! Back with you, lively!" They seemed to catch his meaning atthe instant. His soldier home with everything it contained was doomed.Nothing could save it. But there stood the next quarters,--Truman'sand Westervelt's double set,--and in the intense heat that mustspeedily develop, it might well be that the dry, resinous woodworkthat framed the adobe would blaze forth on its own account and spreada conflagration down the line. Already Mrs. Truman, with Norah and thechildren, was being hurried down to the doctor's, while Trumanhimself, with the aid of two or three neighboring "strikers," hadstripped the beds of their single blanket and, bucketing these withwater, was slashing at the veranda roof and cornice along thenorthward side.

  Somebody came with a short ladder, and in another moment three or fouradventurous spirits, led by Blakely and Truman, were scrambling aboutthe veranda roof, their hands and faces glowing in the gathering heat,spreading blankets over the shingling and cornice. In five minutes allthat was left of Blakely's little homestead was gone up in smoke andfierce, furious heat and flame, but the daring and well-directedeffort of the garrison had saved the rest of the line. In ten minutesnothing but a heap of glowing beams and embers, within four crumblingwalls of adobe, remained of the "beetle shop." Bugs, butterflies,books, chests, desk, trunks, furniture, papers, and such martialparaphernalia as a subaltern might require in that desert land, hadbeen reduced to ashes before their owner's eyes. He had not saved somuch as a shoe. His watch, lying on the table by his bedside, a silkhandkerchief, and a little scrap of a note, written in girlish handand carried temporarily in the breast pocket, were the only items hehad managed to bring with him into the open air. He was still gasping,gagging, half-strangling, when Captain Cutler accosted him to know ifhe could give the faintest explanation of the starting of so strangeand perilous a fire, and Blakely, remembering the stealthy footstepsand that locked or bolted door, could not but say he believed itincendiary, yet could think of no possible motive.

  It was daybreak as the little group of spectators, women and childrenof the garrison, began to break up and return to their homes, alltalking excitedly, all intolerant of the experiences of others, andcentered solely in the narrative of their own. Leaving a dozen menwith buckets, readily filled from the acequia which turned the oldwater wheel just across the post of No. 4, and sending the big waterwagon down to the stream for another liquid load, the infantry wentback to their barracks and early coffee. The drenched blankets, one byone, were stripped from the gable end of Truman's quarters, everysquare inch of the paint thereon being now a patch of tiny blisters,and there, as the dawn broadened and the pallid light took on again atinge of rose, the officers gathered about Blakely in his scorched andsoaked pyjamas, extending both condolence and congratulation.

  "The question is, Blakely," remarked Captain Westervelt dryly, "willyou go to Frisco to refit now, or wait till Congress reimburses?"whereat the scientist was observed to smile somewhat ruefully. "Thequestion is, Bugs," burst in young Doty irrepressibly, "will you wearthis rig, or Apache full dress, when you ride after Wren? The runnersstart at six," whereat even the rueful smile was observed to vanish,and without answer Blakely turned away, stepping gingerly into theheated sand with his bare white feet.

  "Don't bother about dousing anything else, sergeant," said hepresently, to the soldier supervising the work of the bucket squad."The iron box should be under what's left of my desk--about there,"and he indicated a charred and steaming heap, visible through a gap inthe doubly baked adobe that had once been the side window. "Lug thatout as soon as you can cool things off. I'll probably be back by thattime." Then, turning again to the group of officers, and ignoringDoty--Blakely addressed himself to the senior.

  "Captain Cutler," said he, "I can fit myself out at the troop quarterswith everything I need for the field, at least, and wire to SanFrancisco for what I shall need when we return. I shall be ready to gowith Ahorah at six."

  There was a moment of silence. Embarrassment showed plainly in almostevery face. When Cutler spoke it was with obvious effort. Everybodyrealized that Blakely, despite severe personal losses, had been thedirecting head in checking the progress of the flames. Truman hadborne admirable part, but Blakely was at once leader and actor. Hedeserved well of his commander. He was still far from strong. He wasweak and weary. His hands and face were scorched and in placesblistered, yet, turning his back on the ruins of his treasures, hedesired to go at once to join his comrades in the presence of theenemy. He had missed every previous opportunity of sharing perils andbattle with them. He could afford such loss as that no longer, in viewof what he knew had been said. He had every right, so thought theyall, to go, yet Cutler hesitated. When at last he spoke it was totemporize.

  "You're in no condition for field work, Mr. Blakely," said he. "Thedoctor has so assured me, and just now things are taking such shapeI--need you here."

  "You will permit me to appeal by wire, sir?" queried Blakely, standingattention in his bedraggled night garb, and forcing himself to asemblance of respect that he was far from feeling.

  "I--I will consult Dr. Graham and let you know," was the captain'sawkward reply.

  Two hours later Neil Blakely, in a motley dress made up of collectionsfrom the troop and trader's stores--a combination costume of blueflannel shirt, bandanna kerchief, cavalry trousers with machine-madesaddle piece, Tonto moccasins and leggings, fringed gauntlets and abroad-brimmed white felt hat, strode into the messroom in quest ofeggs and coffee. Doty had been there and vanished. Sick call wassounding and Graham was stalking across the parade in the direction ofthe hospital, too far away to be reached by human voice, unlessuplifted to the pitch of attracting the whole garrison. The telegraphoperator had just clicked off the last of half a dozen messagesscrawled by the lieutenant--orders on San Francisco furnishers for thenew outfit demanded by the occasion, etc., but Captain Cutler wasstill mured within his own quarters, declining to see Mr. Blakelyuntil ready to come to the office. Ahorah and his swarthy partner werealready gone, "started even before six," said the acting sergeantmajor, and Blake
ly was fuming with impatience and sense of somethingmuch amiss. Doty was obviously dodging him, there could be no doubtof that, for the youngster was between two fires, the post commander'spositive orders on one hand and Blakely's urgent pleadings on theother.

  Over at "C" Troop's quarters was the lieutenant's saddle, ready packedwith blanket, greatcoat, and bulging saddle-bags. Over in "C" Troop'sstables was Deltchay--the lieutenant's bronco charger, ready fed andgroomed, wondering why he was kept in when the other horses were outat graze. With the saddle kit were the troop carbine and revolver,Blakely's personal arms being now but stockless tubes of seared andblistered steel. Back of "C" Troop's quarters lolled a half-breedMexican packer, with a brace of mules, one girt with saddle, the otherin shrouding aparejo--diamond-hitched, both borrowed from the posttrader with whom Blakely's note of hand was good as a government fourper cent.--all ready to follow the lieutenant to the field whitherright and duty called him. There, too, was Nixon, the new "striker,"new clad as was his master, and full panoplied for the field, yetbemoaning the loss of soldier treasures whose value was never fullyrealized until they were irrevocably gone. Six o'clock, six-thirty,six-forty-five and even seven sped by and still there came no summonsto join the soldier master. There had come instead, when Nixon urgedthat he be permitted to lead forth both his own troop horse andDeltchay, the brief, but significant reply: "Shut yer gab, Nixon.There's no horse goes till the captain says so!"

  At seven o'clock, at last, the post commander came forth from hisdoorway; saw across the glaring level of the parade the form of Mr.Blakely impatiently pacing the veranda at the adjutant's office, and,instead of going thither, as was his wont, Captain Cutler turned theother way and strode swiftly to the hospital, where Graham met him atthe bedside of Trooper patient Patrick Mullins. "How is he?" queriedCutler.

  "Sleeping--thank God--and not to be wakened," was the Scotchman'sanswer. "He had a bad time of it during the fire."

  "What am I to tell Blakely?" demanded Cutler, seeking strength for hisfaltering hand. "You're bound to help me now, Graham."

  "Let him go and you _may_ make it worse," said the doctor, with aclamp of his grizzled jaws. "Hold him here and you're sure to."

  "Can't you, as post surgeon, tell him he isn't fit to ride?"

  "Not when he rides the first half of the night and puts out a nastyfire the last. Can't you, as post commander, tell him you forbid hisgoing till you hear from Byrne and investigate the fire?" If Grahamhad no patience with a frail woman, he had nothing but contempt for aweak man. "If he's bound to be up and doing something, though," headded, "send him out with a squad of men and orders to hunt forDowns."

  Cutler had never even thought of it. Downs was still missing. No onehad seen him. His haunts had been searched to no purpose. His horsewas still with the herd. One man, the sergeant of the guard, theprevious day, had marked the brief farewell between the missing manand the parting maid--had seen the woman's gloved hand stealthily putforth and the little folded packet passed to the soldier's ready palm.What that paper contained no man ventured to conjecture. Cutler andGraham, notified by Sergeant Kenna of what he had seen, puzzled overit in vain. Norah Shaughnessy could perhaps unravel it, thought thedoctor, but he did not say.

  Cutler came forth from the shaded depths of the broad hallway to facethe dazzling glare of the morning sunshine, and the pale, stern,reproachful features of the homeless lieutenant, who simply raised hishand in salute and said: "I've been ready two hours, sir, and therunners are long gone."

  "Too long and too far for you to catch them now," said Cutler,catching at another straw. "And there is far more important matterhere. Mr. Blakely, I want that man Downs followed, found, and broughtback to this post, and you're the only man to do it. Take a dozentroopers, if necessary, and set about it, sir, at once."

  A soldier was at the moment hurrying past the front of the hospital, agrimy-looking packet in his hand. Hearing the voice of Captain Cutler,he turned, saw Lieutenant Blakely standing there at attention, sawthat, as the captain finished, Blakely still remained a moment asthough about to speak--saw that he seemed a trifle dazed or stunned.Cutler marked it, too. "This is imperative and immediate, Mr.Blakely," said he, not unkindly. "Pull yourself together if you arefit to go at all, and lose no more time." With that he started away.Graham had come to the doorway, but Blakely never seemed to see him.Instead he suddenly roused and, turning sharp, sprang down the woodensteps as though to overtake the captain, when the soldier, saluting,held forth the dingy packet.

  "It was warped out of all shape, sir," said he. "The blacksmith priedout the lid wid a crowbar. The books are singed and soaked and thepackages charred--all but this."

  It fell apart as it passed from hand to hand, and a lot of letters,smoke-stained, scorched at the edges, and some of them soaking wet,also two or three _carte de visite_ photographs, were scattered on thesand. Both men bobbed in haste to gather them up, and Graham camehurriedly down to help. As Blakely straightened again he swayed andstaggered slightly, and the doctor grasped him by the arm, a suddenclutch that perhaps shook loose some of the recovered papers from thelong, slim fingers. At all events, a few went suddenly back to earth,and, as Cutler turned, wondering what was amiss, he saw Blakely, withalmost ashen face, supported by the doctor's sturdy arm to a seat onthe edge of the piazza; saw, as he quickly retraced his steps, a sweetand smiling woman's face looking up at him out of the trampled sands,and, even as he stooped to recover the pretty photograph, though itlooked far younger, fairer, and more winsome than ever he had seen it,Cutler knew the face at once. It was that of Clarice, wife of MajorPlume. Whose, then, were those scattered letters?