An Apache Princess: A Tale of the Indian Frontier

by Charles King

  CHAPTER XIX

  BESIEGED

  Deep down in a ragged cleft of the desert, with shelving rock andgiant bowlder on every side, without a sign of leaf, or sprig ofgrass, or tendril of tiny creeping plant, a little party of haggard,hunted men lay in hiding and in the silence of exhaustion and despond,awaiting the inevitable. Bulging outward overhead, like the counter ofsome huge battleship, a great mass of solid granite heaved unbrokenabove them, forming a recess or cave, in which they were secureagainst arrow, shot, or stone from the crest of the lofty, almostvertical walls of the vast and gloomy canon. Well back under thisnatural shelter, basined in the hollowed rock, a blessed pool of fairwater lay unwrinkled by even a flutter of breeze. Relic of the earlyspringtime and the melting snows, it had been caught and imprisonedhere after the gradually failing stream had trickled itself intonothingness. One essential, one comfort then had not been denied thebeleaguered few, but it was about the only one. Water for drink, forfevered wounds and burning throats, they had in abundance; but thelast "hardtack" had been shared, the last scrap of bacon long sincedevoured. Of the once-abundant rations only coffee grains were left.Of the cartridge-crammed "thimble belts," with which they had enteredthe canon and the Apache trap, only three contained so much as asingle copper cylinder, stopped by its forceful lead. These threebelonged to troopers, two of whom, at least, would never have use forthem again. One of these, poor Jerry Kent, lay buried beneath thelittle cairn of rocks in still another cavelike recess a dozen yardsaway, hidden there by night, when prowling Apaches could not see thesorrowing burial party and crush them with bowlders heaved over theprecipice above, or shoot them down with whistling lead orsteel-tipped arrow from some safe covert in the rocky walls.

  Cut off from their comrades while scouting a side ravine, Captain Wrenand his quartette of troopers had made stiff and valiant fight againstsuch of the Indians as permitted hand or head to show from behind therocks. They had felt confident that Sergeant Brewster and the mainbody would speedily miss them, or hear the sound of firing and turnback _au secours_, but sounds are queerly carried in such a maze ofdeep and tortuous clefts as seamed the surface in every conceivabledirection through the wild basin of the Colorado. Brewster's rearmostfiles declared long after that never the faintest whisper of affrayhad reached their ears, already half deadened by fatigue and theceaseless crash of iron-shod hoofs on shingly rock. As for Brewsterhimself, he was able to establish that Wren's own orders were to "pushahead" and try to make Sunset Pass by nightfall, while the captain,with such horses as seemed freshest, scouted right and left whereverpossible. The last seen of Jerry Kent, it later transpired, was whenhe came riding after them to say the captain had gone into the mouthof the gorge opening to the west, and the last message borne from thecommander to the troop came through Jerry Kent to Sergeant Dusold, whobrought up the rear. They had passed the mouths of half a dozenravines within the hour, some on one side, some on the other, andDusold "passed the word" by sending Corporal Slater clattering up thecanon, skirting the long drawn-out column of files until, far in thelead, he could overtake the senior sergeant and deliver his message.Later, when Brewster rode back with all but the little guard left overhis few broken-down men and mounts in Sunset Pass, Dusold couldconfidently locate in his own mind the exact spot where Kent overtookhim; but Dusold was a drill-book dragoon of the Prussian school,consummately at home on review or parade, but all at sea, so to speak,in the mountains. They never found a trace of their loved leader. Theclefts they scouted were all on the wrong side.

  And so it happened that relief came not, that one after another thefive horses fell, pierced with missiles or crushed and stunned byrocks crashing down from above, that Kent himself was shot through thebrain, and Wren skewered through the arm by a Tonto shaft, and pluggedwith a round rifle ball in the shoulder. Sergeant Carmody bound up hiscaptain's wound as best he could, and by rare good luck, keeping up abold front, and answering every shot, they fought their way to thislittle refuge in the rocks, and there, behind improvised barricades orbowlders, "stood off" their savage foe, hoping rescue might soon reachthem.

  But Wren was nearly wild from wounds and fever when the third day cameand no sign of the troop. Another man had been hit and stung, andthough not seriously wounded, like a burnt child, he now shunned thefire and became, perforce, an ineffective. Their scanty store ofrations was gone entirely. Sergeant Carmody and his alternate watcherswere worn out from lack of sleep when, in the darkness of midnight, alow hail in their own tongue came softly through the deadsilence,--the voice of Lieutenant Blakely cautioning, "Don't fire,Wren. It's the Bugologist," and in another moment he and his orderlyafoot, in worn Apache moccasins, but equipped with crammed haversacksand ammunition belts, were being welcomed by the besieged. There waslittle of the emotional and nothing of the melodramatic about it. Itwas, if anything, rather commonplace. Wren was flighty and disposed togive orders for an immediate attack in force on the enemy's works, towhich the sergeant, his lips trembling just a bit, responded withprompt salute: "Very good, sir, just as quick as the men can finishsupper. Loot'nent Blakely's compliments, sir, and he'll be ready inten minutes," for Blakely and his man, seeing instantly the conditionof things, had freshened the little fire and begun unloading supplies.Solalay, their Indian guide, after piloting them through the woodlandsouthwest of Snow Lake, had pointed out the canon, bidden them followit and, partly in the sign language, partly in Spanish, partly in thefew Apache terms that Blakely had learned during his agency days,managed to make them understand that Wren was to be found some fivemiles further on, and that most of the besieging Tontos were on theheights above or in the canon below. Few would be encountered, if any,on the up-stream side. Then, promising to take the horses and themules to Camp Sandy, he had left them. He dared go no farther towardthe warring Apaches. They would suspect and butcher him without mercy.

  But Solalay had not gone without promise of further aid. Natzie'syounger brother, Alchisay, had recently come to him with a messagefrom her, and should be coming with another. Solalay thought he couldfind the boy and send him to them to be used as a courier. Blakely'sopportune coming had cheered not a little the flagging defense, but,not until forty-eight hours thereafter, by which time their conditionhad become almost desperate and the foe almost daring, did the lithe,big-eyed, swarthy little Apache reach them. Blakely knew himinstantly, wrote his dispatch and bade the boy go with all speed, withthe result we know. "Three more of our party are wounded," he hadwritten, but had not chosen to say that one of them was himself.

  A solemn sight was this that met the eyes of the Bugologist, asCarmody roused him from a fitful sleep, with the murmured words,"Almost light, sir. They'll be on us soon as they can see." Deep inunder the overhang and close to the pool lay one poor fellow whoseswift, gasping breath told all too surely that the Indian bullet hadfound fatal billet in his wasting form. It was Chalmers, a youngSoutherner, driven by poverty at home and prospect of adventure abroadto seek service in the cavalry. It was practically his first campaign,and in all human probability his last. Consciousness had left himhours ago, and his vagrant spirit was fast loosing every earthly bond,and already, in fierce dreamings, at war with unseen and savage foeover their happy hunting grounds in the great Beyond. Near him,equally sheltered, yet further toward the dim and pallid light, layWren, his strong Scotch features pinched and drawn with pain and lossof blood and lack of food. Fever there was little left, there was solittle left for it to live upon. Weak and helpless as a child in armshe lay, inert and silent. There was nothing he could do. Never aquarter hour had passed since he had been forced to lie there thatsome one of his devoted men had not bathed his forehead and cooled hisburning wounds with abundant flow of blessed water. Twice since hisgradual return to consciousness had he asked for Blakely, and hadbidden him sit and tell him of Sandy, asking for tidings of Angela,and faltering painfully as he bethought himself of the lastinstructions he had given. How could Blakely be supposed to know aughtof her or of the household bidden to treat him
practically as astranger? Now, he thought it grand that the Bugologist had thrown allconsideration of peril to the wind and had hastened to their aid toshare their desperate fortunes. But Wren knew not how to tell of it.He took courage and hope when Blakely spoke of Solalay's loyalty, ofyoung Alchisay's daring visit and his present mission. Apaches of hisband had been known to traverse sixty miles a day over favorableground, and Alchisay, even through such a labyrinth of rock, ravine,and precipice, should not make less than thirty. Within forty-eighthours of his start the boy ought to reach the Sandy valley, and surelyno moment would then be lost in sending troops to find and rescuethem. But four days and nights, said Blakely to himself, was the leasttime in which they could reasonably hope for help, and now only thethird night had gone,--gone with their supplies of every kind. A fewhours more and the sun would be blazing in upon even the dank depthsof the canon for his midday stare. A few minutes more and the Apaches,too, would be up and blazing on their own account. "Keep well undershelter," were Blakely's murmured orders to the few men, even as thefirst, faint breath of the dawn came floating from the broader reachesfar down the rocky gorge.

  In front of their cavelike refuge, just under the shelving massoverhead, heaped in a regular semicircle, a rude parapet of rocks gaveshelter to the troopers guarding the approaches. Little loopholes hadbeen left, three looking down and two northward up the dark and tortuousrift. In each of these a loaded carbine lay in readiness. So well chosenwas the spot that for one hundred yards southeastward--down stream--thenarrow gorge was commanded by the fire of the defense, while above, fornearly eighty, from wall to wall, the approach was similarly swept. Norush was therefore possible on part of the Apaches without everyprobability of their losing two or three of the foremost. The Apachelacks the magnificent daring of the Sioux or Cheyenne. He is a fighterfrom ambush; he risks nothing for glory's sake; he is a monarch in craftand guile, but no hero in open battle. For nearly a week now, day afterday, the position of the defenders had been made almost terrible by thefierce bombardment to which it had been subjected, of huge stones orbowlders sent thundering down the almost precipitous walls, thenbounding from ledge to ledge, or glancing from solid, sloping facediving, finally, with fearful crash into the rocky bed at the bottom,sending a shower of fragments hurtling in every direction, oftdislodging some section of parapet, yet never reaching the depths of thecave. Add to this nerve-racking siege work the instant, spiteful flashof barbed arrow or zip and crack of bullet when hat or hand of one ofthe defenders was for a second exposed, and it is not difficult to fancythe wear and tear on even the stoutest heart in the depleted littleband.

  And still they set their watch and steeled their nerves, and in doggedsilence took their station as the pallid light grew roseate on thecliffs above them. And with dull and wearied, yet wary, eyes, eachsoldier scanned every projecting rock or point that could give shelterto lurking foe, and all the time the brown muzzles of the carbineswere trained low along the stream bed. No shot could now be thrownaway at frowsy turban or flaunting rag along the cliffs. The rush wasthe one thing they had to dread and drive back. It was God's mercy theApache dared not charge in the dark.

  THE FIGHT IN THE CANON]

  Lighter grew the deep gorge and lighter still, and soon in gloriousradiance the morning sunshine blazed on the lofty battlements faroverhead, and every moment the black shadow on the westward wall,visible to the defense long rifle-shot southeastward, gave gradual waybefore the rising day god, and from the broader open reaches beyond thehuge granite shoulder, around which wound the canon, and from thesun-kissed heights, a blessed warmth stole softly in, gratefulinexpressibly to their chilled and stiffened limbs. And still, despitethe growing hours, neither shot nor sign came from the accustomed hauntsof the surrounding foe. Six o'clock was marked by Blakely's watch. Sixo'clock and seven, and the low moan from the lips of poor youngChalmers, or the rattle of some pebble dislodged by the foot ofcrouching guardian, or some murmured word from man to man,--some word ofwonderment at the unlooked for lull in Apache siege operations,--was theonly sound to break the almost deathlike silence of the morning. Therewas one other, far up among the stunted, shriveled pines and cedars thatjutted from the opposite heights. They could hear at intervals a weird,mournful note, a single whistling call in dismal minor, but it broughtno new significance. Every day of their undesired and enforced sojourn,every hour of the interminable day, that raven-like, hermit bird of theSierras had piped his unmelodious signal to some distant featheredfellow, and sent a chill to the heart of more than one war-triedsoldier. There was never a man in Arizona wilds that did not hate thesound of it. And yet, as eight o'clock was noted and still no sight orsound of assailant came, Sergeant Carmody turned a wearied, aching eyefrom his loophole and muttered to the officer crouching close besidehim: "I could wring the neck of the lot of those infernal cat crows,sir, but I'll thank God if we hear no worse sound this day."

  Blakely rose to his feet and wearily leaned upon the breastworks,peering cautiously over. Yesterday the sight of a scouting hat wouldhave brought instant whiz of arrow, but not a missile saluted him now.One arm, his left, was rudely bandaged and held in a sling, a rifleball from up the cliff, glancing from the inner face of the parapet,had torn savagely through muscle and sinew, but mercifully scoredneither artery nor bone. An arrow, whizzing blindly through asouthward loophole, had grazed his cheek, ripping a straight red seamfar back as the lobe of the ear, which had been badly torn. Blakelyhad little the look of a squire of dames as, thus maimed and scarredand swathed in blood-stained cotton, he peered down the deep andshadowy cleft and searched with eyes keen, if yet unskilled, everyvisible section of the opposite wall. What could their silence mean?Had they found other game, pitifully small in numbers as thesebesieged, and gone to butcher them, knowing well that, hampered bytheir wounded, these, their earlier victims, could not hope to escape?Had they got warning of the approach of some strong force ofsoldiery--Brewster scouting in search of them, or may be Sandershimself? Had they slipped away, therefore, and could the besieged dareto creep forth and shout, signal, or even fire away two or three ofthese last precious cartridges in hopes of catching the ear ofsearching comrades?

  Wren, exhausted, had apparently dropped into a fitful doze. His eyeswere shut, his lips were parted, his long, lean fingers twitched attimes as a tremor seemed to shoot through his entire frame. Anotherday like the last or at worst like this, without food or nourishment,and even such rugged strength as had been his would be taxed to theutmost. There might be no to-morrow for the sturdy soldier who had sogallantly served his adopted country, his chosen flag. As forChalmers, the summons was already come. Far from home and those whomost loved and would sorely grieve for him, the brave lad was dying.Carmody, kneeling by his side, but the moment before had looked upmutely in his young commander's face, and his swimming, sorrowing eyeshad told the story.

  Nine o'clock had come without a symptom of alarm or enemy fromwithout, yet death had invaded the lonely refuge in the rocks,claiming one victim as his tribute for the day and setting his sealupon still another, the prospective sacrifice for the dismal morrow,and Blakely could stand the awful strain no longer.

  "Sergeant," said he, "I must know what this means. We must have helpfor the captain before this sun goes down, or he may be gone before weknow it."

  And Carmody looked him in the face and answered: "I am strong yet andunhurt. Let me make the try, sir. Some of our fellows must be scoutingnear us, or these beggars wouldn't have quit. I can find the boys, ifanyone can."

  Blakely turned and gazed one moment into the deep and dark recesswhere lay his wounded and the dying. The morning wind had freshened abit, and a low, murmurous song, nature's AEolian, came softly from theswaying pine and stunted oak and juniper far on high. The whiff thatswept to their nostrils from the lower depths of the canon told itsown grewsome tale. There, scattered along the stream bed, lay thefestering remains of their four-footed comrades, first victims of theambuscade. Death lurked about their refuge then on ev
ery side, and waseven invading their little fortress. Was this to be the end, afterall? Was there neither help nor hope from any source?

  Turning once again, a murmured prayer upon his lips, Blakely startedat sight of Carmody. With one hand uplifted, as though to cautionsilence, the other concaved at his ear, the sergeant was bendingeagerly forward, his eyes dilating, his frame fairly quivering. Then,on a sudden, up he sprang and swung his hat about his head. "Firing,sir! Firing, sure!" he cried. Another second, and with a gasp and moanhe sank to earth transfixed; a barbed arrow, whizzing from unseenspace, had pierced him through and through.