It was early when Mrs. Stannard came down from her room after an almost sleepless night. First call for guard-mounting was just sounding as she stepped out on the piazza and noted little knots of men here and there, all gazing intently towards the east gate, where the dust as of a recently passing vehicle was settling back to earth. She opened Mrs. Truscott's door, and saw Marion Sanford slowly descending the stairs, her face very white and wan. Out in the dining-room could be heard voluble voices, weeping, and Irish expletives of mingled wrath and grief,—and then, with eyes dilating with horror, with streaming hair, with pallid lips and a ghastly look in her white face, Grace Truscott, clad in a morning wrapper, came rushing through the little parlor into the hall, gave one glance at her girl friend, and then, stretching forth her arms, she cried,—
"Oh, Maidie, Maidie! It's all my doing. They—they've ca-carried him off to jail!"
And then prone upon the stairs she threw herself, burying her face from sight of all.
* * *
CHAPTER XXV.
WHOSE GAUNTLET?
The duty of assorting the papers and caring for the property of the late officer had devolved upon Lieutenant Warner. Telegrams from relatives in the distant East had requested that the remains be sent thither by express for burial, and only a few hours after the accused murderer was taken into custody the body of the victim of the midnight assassination had been turned over to the undertaker in town for necessary preparations. The garrison seemed still paralyzed by the shock, and except the sentries at the storehouses and stables, there was little appearance of military duty going on. Guard-mounting was conducted without music, and the customary drills of the recruits were out of sight. It was an atmosphere of gloom that pervaded the garrison, and only one of its ladies had been seen on the promenade for two days. Mrs. Whaling, like some human fungus, seemed to thrive in the pall-like depth of the social darkness and depression. She circled from house to house, and swooped down upon the inmates, flapping and croaking the old story of woe and foreboding; or, what was welcome in comparison, some new tale of further entanglement for Ray. Judging from that righteous lady's conversation, there seemed no doubt that she and the Omnipotent Judge had settled it between them just when he was to be hanged. She was one of the first to receive and to enlighten with her views a serious young man who came from Denver with a letter to the commanding officer, and brought with him a prominent and rising attorney from Cheyenne. These gentlemen seemed a trifle disconcerted at the fact that the few questions they addressed to the colonel were promptly answered by his wife, and when one of them finally looked at the other and remarked that it was time to go and examine the premises and the effects, the bearer of the letter not unnaturally hesitated and coughed dubiously,—he did not know whether to ask permission of the officer or the lady. They declined her invitation to have a cup of tea and some luncheon, saying they had dined in town, and the colonel said he would walk down with them. Only Mr. Warner had been allowed in the quarters since the inquest.
They had gone but a few steps along the walk when a hack drove up, and Mr. Blake, catching sight of them from its interior, shouted to the driver, sprang out, and, stiffly saluting the commanding officer, handed the lawyer a batch of telegraphic despatches, and, taking the little man from Denver to one side, said a few words to him in a whisper, then turned, and was walking away, when the colonel concluded it time to assert himself.
"Mr. Blake!" he called.
"Sir," said Blake, facing him but coming no nearer.
"You appear to have been in town, sir. Had you permission to leave the post?"
"I did not think to ask, sir. As the only friend Mr. Ray appeared to have in this garrison I went with him to jail."
"You will think, hereafter, and not presume to go without my consent."
"Then I take this opportunity to ask permission, colonel; I desire to return to my friend this afternoon,—in ten minutes in fact."
"The post regulations, sir, require that such applications should be made at my office between nine and ten a.m. I am not disposed to consider them at other times, especially where gentlemen absent themselves without authority." And he turned majestically away.
"Am I to understand, colonel, that you refuse me permission to return to Mr. Ray in such an emergency as this?" choked Blake.
"I will consider it, sir. I will take it into—ahem!—consideration when I have finished other matters. Now, gentlemen, we will proceed." And so, having established the fact that after all he was the post commander, and laid the ghost of their lingering doubt, Colonel Whaling led on down the row with the duly reassured civilians, and Blake, too much saddened by recent events to feel the wrath that at other times would have overpowered him, contented himself with glaring after his chief a moment, ejaculating, "The bloodless old mummy!" and then turning on his heel, he went to his lonely quarters.
The lawyer read the despatches, handed them to his Denver friend, pointing significantly to a clause in one of them, and the colonel felt himself omitted from their confidences. The sentry at the door of the quarters lately occupied by Mr. Gleason presented arms to the post commander and looked inquiringly at the civilians. "You may admit these two gentlemen," he said, "and pass them in and out, but no one else except the adjutant. Is he here now?"
Mr. Warner's voice from within answered yes, and the party entered. The adjutant was seated at a table in the front room with a pile of envelopes and letters before him. He rose as they entered.
"Mr. Warner," said the colonel, "this gentleman is sent here from Denver under telegraphic request from department headquarters. They failed to notify me of such intention," he added, in a tone of official grievance, "but I presume it is all right. He is a member of the Mountain Detective force, and desires to make full inspection of the premises. I presume you can confer with him and with Mr.—a—Green."
He lingered a moment as though in expectation of an invitation to remain, but none came.
Blake meantime had been searching about Ray's room. He ransacked through an old valise that lay under the camp-bed, tossing diaries, scouting books, itineraries, rough field maps and sketches out on the floor, until he came to a package marked "Mem. Receipts." This he glanced through, gave it a satisfied slap, and stowed it in a portable writing-desk, replaced in the valise the disturbed items, and then went on packing some changes of underclothing and linen in Ray's little trunk. Twice he called for Hogan, but the shouts were unanswered. He went to the door to summon the hack-driver to take the trunk, and the man said that a lady had just stepped down to ask if he would come up there to number eleven when he could find time. Looking thither, he saw Mrs. Stannard at the open door of Truscott's quarters, and went at once. Her voice trembled so that she could hardly ask for Ray.
"He is just what those who know him would expect him to be, Mrs. Stannard, calm and resolute. I never saw a man appear to better advantage than he did before the officials there in town. I never knew how much there was in him until to-day. Mr. Green tendered his legal services and had a short talk with him, and he's out here now; so is a detective from Denver, and Colonel Rand will get here from department headquarters to-morrow. Oh, we shan't be without friends, though it did look mighty like it at first."
"But what about bail, Mr. Blake? How soon can he—will he return here?"
"He desires no bail, Mrs. Stannard; jail is preferable to Fort Russell so far as his treatment is concerned," he said, indignantly. "You seem to be the only friend he has."
Mrs. Stannard flushed and lowered her voice.
"Did you explain to him, or rather did he ask why Mrs. Truscott could not receive his letter?"
"What was there to explain? What was there to ask?" he broke forth in wrath. "Only one explanation was possible, and of course I would not speak of it. What could any one think but that she believed him guilty, and would have no communication with him?"
That was a shot that told. Before Mrs. Stannard could reply there was a rustle of skirts and a stifled sob
within the hall-way, a rush of light footsteps up the stairs, but the door opened and Marion Sanford appeared. Blake started to see how white and wan and sad she looked, but she came straight to him.
"Good-morning, Mr. Blake; we were coming out to see you as you spoke, Mrs. Truscott and I. We do not wonder that you and Mr. Ray should feel as you do, but that was all a piteous mistake about that letter last night." She held forth her soft white hand. "Shake hands, Mr. Blake. It wasn't at all what you thought; it was a very, very different reason, and he will forgive when he knows. You brought a note from him last night. Will you take this to him from me?"
"Let me run in and see Mrs. Truscott a moment," said Mrs. Stannard at this juncture, and hurried into the hall, leaving them alone on the piazza.
Blake noted the dark circles under her pleading eyes; he saw plainly the evidences of anxiety and sorrow; he could not but see that, despite the resolution of her words and manner, her voice was tremulous, and the brave eyes that looked unflinchingly into his were filling with tears she could not repress. He recalled all her enthusiasm in that still uncompleted purchase of Dandy, in her munificence to Hogan. He knew well that no matter how he might have misjudged Mrs. Truscott's motives he had no right or reason, whatever, in letting himself think that this brave, glorious, loyal girl could have been shaken one instant in her faith in his friend. Why, even Ray had checked him sternly when, during the night, he had once burst forth in an impetuous tirade against the worthlessness of a woman's faith, and now he could have kicked himself had it been anatomically possible even for his marvellous length and loose-jointedness of leg. In default thereof he would have dropped on his knee; but somebody, several somebodies, watched the interesting interview from a distance. He bowed over the extended hand as a courtier might over that of a queen; he wished he dare kiss it on the same—on any basis, but he took it warmly.
"Forgive me for every word, Miss Sanford; but I've been sore tried of late."
"I would be less apt to forgive you if you did not resent every suspicion of Mr. Ray. It is too late to undo last night's wretched work, or the misery it caused us. I have tried to explain it all for Mrs. Truscott, but what I want now is to know what he needs. Is it money, or influence, or anything? Tell me truly, Mr. Blake; I want to know all you can tell me."
"You shall know before I tell another soul. As yet,—forgive me again,—this will supply his greatest need." And holding up her note, he turned quickly away.
She was blushing now—crimson,—but there was something she had to know, and so recalled him.
"Has anything new been discovered,—have any steps been taken towards finding the murderer?"
"Mr. Green, the lawyer whom we have consulted, has had an interview with Ray, and he has a clue now of some kind that is being investigated."
"And you know whom he suspects?"
"He has not told me, Miss Sanford, and—something that occurred recently in the garrison had set me to asking him questions which he declined to answer,—another matter entirely,—I saw he had reasons for keeping it to himself——"
"Mr. Blake, have you still that note he sent last night?"
"No; he burned that this morning."
"Has he said nothing—nothing to indicate whom he suspects?"
"Not to me—as yet. We have had too much to attend to, perhaps, but it is plainly something he hates to allude to."
"Look! Mr. Blake; they are calling you—down the row. You will come back and tell us what it is?"
"Yes, and at once."
Warner and Mr. Green were indeed calling him. Among the letters in the breast-pocket of Gleason's blouse were three signed Rallston. They were reading them with eager interest when the little detective from Denver sauntered in from the rear room.
"This—a—gauntlet, lieutenant, was lying with some other things on top of the bureau. Were you going to pack it in the trunk?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Well, a single right-hand glove won't be of much use to the relatives of the deceased, especially an old worn one like this. Where's the mate?"
"I don't remember seeing one."
"Well, you soldiers don't generally keep one glove without the other. Where was this before you put it with the things?"
"I picked it off the floor near the head of the bed."
"And there wasn't another thereabouts?"
"I saw none."
The detective went back to his work, and the officers with Mr. Green to the letters. When they had read them through to the end, Blake arose.
"You will admit, Mr. Warner, that I have excellent reason for asking and expecting permission to rejoin my incarcerated friend now," said he, with sarcastic emphasis. "If that doesn't knock the court-martial charges cold as a wedge, what will?"
"I never fully believed Mr. Ray guilty of those charges, Blake, and you know it. I must see the colonel, of course, and show him these letters."
"Pardon me, Mr. Warner," said the lawyer. "Tell him of them if you see fit, but as Mr. Ray's legal adviser I do not propose to let such important evidence for the defence fall into the hands of the prosecution." (Warner flushed hotly.) "I do not refer to you, my dear sir, but to your commanding officer, who is understood to have worked up the case against my client, and will naturally feel chagrined to find what liars his witnesses were. Human nature, sir; human nature."
"No, Warner, I don't mean you either,—in that case, that is," said Blake, all excitement over the late discoveries; "but these are ours, and by gad! we mean to hold them. Whoop! Fiat justitia, rue it, Whaling's! Go and tell your distinguished chief that I will be pleased to know whether he has considered my application yet. Here! Hold on, Warner. D—n it all, man! I'm unpardonable for mixing you and him up in the matter. Forgive me, but I'm all unstrung these last few days. If you fellows only knew Ray as we do there wouldn't have been this trouble."
And they shook hands, and Warner went off to see his chief, and had a quick conversation with him that brought the blood to the usually colorless face of the well-preserved veteran. The colonel arose hastily and said he would go with them. He wanted to see those letters, and he did, and looked strangely perturbed as they were read to him, and then Blake again preferred his request for permission to visit town and to remain all night. The colonel hemmed and hawed. These papers, of course, had an important bearing on the case as it originally stood before the court-martial as ordered, but matters had changed materially. "Mr. Ray is now on trial for his life, you see, and before, he was only on trial for—a——"
"Only for his honor," put in Blake, at the instant. "Very true, colonel, only for his honor, and we have a singular fashion in our regiment of looking upon the one as quite as important as the other."
The colonel was wrathy. He was essentially what is called an office soldier. He had regulations and papers at his fingers' ends; his whole army existence had been spent in the preservation of his health and the cultivation of the peaceful branches of his art. No one ever heard of his shooting, riding, hunting, or taking a risk of any kind. His habits were methodical as those of the office clock, and his one dissipation was the billiard-table. His theory of success was founded on common sense: Take care of your health, avoid dissipation, shun any and all danger, volunteer for nothing, do only what you are compelled to do, shift all possible work on somebody else's shoulders, preserve a purely negative record, and—you are bound to rise to the highest grades in the army. It must be admitted that the laws of promotion are admirably calculated to foster just such a line of argument, and that Whaling's "head was level." Now, though wrathy at Blake, he saw at once that he had been egregiously deceived as to the evidence to be given by Rallston on the pending court; it was better policy to avoid all that might look like persecution of Ray or Ray's friends; he gave a moment of thought to the matter, and then said,—
"You may go, Mr. Blake, because I desire you and your regiment to understand that I have no wish to obtrude my ideas of discipline upon you at such a time. At any other I would not have
overlooked your misconduct."
"At any other time, sir, it probably would not have occurred," said Blake, still hotly; but the entrance of the detective put an end to the talk. He still carried the gauntlet in his hand.
"There is no mate to this in that room. What is more, this glove never belonged to Lieutenant Gleason; it is four sizes too small for him. What officer or soldier ever wore one like that?" he asked.
It was a worn and rein-soiled gauntlet, originally of white wash-leather, finely stitched in silk, and with a cuff or gauntlet heavily stiffened with leather inside; and this cuff instead of being joined was slashed from wrist to end on the under side, and three little buttons and straps were used to fasten it snugly to the arm after being slipped over the hand. It was utterly unlike any gauntlet in use in the United States cavalry at the time; it was utterly unlike those for sale in the stores of Cheyenne. Blake examined it curiously, but could remember none that resembled it. Leaving the others examining the glove, he walked up the row.
Mrs. Stannard and Marion both came down. The mere sight of his face brought eagerness and hope into their eyes. It was to be observed at this juncture that Mrs. Stannard's arm was around that slender waist. The symptom has no significance, of course, among school-girls or womanhood in general, but it meant a good deal where either one of these women was concerned, and Blake knew it.
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