She drew back, just a little. This was only the evening after his return with the wounded. "You always welcome field orders," she ventured.
"I always have—hitherto."
The voice of Mrs. Archer was uplifted at this juncture, just a bit. "Lilian, dear, you and Mr. Willett would be wise to pull your chairs this way. I've never liked that corner since 'Tonio's discovery. Where is 'Tonio, Mr. Willett?"
"I wish I knew, Mrs. Archer," said Willett, rising and holding forth a hand to aid Miss Archer to her feet—something she did not need, yet took. "He was with Stannard when I left. He was with him when they rescued Mrs. Bennett. He was said to be all distress when he saw that Harris was hit—and then he disappeared. Stannard's last despatch said he had not rejoined."
It was another beautiful, moonlit evening, and the post was very still. The men of Archer's two infantry companies were clustered about their log barracks or wandering away by twos and threes to the trader's store on the flats. The general was pacing the parade in earnest and murmured talk with the post adjutant. Bentley, the surgeon, was busy with his charges, having left Harris in a fitful, feverish doze. Not since the night of the calamity at Bennett's had the sentries reported sign of signal fire in the hills, but this night, before the last filament of gold had died at the top of the peak, Number Four had caught a glimpse of a tiny blaze afar over to the east, and instantly passed the word. Only half an hour it was observed, and then, away toward the south-east, an answering gleam burned for a moment against the black background of the Sierras. Then both went out as suddenly as they started.
The general was dining at the moment, and, believing that the fires would not so soon be extinguished, the officer of the day had not at once reported them. He was at Archer's door as the veteran came forth, haranguing Willett, again his guest at dinner, but with anxious eyes turned at once to hear the report. "No matter what time it happens," he said, "hereafter, when signals are seen, let the guard notify me at once." And the officer retired musing over this bit of evidence that the commanding officer was growing a trifle irritable.
It was soon after guard mount next day that two runners from Sandy had come in, weary and hungry. "'Patchie sign—todas partes," said the leader, after delivering his despatch. But he, too, was half Apache and had squirmed through without mishap. For two hours after reading Archer kept the contents to himself. The adjutant-general wished to consult him at Prescott. Ninety miles north-west by buckboard, through a country infested by hostile Indians! It was a trip he little cared to take and leave his wife and daughter here! At noon he had had to tell them, and tell Willett, who was teaching Lilian a fandango he had heard on the Colorado. Mother and daughter looked anxiously at each other and said nothing. It was decided he should wait until night before arranging when to start. Surely this night should bring news of some kind.
And surely enough, at ten came the summons that took him, field-glass in hand, to the northward edge of the little mesa again. Somewhere in the direction of Diamond Butte, almost due east, one fire was brightly blazing. Over in the Mazatzal to the westward there were two, and even as they stood and studied them, Archer dropped his glasses at an exclamation of surprise from one of his officers, and there, gaunt and weary, yet erect and fearless, stood 'Tonio. Like a wraith he seemed to have blown in among them, and now patiently awaited the attention of the commander; yet, when accosted, all he would say in answer to question, for they knew not his native tongue, was "Capitan Chiquito!"
So they led him to the doctor's quarters, and Bentley tiptoed in to see what Harris was doing. He was awake, in pain and fever, but clear-headed. "Of course I'm able to see 'Tonio," said he. "I need to see him." Whereupon shufflings were heard in the hallway without, and presently in the dim lamplight 'Tonio knelt by the young chief's side, took the clutching white hand and laid it one instant on his head. To no other of their number had 'Tonio ever tendered such homage. Rising to his feet, he looked about him, his glittering eyes fixed one moment in mute appeal; another moment, and gloomily, they studied Willett's handsome face. Then he spoke, Harris half haltingly explaining. It began languidly on the latter's part. It quickly changed to excitement, then to vehement life. 'Tonio was telling of some sharp encounter wherein women and children had been slain, whereby the mountain tribes were all aroused, and then he had gone on to declare what Indian vengeance would demand. Impassioned, 'Tonio threw himself at the first pause on his knees by the side of the cot whereon lay his beloved Capitan, and it was to him he spoke. It was he who translated:
"No one," said 'Tonio, "should venture beyond sentry post either day or night. Even now the rocks and woods about the station were full of foemen. Get ready to fight them and to take care of the women and children. They mean revenge! They mean attack! Renegade Apaches!" said he, "all renegade! Apache-Mohave, no!"
CHAPTER IX.
The night was still young. The conference at the surgeon's house was brief, for Bentley, fearing for his patient, hustled all but 'Tonio out into the open air just as soon as the Indian signalled "I have spoken," which meant he would tell no more. Brief as it was, the interview had sent the wounded officer's pulse uphill by twenty beats, and Bentley knew what that meant. Still it had to be. 'Tonio brought tidings of ominous import, and the public safety demanded that his warning should be made known, and who was there to translate but Harris? "If it were only Chinook, now," said Willett, "I could have tackled it, but, except a few signs, Apache is beyond me."
So while the doctor was giving sedatives to his patient, and the doctor's servant giving food to 'Tonio, Archer gathered his few remaining officers about him in the moonlight and discussed the situation. From 'Tonio's description, the affray that had aroused the Apaches far and wide had occurred three days earlier, just at dawn, among the rocky fastnesses of the Mogollon, perhaps "two sleeps" to the north-east, the very direction in which Stannard was scouting. But it wasn't Stannard's command. 'Tonio said the soldiers were from up the Verde, and the scouts were Hualpais, and then Archer understood. Between the Hualpais, finest and northernmost of the Arizona tribesmen, and the Tonto Apache there had long been feud. It was evident from 'Tonio's description that a rancheria of the latter had been surprised—"jumped" in the vernacular—just about dawn; that the Hualpais, rushing in, rejoicing in abundant breechloaders and cartridges, had shot right and left, scattering the fugitives and slaying the stay-behinds, who, crippled by wounds or cumbered by squaws and pappooses, could not get away. The soldiers, though only a hundred yards or so behind, were slow climbers as compared with the scouts, and though the few officers and men did what they could to stop the wretched killing, a few women and children were found among the dead, and the word was going the length of the Sierra, far to the south-east, and would never stop till it reached Sonora and Chihuahua, that the white chief had ordered his soldiers to kill, so they might as well die fighting.
"If they were to concentrate now, first on Stannard, and then on Turner," said Archer—"ambuscade them in a cañon, say—I'm afraid we'd see few of their fellows again."
"Or if they only knew their strength," spoke up the only captain left at the post, "and were to concentrate, say, five hundred fighting men upon us here, it's little the rest of the world would ever see of us."
Archer turned half-angrily upon the speaker. "You never yet, Captain Bonner, have heard of Apaches attacking a garrisoned post, even though the garrison was smaller than ours, and I believe you never will. The question I have to settle is how to send warning to our two field columns."
For a moment there was none to offer suggestion. There were present only seven officers, all told, Bentley being still with his young patient. Anxious eyes were watching the little group, their white coats gleaming in the moonlight. Over at the barracks a score of soldiers, slipping from their bunks, clustered at the wide-open doors and windows. Over at the hospital two or three convalescents, with the steward and the nurse, sat gazing from the shaded piazza. Over at the commander's quarters Mrs. Archer, Mrs. St
annard and Lilian, sitting closer for comfort, murmured occasional words, but their eyes seldom quit their anxious scrutiny. To Mrs. Stannard it was no novel experience. To Mrs. Archer and her daughter, despite their longer years in the army, it was thrillingly new. In the utter silence on the line and throughout the garrison the rhythmic tramp of feet, muffled by distance, could not fail to catch their straining ears, and far over across the parade, behind the barracks, betrayed by the glint of the moonlight on sloping steel, a shadowy little detachment went striding away toward the nearest sentry post.
"They are doubling the guard," said Mrs. Stannard. Then the group at the flagstaff broke up. Three officers went with the commander toward the office, others toward the company quarters. One came swiftly, purposely, toward the waiting trio. Lilian knew it was Willett even before they could recognize his walk and carriage. Mrs. Archer rose to meet him. All they yet knew was that 'Tonio was in with tidings of some kind—Doyle had told them that.
"Tell us what you can," was all she said.
"The time-honored tale of Indian uprising," said Willett airily. "Something I've heard every six weeks, I should say, since they gave me a sword."
"But they've doubled the guard."
"Only changed it, I fancy. The general wants some few cavalrymen for a scout in the Mazatzal."
Mrs. Stannard knew better, but held her peace. The object at least was laudable, if not the lie. All three had risen now and were standing at the edge of the veranda, Mrs. Archer's gentle, anxious eyes following the soldierly form just vanishing within the shadows at the office, Lilian's gaze fixed upon the handsome features of the young soldier before her.
"'Tonio brought news, did he not?" asked Mrs. Stannard.
"'Tonio had to tell something, you know, to cover his mysterious movements. 'Tonio's story may be cock and bull for all we know. It is just such a yarn as I have heard told many a time and oft in the Columbia basin. Most Indians are born liars, and 'Tonio has everything to gain and nothing to lose in telling a believable whopper now. 'Tonio says his people are persecuted saints, and all others perjured sinners."
And just then, through the silence of the night, there rose upon the air, distant yet distinct, the prolonged, anguished, heart-broken wail of a woman in dire distress—a Rachel mourning for her children, and refusing to be comforted. There was instant scraping of chairs on the hospital porch, and one or two shadows vanished within the dimly lighted doorway. "Oh, poor Mrs. Bennett!" cried Mrs. Archer. "I'm going over a little while. Come, Lilian."
"Let me go with you," said Mrs. Stannard, ever sympathetic with young hearts and hopes. But Lilian had been well trained and—went, the two wives and mothers walking arm in arm in front, the other two, the girl of eighteen, the youth of twenty-five, gradually dropping behind. The elders entered the building, following the wife of the hospital steward; the juniors paced slowly onward to the edge of the low bluff overlooking the moonlit valley, with the shining stream murmuring over its shallows in the middle distance. Lilian's white hand still rested on the strong arm that drew it so closely to the soldier's side, and both were for the moment silent. He seemed strangely quiet and thoughtful, and she stood beside him now with downcast eyes and fluttering heart, for, as she would have followed her mother, he had bent his head and, almost in whisper, said:
"Come—one minute. It may be my last chance."
And the girl in her had yielded, as what girl would not?
Presently he began to speak, and now his head was bowing low; his eyes, though she saw them not, were drinking in the lily-like beauty of the sweet, downcast face. One quick look she flashed at him as he began, then the long lashes swept her cheek.
"I could not tell your mother the whole truth, just then," he began. "I've got to tell you something of it now. Until to-night I never knew what it was to—to shrink from news of action. Now—I know."
She wanted to hear "why," even when her own heart was telling her. She wanted him to say, yet coquetted with her own desire. "Is—it serious news?" she faltered.
"So serious that Stannard, or Turner, or both, may be in grave danger, and there's no one to go and warn them but—me!"
"You?" and up came the troubled, beautiful eyes.
"Yes. Ask yourself who else there is. The scouts are gone. Sanchez has not returned. There's but a baker's dozen of troopers and troop horses left at the post. The general needs to send a little party to explore the Mazatzal. 'Tonio can't be trusted. Harris has—practically—put himself out of it. Don't you know me well enough to know—I've got to go?"
She was only just eighteen. She had lived her innocent life at that fond mother's side. She had read of knightly deeds in many an hour, and her heroes were such as Ivanhoe and William Wallace, Bayard and Philip Sidney, the Black Prince and Henry of the snow-white plume. Four days agone her heart had first stood still, then thrilled with girlish admiration when they told her how Harris had met his serious wound, and, for just that day, that soldierly young trooper was the centre of her stage. Then Willett returned, with a different version, and other things to murmur to her listening ears. Then Willett had been at leisure two—three—long days, and, save that mournful tragedy at the ranch, casting its spell over the entire post, sufficient in itself to strike terror to a girlish soul, to inspire it to seek strength and protection of the stronger arm, what else was there to occupy the heart of a young maid here at sun-baked, mud-colored, monotonous old Almy? The one thing that would transform a desert into paradise had blossomed in her fair, innocent, girlish bosom, and he who had marked the symptoms many a time knew that the pretty bird was fluttering to his hand. The one precaution needful was—no sudden shock—no word or deed to bring rude awakening.
But even now she stood, trembling a bit, trying not to believe that he must leave the post—must leave her, and on so dangerous a mission. She was silent because she knew not what to say, yet knew that what he had said almost turned her cold with dread. He saw the hesitancy, and struck again:
"Must go—to-night."
"Oh, Mr. Willett!" And now the little face, uplifted suddenly, was piteous as he could wish. It fell again for shame at her self-betrayal, for sheer helplessness and dismay, for the sudden realization of what the long days now would be without him, for what life might be if he never came back. With all her pride and strength and maidenly reserve she was struggling hard to fight back the sob that was rising to her throat, the tears that came welling to her eyes, but he would have the tribute of both, and murmured again:
"Lilian, little girl, don't you know why I cannot bear to go—just yet?"
And then, shaking from head to foot, she bowed her face upon her hands, and Willett's arms were around her in the instant, and after one little struggle, she nestled in a moment, sobbing, on his heart. She did not even see the sentry coming slowly up the path, and when girl or woman is blind to all about her but just one man, her love is overwhelming.
It was he who whispered word of warning, as his lips pressed their kisses on her soft and wavy hair. It was he who calmly hailed the guardian of the night, asking if further sign had been seen, adding, "Runners may well be coming in to-night, just as did 'Tonio." It was he who promptly, cordially answered Mrs. Archer, calling Lilian from the angle of the hospital, kneeling instantly as though to fasten a loosened bootlace. And then, as he presently led his silent captive back toward the parade, talked laughingly of the sentry's broken English, imitating so well the accent of the Rhineland.
"No word of this just yet," he murmured, ere they reached the general's door, and saw that veteran hospitably awaiting them. "It is so sudden, so sweet a surprise. Come what may now, I shall not go until I have seen you again. What, general? Sangaree? I'd like it above all things!"
Two horsemen came trotting across the parade, threw themselves from saddle, and one stepped swiftly to the group, his hand at the hat brim in salute.
"Well, sergeant, you have been prompt!" the general was saying. "You have your letter for Captain Turner?—and Wood
row is to follow Captain Stannard? Good again! Do most of your trailing by night. The Apaches are cowards in the dark, and you can't miss the trail. God be with you, my men! Your names go to General Crook in my first report!"
Another moment and they were away, and two more had taken their place—two who waited while Mrs. Stannard pencilled a few hurried words to her "Luce," while Lilian, with a world of rapture, thanksgiving and rejoicing in her heart, was striving to regain self-control, and avoid her mother's eye, a thing she never before had done, nor would she now be doing but for that splendid, knightly, heroic, self-poised, soldierly fellow, standing so commandingly, gracefully there, conferring one minute with her soldier father, and the next—helping Mrs. Archer to more small talk and sangaree.
CHAPTER X.
The night had gone by without alarm. No further signals were seen. No runners came in. Poor Mrs. Bennett, under the influence of some soothing medicine, had fallen asleep. The doctor, coming in late from a visit to the hospital, found Harris still wakeful, but not so feverish, and 'Tonio, worn and wearied, stretched on a Navajo blanket, seemed sleeping soundly on the side piazza, just without the door. The general and Willett had sat and smoked, with an occasional toddy, until after the midnight call of the sentries, the former still expectant of the return of Sanchez; the latter pondering in mind certain theories of Wickham as to the Apache situation, to which at first he had paid little heed. If Wickham were right, then Sanchez might never have reached Prescott. If so, the general need never have to amend that report.
And that the matter troubled Archer more than a little Willett was not too pleased to see. Moreover, it was evident that not only Bentley, the surgeon, but Strong, the young adjutant, Bucketts, the veteran cavalry subaltern doing duty as post quartermaster, and the three company officers of Archer's regiment stationed at Almy—all were determined to consider Harris decidedly in the light of the hero of the recent episode. It was a matter Willett would not discuss with them, nor, when they somewhat pointedly referred to Harris and his part in the affair, was it Willett's policy to say aught in deprecation. As "the representative of the commanding general" temporarily at the post, and observing the condition of affairs, it was his proper function to give all men his ear and none his tongue, to hear everything and say nothing. But the adjutant knew, and had not been able to keep entirely to himself, the fact that Sanchez was the bearer of a report adverse to Lieutenant Harris—that no modification thereof had been prepared—even after Harris was brought in dangerously wounded, the result of his daring effort to rescue an unfortunate woman from a fearful fate. The adjutant had gone so far as to hint to that much-loved lieutenant-colonel of infantry, Brevet Brigadier-General Archer, that he should be glad to write at his dictation a report setting Harris right, as surely as the other had set him wrong, and for the first time Strong found his commanding officer petulant and testy. It was exactly what Archer himself thought it his duty to do, yet he was annoyed that any one else should think so. Moreover, he had taken counsel with Willett, and Willett had said that he would be the last man to deny a classmate and comrade any honor justly his due, nor would he stand in the way of General Archer's writing anything he saw fit, but, as the officer present on the spot and cognizant of all the circumstances connected with Harris's going, he had yet a report to make to the department commander.
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