Tonio-Son of the Sierras

by King, Charles

  "I will, so help me God!" said Willett solemnly, and then, at least, he meant it.

  There had been an awkward little conference, an impromptu affair, at the mess the morning after the alarm of fire. Willett stock had been running down before that episode, and went "plumb out of sight" for several hours. It was held by Bonner, Bucketts, Briggs and Strong a most womanish thing on his part to have raised such a row and then "wilted." It was Bentley, the most disgusted man at the post, who now came to the rescue. "He was dumped on the porch like a sack of potatoes," said he, "and probably suffered exquisite pain, let alone the burns and the shock." Then, bunglingly, as bachelors will, and bachelors two of them were, they began to talk of the revelation that met their eyes and what it portended. No one, as yet, had told "the Old Man" of Willett's night at the store, and now no man would do it. Bygones were bygones. Willett would be up in a week or so, the better, perhaps, for enforced rest and abstinence, and now, of course, there could and would be no more of—of that sort of thing, and all his better traits would shine by contrast with his probably temporary lapse into frivolity. Even then, however, they wondered what Harris would think, and speculated as to what he would say. Bucketts had not guessed amiss when he said there was no love lost between the classmates. Bucketts, and all, had seen how much both the young men had been attracted by Lilian's grace and beauty, and the sweet, girlish freshness that proved such a charm. Bucketts, and all, had been in, as usual, to see Harris, and found him, as he said, a trifle set back by the excitement, and therefore rather more grave and quiet even than usual, but they said no word of Lilian and—possibilities. He knew. Strong had seen him when he came, and looked, and stood inert one moment there, unable to be of use, and had turned slowly back to his room under Bentley's roof. Everybody knew it could not be more than a day or two before the affair would be announced as an engagement, and while every man felt that Willett had won a prize far beyond his deserts, there was not one that felt like tendering congratulation.

  But, as we said, there were other and important matters to claim the attention of the garrison, and just an hour before sunset that evening came the first. Case's week was up, and, sharp on time at noon on Saturday, Case came forth from his room, tubbed, trimmed and shaved, went silently to his desk and then turned to Mr. Craney to ask what had become of the mail.

  "Nary mail," said Craney. "Not a cuss got in or out for over a week."

  "Didn't Sanchez bring—anything from Prescott?"

  "Nothing but his ghost has even been heard of. You told of that."

  "I? Do you mean he hasn't been here—hasn't told you what's happened?" And Case's eyes were looking wild again.

  "What has happened, Case? By gad, if you know, out with it, for no mother's son of us here has heard a thing for a week, and Sanchez has never set foot on the post."

  "Then send for Mr. Strong, quick," said Case, sinking into a chair, the sweat of weakness and distress of mind showing instantly on his brow, rare symptom in Arizona. And then, while somebody ran up to the post to summon the adjutant, Case, pressing his hands to his head, began striding up and down the low-ceilinged, half-darkened room. "Wait," he said, as Craney and Watts, excited and anxious, would have pressed him to begin. "Wait. Give me just three fingers," and the whiskey was handed forthwith. He downed it in two gulps, and presently the color began to come back to his cheeks, and then Strong came hurrying in. "Is Mr. Harris still here?—and that other specimen—Mr. Willett?" Case demanded on the instant. "That's well, anyhow! And the cavalry still out? That's bad. We want 'em here, here, I tell you, and quick, too! Gentlemen, this is no cock-and-bull story. There's enough Apaches back of us here in the Mazatzal to head off everybody from Prescott or McDowell. They've killed three parties—a dozen soldiers, perhaps—already, and they've cut off Prescott and Date Creek and Sandy, and murdered every courier that tried to get through. They headed off and killed the runners sent to find General Crook and give him the news, but worse than all, they've been down here begging the Sierra Blancas, and the bands of Deltchay and Eskiminzin—nearly eight hundred they'd make—to come up here and get between Turner and the post, eat him up in the cañons—he's had a lot killed and wounded already—and then turn on us. How do I know it?" he demanded, in the midst of his excited harangue. "Sanchez told me—'Patchie Sanchez, the runner, last night. No—night before, or some night. Right here, I thought; right here where you all heard! He said they'd ordered him ironed in Prescott for telling the truth, and he said the sergeant had orders to flog him with a bull-whip, and he killed the man that tried to flog him. You mean you didn't hear this? You didn't know it? You didn't see him?—that I've been dreaming as well as drunk? By God, drunk or dreaming, it's so! and that's why José Sanchez and the others lit out for McDowell! They were afraid to stay. 'Patchie says Deltchay and Skim are coming, sure, whether the Sierra Blancas join or not. All the cavalry are up on the Black Mesa 'cept Turner's troop, and now's their turn. Call me drunk, crazy, mad, anything you like, but tell the general what I say! Tell him to get ready to fight like hell!"

  "Keep watch now all around, especially east and southeast."

  Page 175

  And so it would seem Case, the bookkeeper, had "inside information," and so it happened that, within an hour after sunset, once again the gray-haired commander and the wounded subaltern were in conference, and Case's strange story was told in full. "There's more than enough in it to demand our warning Turner," said Harris. "Can you get me up to Squadron Peak—to-night?"

  Just at tattoo the old-fashioned, yellow ambulance, drawn by a brace of mules, backed up at Bentley's quarters, and Harris was carefully lifted aboard. The general, with Strong and Bonner, stood at hand to say godspeed. "Promise him safe conduct," said the commander, as they drove away, and Harris touched his hat in acknowledgment. Briggs, with twenty stout foot soldiers, awaited them at the abandoned ranch. The doctor and two attendants accompanied him. The road for nearly four miles lay along the sandy flats, then went boring westward into the foothills, while a little worn branch turned off to the peak. Two-thirds of the way to the top the mules were able to pull the jolting vehicle, and from thence half a dozen brawny arms bore the young soldier on a stretcher to the summit. It was then after eleven, and the moon still behind the Mogollon, lowering black against the silvering skies full forty miles to the eastward. Already there was sufficient light to guide them, and a sergeant led on to a point where, surrounded by knee-high rocks, was a little blackened space where in bygone days many a signal fire had blazed, and here the men tossed the tinder, the pine cones and dead branches they had gathered on the climb. A match was applied. All crouched or stooped among the rocks, as the flames presently leaped on high, and gave ear to the quiet orders of the young soldier, practically in command. "Keep watch now, all round, especially east and south-east. It may be ten minutes before you get an answer, and there may come a dozen. More fuel may be needed," whereat half a dozen dark forms silently backed away down the slope, and all men waited and watched. Harris, with one arm and shoulder still bandaged, and obviously weak, sat grasping at the corner a folded blanket and busily coaching Briggs, who listened, absorbed. Ten, twelve, fourteen the minutes rolled by. The silvery sheen spread higher over the eastward sky. The crest of the distant Mesa was just fringing with dazzling white, when two voices at once exclaimed: "There you are, sir!" And afar over to the south-east, the direction of Tonto Creek, a little ruddy spark appeared through the gloom, and a moment later still another was made out, farther to the left. In twenty minutes three were in sight. "Anywhere from fifteen to twenty miles away," said Harris, as he studied them with the signal glass, "and," he continued, "I looked for one much nearer."

  "There you have it, sir!" And almost opposite them, it seemed, and lower, straight away to the east, so near they could almost mark the waving of the flame, a fourth blaze burst into view.

  "That's more like it!" said Harris. "Now the blanket. Give me a boost, corporal," and with that, supported by the strong a
rm of one of the soldiers, he stepped upon the nearest rock, the blanket in his left hand. Briggs grabbed the opposite corner with his right, and the next moment a woollen curtain swung flat between the fires.

  "Now, Briggs, up!" and the hidden red eye was suddenly unmasked and glared out over the east. "Down!" and all toward the opposite fire was darkness again. Twice more was it raised and lowered. Then a five seconds' pause. Then twice again. "Thirty-two," said Harris. "'Tonio's old signal. Now watch for the answers!" From those at a distance there came no sign. The flare at each was steady. From the nearmost, almost instantly, came the desired response. It suddenly disappeared, and Harris, at second intervals, counted low, "One, two, three." Then came the red glow again, just a moment. Then darkness only for two seconds. Then light again. "It is 'Tonio," said he, "and that's his call to me. Now, Briggs, again! Slowly this time!"

  And very slowly was the blanket raised and lowered twice. Then came two or three quicker movements. Then the blaze spoke untrammelled, and all eyes were on 'Tonio's torch, and they who had heard ill of him—had doubted him—found themselves oddly drawn to him across the intervening miles of darkness. Twice, thrice slowly his light, too, was curtained. Then for a moment it burned clearer; then seemed suddenly to sputter out. Within a few seconds, far more swiftly than it rose, the signal fire vanished from sight, and Harris stepped quietly down. "That's all," said he, yet the doctor, at least, could read the suppressed exultation in his tone. Then, seeing inquiry and disappointment, both, in the eager eyes about him, the young officer added, "He understands. He's coming, or sending, in."

  "Did you promise him safe conduct?" asked Bentley.

  "He did not ask it," was the answer.

  Two hours later, once more safe at the post, the doctor had stowed his weary patient in bed, renewed the dressing and bandages, and was bidding him try to sleep, but Harris smiled. "You'll need me to translate," said he. "The general's message to Turner is being written now. Let us finish this while we're about it."

  Sure enough. Toward half-past one the sentries on Numbers Six and Seven set up a shout for the corporal of the guard, and an Indian girl, trembling a bit, was led to the office, and half the garrison knew that word was in from 'Tonio. The general took his messenger kindly by the hand. Food and chocolate were in readiness at the Mess, but she shook her head. "Capitan Chiquito," she insisted, and then was conducted up the line, and, shrinking not a little, was led into the doctor's quarters. There, at sight of Harris, she instantly stepped to his bedside, knelt, and taking his weary hand, placed it on her head. He whom 'Tonio held in reverence, his followers could but blindly obey.

  To his question in her own tongue, "Where is 'Tonio?" she answered, "Toward the moon, now two hands high. When it is straight above Pancha can reach him again." "Is 'Tonio well?" "'Tonio is well, but—others brought Pancha. They say they are afraid that soldiers shoot. They await Pancha's returning."

  Evidently, despite the kindness in every face, the girl still feared the white man and wished to be gone. "He has sent her, general," said Harris. "Whatever you wish to send now to Turner will go through, if 'Tonio is not killed in the attempt."

  And so, with unexpected burden of food and gifts and with a brief despatch to Turner, bidding him hasten with his entire force, the dusky, fleet-footed daughter of the mountain was led back to the stream, went bounding lightly across from stone to stone, and disappeared among the shadows toward the east.

  "And now," said Harris, "Deltchay and Skiminzin may come as soon as they like. Turner will get here in time, and then—you may judge as to 'Tonio."

  And this was Saturday night or rather Sunday morning, not yet one full week since Willett was brought in swearing he saw 'Tonio take deliberate aim at him, although only the horse was shot, and as matters stood in the gross and scope of garrison understanding, the weight of presumptive evidence was against the Apache, and there was more to come.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  As was to be expected, Lieutenant Harris was somewhat worse when time came for inspection Sunday morning, but Bentley said complete rest would soon restore him. The other interesting invalid, Lieutenant Willett, was correspondingly better, and was to sit up awhile later in the day. Inspection was held under arms and in fighting kit instead of full dress—the two companies looking like a pair of scanty platoons, so heavy was the drain for guard duty. From earliest dawn lookouts had been stationed on top of the adjutant's office at the south, and the hospital at the north edge of the parade, Bucketts having built for them a little wooden platform, with bench, shelf and sunshade, and there, with signal-service glasses, they scoured the barren wilds in every direction for sign of coming friend or foe.

  It was eleven o'clock when Bentley came forth with Mrs. Stannard from his morning visit to Willett. "Oh, he's doing as well as an overfed, under-trained animal has any right to," said he, in response to the inquiry in her soft blue eyes. "I still think some men have too much luck in this world of ours. Here's Willett, who doesn't begin to deserve it, getting everything that is good, and Harris, who deserves all the good that the army affords, gets all the hard knocks and setbacks. Here's Willett swearing that 'Tonio's a renegade, hostile, spy and a traitor, and Harris convinced that he is stanch and loyal—that Willett must be mistaken in saying he shot at him, and though everything I know of the Apaches or ever heard, and every bit of evidence is overwhelmingly in favor of Willett's statement, just from what I've seen of these two men I'm deciding with Harris."

  "You don't—feel confidence in Mr. Willett's—judgment?" she asked.

  For a moment he hesitated, then turned and squarely faced her. "I don't feel confidence in Mr. Willett. There, Mrs. Stannard! There are not ten women in the army to whom I'd trust myself to speak of this—or five women out of it—but I am not happy over the way things are going."

  "Don't you think he'll—learn to appreciate her?"

  "He shouldn't have to learn! He should see it all at a glance, and thank God for the unmerited blessing."

  "Perhaps he does," said she, ever gentle, helpful, hopeful. "It is lovely the way he speaks to her—and I'm quite eager to see them this afternoon."

  What woman would not be? What man would not have been at his best at such a time, under such circumstances? The realization that he had won the fervent love of that fresh, pure, exquisite young heart was enough to thrill even a nature so utterly selfish as Willett's. It is the shallowest soul that most readily thrills, and what could be sweeter than the shy, yet rapturous love in the downcast eyes of Lilian Archer, when, as he had implored her mother, she was led that afternoon to the darkened room in which he sat, and, like knight of old, he took and bent over and kissed her trembling little hand. "I would kneel, too," he murmured, even as her mother stood beside her, with swimming eyes, and as he looked up into the blushing face his own eyes were filled with unfeigned homage, admiration, even love, his deep voice with emotion that was sweet to woman's ear. "Heaven never made a lovelier lover than Hal Willett," once said a famous belle and beauty. "That's why so many of us like to listen."

  But these earnest, honest, inexperienced two—the whole-hearted army wife who had lived well-nigh quarter of a century in the undivided sunshine of an honest soldier's love, and this sweet, simple-hearted army girl who had never dreamed of or thought to know any love to compare with this—listened, spellbound, to Willett's almost eloquent avowal, and the last doubt or fear that Mrs. Archer entertained vanished like the morning mists before the sunshine.

  "I declare," she said to Mrs. Stannard, "I'm almost as much in love as Lilian," and indeed it seemed so, and might well be so, for never was queen's courtier so exquisite in deference, homage, tact, as, in that blissful week of honeymooning, was Hal Willett to the mother of his dainty love. As for Lilian, the arid, breezeless day was soft with scented zephyrs; the unpeopled air was athrill with the melody of countless song birds; the unsightly desert flowered with exquisite millions of buds and blossoms that craved the caress of her dainty hand, the pressur
e of her pretty foot. The sunburned square of the lonely little garrison, environed with swarthy foemen, cut off from the world, was alive with heroic knights in glittering armor and ladies in lace and loveliness, and all were her loyal, devoted subjects, revelling in her happiness, rejoicing in her smiles, serving her in homage and on bended knee, their thrice-blessed, beautiful, beloved queen. God never made a more radiantly happy girl than was our fairy Lilian that wonderful week. God be thanked it was so utterly blissful, since it had to be so brief!

  All day long the watchmen clung to their glaring stations, and Sunday went by without either alarm or excursion. All Sunday—Monday night, they scanned the dark depths of eastward basin, the lone reaches of the valley, the tumbling heights to the west. It was nine in the morning of the second day since the signalling from Squadron Peak when the cry went up from the roof of the office, "Signal smoke south-east!" and every glass at Almy was brought to bear within the minute, and half the garrison lined the lower edge of the mesa, and all men were listening for further tidings, when from the hospital came the stirring shout: "Smoke answer, west!" And there, plainly visible, and not five miles away among the pine-bearded foothills, in little puffs, singly and distinct, thick wreaths of gray-white smoke were sailing straight aloft. The waiting Apache of the Mazatzal was signalling the coming brother from the dark clefts of the Sierra Ancha. One hour later, just as ten was striking on the spiral of the office clock, two sudden shots were heard on the flats to the north-west, and the little herd of horses and mules, not two dozen in all, grazing under cover of the rifles of Sentries 3 and 4, came limping, lumbering in, fast as hoppled feet would permit and without sign of a herdsman. Number Three, a veteran of the war days, let drive with his fifty calibre Springfield, the gun of the day, and sent up a yell for "The Guard!"