"Join your companies, men," said the general, in his placid way, whereat most of them went with a rush. "The north side first, Bonner," he added, as the captain came hurrying to his chief. "They've sneaked up on the herd guard, I fancy. Send the picked shots out to the pits."
Out on the flats to the west of the Verde road, full five hundred yards away from rock, tree or shelter, other than mere clump of cactus, pumpkin size, or bunch of dirty weed, there was lying a little heap of dingy white and brown, with a cow pony kicking at empty air in a shallow ditch—what was left of the half-breed herd guard and his mount. With most of the cavalry gone, the quartermaster had supplied their place with such mounted men as he could make available, and in broad daylight, within long rifle-shot of the sentry lines, the Apaches had squirmed out, snake-like, on their bellies, unseen, unsuspected; had picked off one of two watchers and stampeded the other. The skirmish line stumbled over the survivor, quaking among the willows in the stream bed, and kicked him out into the open to help bear home his murdered brother; then pushed out as far as the first ridge in hopes of a shot, and were rewarded with nothing better than a glimpse of vanishing breech-clouts. Falling slowly back, toward noon, Bonner posted two men in each of a dozen rifle-pits, some fifty yards outside the sentry lines, as a rule, and wherever view of the approaches could be had. Two of these were on little knolls to the south of the store, and here were Craney & Co. in full force, every man armed with a Henry rifle and a war-model Colt, "Mr. Case-Keeper Book," as Sergeant Clancy jovially hailed him, quite as formidable as his fellows, and every whit as cool. Craney held that he and his men had a right to be counted in among those told off to hold the fort, and Bonner smilingly assented.
"You two seem to hit it off pretty well together," said he to Case and Clancy. "I reckon we'll Cossack you over yonder," and he pointed to a scooped-out little hummock nearest the stream, commanding much of the southward road and the trail along the willows, now facetiously termed the "Ghost Walk." It was an unusual assignment, or distribution, but it seemed to strike the fancy of both. In times of peril and at the fore-posts men think less of rank and more of repute. Clancy was known far and wide as a fearless Apache fighter, with a Gaines's Mill-Gettysburg record behind him. Case had never before been heard of afield, but his one exploit in the card room stamped him unerringly, said these frontier experts, as "a man of nerve." Clancy held out his big red hand. "Are ye with me?" said he. "Yours truly," said Case. "Then come on, Pitkeeper," said Clancy, "and we'll leave Book and Case behind."
The general came jogging down at the moment, bestriding one of Bucketts's general utility beasts, watching the posting of the post defenders, and he screwed his eyelids down to a slit as he glared from under the brim of his then unorthodox slouch hat, and squinted after the combination of soldier and civilian stalking away to the assigned station. "What have you there, Bonner?" he asked, as he reined in.
"'Erin go unum, E pluribus bragh,' sir, as Derby would have it." "The Celt and the Casekeeper," he added to himself. "Clancy and Case going gunning together as amicably as if they had never squabbled over a sutler's bill."
"Queer lot—that man Case!" said the commanding officer reflectively. "His face bothers me sometimes, as though I must have seen or known him before, yet he tells me that he did not come to Vancouver until after I had left that department. Is he all straight again?"
"Straight as the new toadsticker, general, and"—with a rueful look at that slender appendage—"a damned sight more useful. His ghost-herding spree was no end important. I've an idea Case can handle a gun as well as"—another sotto voce now—"he can play a worthless hand."
"Well," said Archer, as he glanced about him, "I don't believe, as a rule, in putting any but soldiers on post, but," as he considered the slender rank of infantry standing patiently at ease, barely a dozen all told, and then smiled at Craney and his belligerent force, only four in number, but each man a walking arsenal with two weapons and five shots to the soldiers' one, "there are no non-combatants in Indian warfare. Every man, woman and child may have to fight."
Yet Archer felt no measure whatever of apprehension. One hundred good men and true, at least, were left to guard the post, and many of them battle-tried veterans. Not since the war days had the Apaches mustered in sufficient force and daring to attack a garrison. Still, Archer knew that if they only realized their strength in point of numbers, their skill in creeping close to their prey, their swiftness of foot, and the ease with which they could escape, all they needed was dash, determination and a leader, to enable them to creep upon the post in the darkness, and in one terrific moment swoop upon the officers' quarters, massacre every soul, and be off across the stream before the men in the barracks could rush to the rescue. They had talked it over at officers' mess—the general and Bonner and Bucketts and all, and figured out just how fifty white desperadoes could plan and accomplish the feat. It would be no trick at all to come up the valley in the screen of the willows, creep to the west bank, divide into six different squads, one for each set of quarters, crawl to the post of the drowsy sentry, shoot him full of arrows before he could cry out or load, then, all together, charge up the slope and into the flimsy houses, pistols in hand and knives in their teeth, and simply butcher the occupants as they lay in their beds. Doors, even if closed or bolted, which rarely happened, could be smashed in an instant—matches would light their way. It would be all over in much less time than it takes to tell it, and it might well happen but for two things—the Apache's dread of the dark and his fear of a possible hand-to-hand fight.
Yet if Deltchay and Eskiminzin, with all their warriors were to reëforce these about them, with five hundred braves to the garrison's one hundred, even that dread might be overcome.
And by Monday's sundown it was known that numbers of Apaches had crossed the valley ten miles away to the south—the telescope had told that—and not a word or sign had been vouchsafed by Turner, and Tuesday brought no better news. Then 'Tonio, said many a man, had played them false.
Just at four o'clock Archer had arranged the dispositions for the night. Mrs. Stannard, with Mrs. Archer and Lilian, were to occupy the ground floor, north-west, room of his quarters—the one least exposed to flying bullets in case of attack. Mrs. Bennett and the matron were moved into a little room in the hospital. The soldiers' wives and children were to assemble in the barracks in case of alarm. The men in the outlying posts and pits were to be doubled at dusk—Bonner's company attending to that, while Briggs and his fellows were to sleep on their arms within the post. It now lacked but a few minutes of sunset. No further demonstration had occurred. Not an Indian had been seen within a radius of six miles, when, all on a sudden, there came a shot—then two, almost together, then a quick crackle and sputter of small-arms afar down the stream. "By Jove!" cried Bonner, from a perch by the lookout at the office. "They've opened on Case and Clancy!"
"They've opened on Case and Clancy."
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And that was but the opening, for within a minute, from on every side, from far out among the rocks to the west, from the sandhills across the stream, from little heaps of brush and weed and cactus in the flats, from the distant screen of the willows in the stream bed, little puffs of white sulphur smoke jutted into the slanting sunshine, and the pulseless air of declining day was suddenly set to stir and throb by the crackle of encircling musketry. And then was seen the wisdom of the veteran's defence. Few of the hostiles, as yet, had other than old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifles, and few that they owned were effective over six hundred yards. By stationing his better shots in rifle pits well forward from the buildings on every side, Archer easily held the foe at a distance so long as they dare not "rush" his outposts. Only on the east side were there pits less than three hundred yards from the mesa, but here there was a dismal flat beyond the creek, affording a minimum of cover, and hardly a bullet whistled in from any direction so as to reach the quarters. Once in a while a little puff of dust flew up from the sandy slope without,
but even that was enough to demand that the women folk should keep under shelter, and at the moment the firing began Lilian and her mother were seated by Willett's reclining chair, and then Mrs. Stannard joined them, and, the windows being shaded, they never saw, among the first to reach the general at the mesa edge, Harris, the wounded officer, revolver in his unfettered hand.
The first volleying over, only in single and scattered shots, as they reloaded, came the Indian fire. If the hope had been to strike dismay with a volume of sound such as native ears had not heard, the Apache was doomed to disappointment. Men who had heard the crash of Spottsylvania and Cold Harbor laughed at the puny crackle of two hundred muskets. Then presently the Springfields began deliberate reply, only an occasional shot, for only very rarely did so much as the tip of a turban appear, and then the sun had dropped below the Mazatzal and the valley was in shadow, and old Archer stood with grim, whimsical smile on his weather-beaten face, as, field-glass to his eyes, he scanned his outposts at the south where the firing seemed heaviest. It was a moment or two before he noticed Harris at all. When he did it was to utter a mild rebuke. "You should not be here, lad. You need rest. This is only fun."
Yet not all fun. Strong came presently thumping back from beyond the store. He had borrowed Craney's Pinto pony and had been visiting the southward posts, and Pinto had been clipped by a bullet and was half frantic with the smart and scare combined. Moreover, Strong's fighting face was red and mad, as he thrashed the lagging pony up the slope.
"It's Deltchay, sir, easy enough," said he, with sweeping salute, "and that isn't all"—this with almost challenging glance at Harris, who had dropped his pistol and was gazing intently through his binocular at an open, slanting space far out to the south-east, still blazing in the rays of the setting sun. "The man of all others that oughtn't to be there stood at that point of rocks not ten minutes ago—the man we sent for Turner, general—'Tonio himself!"
Then both men, the gray-mustached commander, the angering adjutant, turned on the silent little subaltern, who stood there without having so much as changed his attitude or lowered his glass.
"You hear that, Harris?" demanded Archer. And with calm respect, yet almost exasperating drawl, came the unlooked-for answer:
"I was about to mention it—myself, sir. 'Tonio was certainly there—and Turner close behind him. Look for yourself, sir!"
Look, indeed! Riding steadily down into the valley, still a long four miles away, came the extended line of half a cavalry troop in skirmish order, with the supports and reserves dotting the slope to their rear. "Turner, as sure as shooting," said the general—"and 'Tonio as his guide!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
The attack had ended almost as suddenly as it began. Darkness descended upon the valley and every vestige of the Apache was gone with the twilight. Long before time for tattoo the eager watchers in the down-stream posts could hear muffled hoofbeats and low-toned words of command along the still cautious skirmish line, and Turner came but slowly, first because he could see that there was no occasion for hurry; second, because, with his wounded to protect, there was every objection to haste. Between that steadily advancing array and these fire-spitting heaps of sand toward the post the Indians slid soundless away into the gloom of the foothills, and presently shouts of greeting and welcome re-echoed among the rocks, and Turner's men rode sturdily up to the fords. By ten the last litter had been shouldered through the swift waters and borne to the ready hospital, where Bentley and his assistants went busily to work. Six of the men and two Hualpai scouts had been more or less severely wounded, four of them being borne from Tonto Creek on improvised stretchers made from saplings and blankets. Shelter tents, or tentage of any kind, our men had no use for, save as sunshades, in Arizona.
And with Turner came the first tidings to reach the beleaguered post since the couriers were brought in, with their belated tales, from up the Verde. Turner looked a trifle surprised at the warmth of his greeting. Turner had had little idea of their being so closely invested. Turner had sent two runners in with reports, and they both returned safely, saying, "Almy all right, but plenty Tonto everywhere!" One of them said he gave his despatch to 'Tonio, as he dare go no farther. One of them brought his back with him, and the third—Hualpai 21, he supposed—had finally reached the post, as only two nights since an Apache-Mohave boy found his way to the Tonto Creek camp with the despatch recalling the cavalry. They started at dawn, wounded and all; had a long range fight with Tontos toward evening, and another next morning, but forged slowly and steadily ahead with only slight loss, and came in sight of the flag and the fracas late the second afternoon. Turner was glad to get back, he said, since it seems he was needed, but was no sooner back than he was eager to launch out again. Hadn't they heard? Why, there had been great doings up on the Mogollon. Old Gray Fox himself had taken the field and was out with all the horsemen from Whipple and Sandy, and Stannard had joined them, and they were ripping up the Tonto country in a way that bade fair to wind up the war. How had he heard? Why, runners—Apache-Mohaves—'Tonio's people. Kwonahelka and some of his ilk had managed to keep going between them, slipping through or skipping round the Tontos like so many "ghost goats." It was only here, round about Almy, the hostiles were too many for them!"
"D'you mean you didn't know the Apache-Mohaves were just as hostile as the rest?" asked Archer.
"Apache-Mohaves!" exclaimed Turner, looking up in amaze from the hot supper set for him in the mess room. "Why, general, I couldn't have got along without 'em!"
"This beats me!" said the chief, looking at the faces about him for support, and finding it in every one, for Harris had been remanded to bed. "Up here they have chased our couriers, blocked the runners, and 'Tonio himself shot at Willett and killed his horse!"
For a moment Turner was too much surprised to speak. Suddenly he called to the orderly at the doorway to send his sergeant, who was then at the adjutant's office adjoining. "I beg your pardon, general," he said, "but this seems incredible in view of our experiences. Why, some of them joined us and stayed with us day and night." Then as a bearded, sun-blistered face appeared at the doorway, and a sturdy form in hunting shirt of deerskin and long Apache leggings stood attention before them: "Sergeant, send 'Tonio here, and you come with him. You and he seem to understand each other."
"'Tonio didn't come in, sir, nor the few that were with him. They hung back and quit at the Point."
"Quit! Do you know what's the trouble?"
"No, sir." But the soldier was obviously embarrassed. "I gather, though, from what I could understand, that 'Tonio thinks he's mistrusted. He says he will not come in till Big Chief comes himself. He means General Crook, sir."
There was silence a moment. It was for the post commander to speak if anybody, and Archer sat studying the veteran trooper before him. Officers of experience knew the value of expert opinion to be had for the asking among sergeants with war records behind them, and Turner's right bower, into whose sanctum at barracks only his intimates ventured, save with cap in hand and "sir" on their lips, was a man of mark in the regiment.
"Sergeant Malloy," said Archer, "did 'Tonio tell you why he was mistrusted?"
"I think he was trying to, sir, but I am new at his language and none too good at signs."
Again did it seem as though Malloy had understood more readily than he cared to admit, or would presume to say. It was very late. The day had been long and trying. With all its matter-of-fact, nonchalant ease of manner during the few hours under fire, the personnel of Camp Almy, officer and man, had been subjected to something of a strain night and day for nearly a week, and now was ready to turn in and sleep, but Archer and those with him were convinced that in Sergeant Malloy there lived a witness who, better even than Lieutenant Harris, could throw light on 'Tonio's singular and inexplicable behavior. There was not one of their number who did not believe, and in the absence of Harris would hesitate to say, that Willett had seen 'Tonio taking deliberate aim when the shot was fired that downed
both his horse and himself. This was enough to warrant their doubt of 'Tonio's loyalty. All that was lacking was something to establish a motive—an explanation—for a murderous and treasonable deed. An unwilling witness was Sergeant Malloy, therefore the more persistent should be the examination, and after a moment's reflection Archer spoke again:
"Sergeant, you have formed an impression, I think, and I should be glad to have the benefit of it. Did—he mean that—Lieutenant Harris distrusted him?"
"No, sir." On this point the sergeant was confident.
"Did he mention any one—in particular?"
"I gathered that he thought that all the officers of the post, from the general down, with perhaps two exceptions, distrusted him."
"And these two—were?"
"Captain Stannard, sir, and Captain Turner."
"I see," said Archer gravely. "Now, had anything happened—had anything been said or done to account for his—sensitiveness, we will call it?"
Malloy hesitated. "The general understands, I hope, that I am answering only as to impressions. I might be mistaken as to his meaning, and he might have been mistaken as to the meaning of the officer in the case."
"Then there has been a case? When and where?"
There was impressive silence in the dimly lighted mess room as the impromptu council sat about the table, Turner, with the relics of his hearty supper, at the other end of it. Every man present seemed to feel that here at last the clew to 'Tonio's double dealing was to be found. The answer came readily enough:
Tonio-Son of the Sierras Page 15
