"I knew you would, old fellow!" said Willett, putting forth the unoccupied hand and laying it upon the other's shoulder, a well-remembered way of his when he wished to be effusive. "I'm coming round presently to have a talk—but couldn't help coaxing you out now."
"How—is your shoulder, Mr. Harris?" began our Lilian, all observant of physical ills. On these, at least, she could pour the balm of her sympathy.
"Doing finely, thank you; and, pardon me, but the general is signalling. You're both wanted, I judge," and then, like the Union force at Second Bull Run, fell back in the best of order, in spite of the worst of blows.
"I'll be with you again before a great while, Hefty, old boy," again called Willett over his shoulder, as though insistent on an invitation; but an assenting nod was all that came. The general had signalled to his children because of the concern in Bentley's face at sight of Harris confronting all that happiness, but Bentley need not have feared for him. He would not have feared could he have seen the little thing that happened. She had put forth a slender hand, half timidly, as Harris stepped backward. She was thinking even in the overmastering presence of this hero whom she worshipped, and to whose side she clung, of that moonlit evening on the veranda, of the hiss and skirr of the deadly rattler, of the peril that had menaced and the quick wit and nerve of him who had saved her, this very plain, sun-bleached, seasoned young knight, who seemed quite ready to risk life or limb in her defence, and who, said Willett, had lost most of his heart. It was foolish in him, with her Harold there; still it was something to be rewarded, somehow, and, womanlike, she tendered the contemplation of her inaccessibility in his rival's bliss. "You'll come to see us soon, Mr. Harris? I've so much to thank you for."
"Just as soon as the doctor will let me, Miss Archer," was his entirely proper answer, and quite as properly our Lilian breathed a little sigh of relief, as, nestling closer still, she sped lightly homeward, clinging to her lover's side. It was so sweet to think of him as all her own.
It is the mistake other and older girls so often make. Even as she prattled in her bliss, looking radiantly into the fond, soft brown eyes that melted into hers, the summons of a rival claimant came swiftly down the vale, and the sentry at the northward post and the loungers at the lookouts were already screwing their eyelids into focus on the little dust cloud popping up along the stream fringe of willow. Two couriers came presently jogging into view, and before the general sat in the famous butler's pantry chair at the family table, he had told the contents of two despatches from the Gray Fox in the field, and decided for the moment to say nothing of the third. With the first and second, reporting progress and enclosing despatches to be forwarded to Prescott, we have nothing to do. With the last we may feel less concern than did they. Mrs. Archer, scanning the clear-cut face of her soldier lord, as he came within range of the hallway lamp, knew perfectly well he had something to conceal, and with never an instant's doubt or hesitation set herself to aid him. Without her tact and skill that little dinner of four, the last they were to know in many a day, would have been a sorrowful feast, for Archer was sore troubled in spirit. Not until an hour later could she get him to herself, leaving Lilian and her handsome Harold to bill and coo unsupervised, and then she only smiled bravely up into his face and said, "Now tell me, dear."
"It's that—that fool despatch I wrote about Harris coming like a curse, and chickens, home to roost." His hands were tremulous, his lips were twitching as he took from its envelope and unfolded a letter in the well-known hand of the field commander's favorite aide-de-camp. "Read it aloud," he said; "perhaps it won't sound quite so—reproachful from you." And obediently she read:
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Camp near head of Chevlon's Creek,
December 2, 187—.
Dear General Archer:
Referring to the final paragraph of your despatch to Department Head-quarters, dated November —th, General Crook directs me to say that he was unaware of the instructions given Lieutenant Willett, aide-de-camp, to proceed to Camp Almy, and practically authorizing him to make certain investigations. It was far from his desire that anything should be done to even inferentially reflect upon the conduct of scouting parties from the post under your control. From reliable sources General Crook has full information as to the cause of the apparent ill success of Lieutenant Harris. Neither was he, nor were his scouts, to blame. It is the general's intention to see you before returning to Prescott and give you the facts in his possession; but meantime Lieutenant Harris has his entire confidence, and so have the few Apache-Mohave scouts, especially 'Tonio, all of whom, it is feared, have in some way incurred your disfavor.
Captain Stannard is away at this moment, but will assure you as to the value and gallantry of Harris's effort in behalf of poor Mrs. Bennett, and also that 'Tonio is almost equally entitled to credit. It was far from General Crook's intention that Lieutenant Harris should be impeded or hampered in the least. Lieutenant Willett has rendered distinguished service in the Columbia country, but is a stranger to the situation and the Indians we have to deal with, and should not be permitted in any way to interfere with Lieutenant Harris.
Orders were sent Willett some ten days ago to join us in the field, but the couriers, returned to-day, report that he was not at Prescott. If he should be still in your neighborhood, kindly inform him of the general's desire, and give him sufficient escort. We move toward Camp Apache to-morrow, and Stannard is already ahead in hopes of rescuing the Bennett boys.
With the general's warmest regards,
Yours as ever,
Bright.
"It's a very kind letter, dear," said she, kissing his wrinkled cheek. "General Crook wouldn't wound you for the world."
"It isn't—that, Bella," he answered sadly. "I've wounded myself, and now I've got to send—him—with word of my orders as to 'Tonio."
"Send him—word?" she faltered. "Do you mean——"
"Certainly, dear. Who should go—but Willett?"
CHAPTER XX.
It was then lacking nearly an hour of tattoo. Already the arriving couriers, their mission executed, their wearied horses turned over to willing hands at stables, their hunger appeased at the troop kitchen, and the pent-up hankering for beer still unassuaged, were "filling up" at the expense of their fellows at the store, and wistfully looking on at the game.
Muñoz, the ever-ready; Dago, the still demoralized, and one or two of their burro-bred community, were settled at monte, Dago and Muñoz eying each other like gladiators, and already a table had started at stud poker, that might readily develop into "draw." The barkeeper was a busy man, and had been given the tip to keep sober or lose the last hold he had on his job. The bookkeeper had for a few days past moved in silence about the premises, avoiding the common room as he would a lazaretto, avoiding even his kind. For most of the week he had been utterly unlike himself—strange, nervous, restless, starting at sudden sounds, abrupt in speech and manner, occasionally springing to the door and stepping forth into the sunlight, wandering about with hanging head and hands in pocket, coming back and slamming into his seat as though at odds with all creation, striving desperately to concentrate his thoughts on the columns of figures, and failing wretchedly. "Case is all broke up," said Craney, "and damned if I know why. Last week he was the most popular man in Yavapai, or all Arizona for that matter." What Craney and his partner mortally feared was that Case would take to drinking again, with pay-day close at hand—the time of all others Case had never yet failed them, the time of all others when breach of faith could mean nothing short of breach of all business relations. But up to nine p.m. this night of prospective relaxation Case had been a stalwart. The test was yet to come.
It was still half an hour of tattoo when old Bucketts came into Bentley's quarters and found that skilled practitioner replacing the bandages and sling on his patient's shoulder. The tidings brought by the couriers and given out by Archer had long since been digested. Bucketts had something new. "Doc," said he, "if you h
ave anything to say or send to Stannard, now's your chance."
"Don't call me 'Doc'!" snapped Bentley. "If there's anything I hate it's this curtailing of titles as though they were too good for the man that bears them. One of these days you'll get your double bars, if you don't die of over-eating, and then how will you like it to be called 'cap'? How'd you like me to call you 'Buck' now? Who's going to Stannard?"
"Pass the 'buck,'" said the quartermaster sententiously. "I apologize. But Willett starts at day-break—takes a sergeant, six men and a pack outfit—thought you'd like to know. Leaves us with mighty few cavalry, now that Malloy and his people are still out."
"What keeps them?" asked Harris, looking up from Bentley's busy hands. "I never heard what they were after."
"You never will," said Bucketts, "unless they stumble on it by accident," then colored under the look of surprise, almost of reproof, in the younger officer's face. It was not good that a post commander's instructions to his men at arms should be slightingly spoken of by one of his staff, and Bentley knew it; but Bucketts was already mentally kicking against those very instructions. Now he stood abashed and awkward. That Willett should be going seemed to Harris of small matter—a matter of course. He wished himself again in Willett's place.
"How soon can you let me be going?" he asked Bentley.
"We could have had you out by this time if you'd only quit fretting," was the gruff reply. "Well, I suppose Willett's glad of a chance to join his chief?" he said interrogatively, though never looking up.
"Not unless looks belie him," was the answer.
Bentley bent lower over his work. "No—physical hindrance that I know of," said he suggestively.
"It's financial, I take it," said Bucketts sturdily. "Our investigator finds it—expensive—here at Almy."
So the sore was rankling still, and that luckless order had hurt no one so much as him who bore it, and so those who might have been his friends were taking a certain malicious comfort in his discomfiture. It was not Willett's fault that he had come thus handicapped, but one thing added to another had made him the disliked of men. Was it in compensation for this that he stood so beloved of women? Then Bucketts, having thus relieved himself, ventured again a glance at Harris, and the younger soldier's eyes were on his, searching, questioning. It was for Bucketts to explain, and he did it thus:
"Excuse me, Mr. Harris; I am not over-partial to this distinguished classmate of yours, and, to put it flatly, I'm no more his friend that he is yours. I'll say good-night." Whereupon this blunt official turned and quit the room, colliding at the door with an entering form, that of Strong, whose impact added to the quartermaster's distemper, for Strong was in a hurry, and half-savage mood.
"Doctor," said he, bolting in, with scant apology to his staggered fellow staff officer, "Craney wants to know if you're coming down to-night. He's worried a bit about Case."
"What's the matter with Case?" asked Bentley, barely looking up from the final tie of the sling, while Harris settled back in his chair.
"That's what he wants to ask you. I don't know, except he says Case hasn't slept for six nights, and he'll be wild as a hawk when the paymaster gets here; wants you to give him something to make him sleep, I believe. I told him I'd tell you, and now the general's shooting off his quill at the office. Hope you're better, Harris. Good-night."
"Reckon I'll have to go down awhile, anyhow. Harris, what Bucketts said was true, though he oughtn't to have said it. Willett has been playing late these last two nights, with Watts, principally, but Craney says he seemed oddly anxious to get Case into the game, and Case wouldn't play—wouldn't stay about the place while Willett was there—wouldn't have anything to do with him. Willett has lost quite a lot, I'm told, and now he's ordered off."
Harris was still silent. He had no love for Willett, at best. He had had in their cadet days more reasons than one for his dislike. He had far more reason now, yet never dreamed of still another—that report to department head-quarters. But Willett was his classmate, and, outwardly, they were friends. Bentley and, in fact, all the officers at Almy were new-found acquaintances, well as some few were known to him by reputation. Still, it came to him something of a shock that Hal Willett should no sooner seem well enough to be about than he should turn directly from her good-night words—her kiss, perhaps—to the gambling table and its probable accompaniments. It boded ill for the happiness of that sweet girl's future, and as Harris sat brooding, Bentley, unheard, unnoted, slipped away, and presently, with brisk step and buoyant mien, Hal Willett himself came bounding in. Barely ten minutes ago Bucketts had given the impression that he seemed dejected, dispirited, yet Willett now was confidence and energy personified.
"Hefty, old boy, how much cash have you got in hand? I want three hundred dollars."
There was no answer for a moment. Well as Harris thought he knew Willett, this was a surprise.
"What for?" were the exact words of the response, and neither in tone nor manner were there encouragement.
"I've got to pull out at dawn, I suppose you've heard, and I shouldn't like to leave I.O.U.'s—here!" And now the cheery confidence seemed evaporating. Willett's face was shading.
"Won't you sit down?" asked Harris reflectively. "I'd like to know something about—this."
"There isn't time, Harris. I'm in a hole, so to speak. I hate to bother you, but I'd rather come to a classmate and old friend, who is in position, as I know, to help out, than give these fellows a chance to talk. Probably they've been talking already, and you've heard," and now, with something like a resumption of the old familiar manner of their boy days at the Point, Willett settled on the broad, flat arm of the reclining chair and threw his own arm, long and muscular, over the back. There had come to be a saying in the gray battalion, when Willett was seen strolling with a comrade, his arm caressingly encircling him, "Well, Willett's doing the bunco act again." Possibly it was the instinctive shrinking of the wounded shoulder; certain it was that Harris drew perceptibly away, and Willett noticed it. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" said he.
"It's rather touchy yet," was the answer.
"Well, say, Hefty, here's the situation. You don't play, so you won't appreciate, maybe, and I only play once in a good while, but they rung in a brace game on me. That fellow Case is no better'n a professional, and you saw for yourself here what a cad he could be. He got my money that Saturday night and Sunday, and since then, like the cad he is, has refused to play it out—give me a chance to get it back——"
"Do you play with cads?" interrupted Harris.
"Not when I know it—to start with," answered Willett, flushing and beginning to draw away. Obviously the affectionate and confidential method was a failure. "But when a man's got your money, cad or no cad, you want it back."
"And Case has your three hundred dollars?"
"Just about. Then I owe Craney and Watts quite a lot. I lost a hundred in cash in the first place. I never saw such luck in all my life! And now, instead of going back to Prescott, I've got to skip for the war-path. Watts says the money he gave me in chips he owes to others who were in the game at one time or other, and he needs currency, not I.O.U.'s. Looks like a regular combine, doesn't it?"
"You couldn't expect to win—everything there was in sight," said Harris quietly.
Willett flushed again. He had slipped from the broad arm to the narrow camp chair recently occupied by the doctor. Harris was displaying unexpected resistance. Willett had been accustomed to speedier surrender to his advances.
"It's more on that account than any other I hate to leave here with these things hanging over me," he answered moodily. Then, by way of expediting matters, "Time's mighty short—short as I am—and Watts says you have a stack of greenbacks in the safe."
Again silence a moment. Then Harris turned fully upon his visitor and spoke deliberately.
"You ask me to do what I declared three years ago I never would do, and that I have refused to do ever since—loan a man money with which to gamble or pay
gambling debts. I need this money, Willett, to send home. I've been saving and sending home ever since I joined, but that's not why I won't play—and don't drink."
"Oh, we know how virtuous you are!" began Willett, with something like a sneer, but was checked with sudden, startling force. Harris almost sprang from his chair.
"None of that, Willett!" he cried, his voice harsh with anger. "Your ways and mine are wide apart, but I'll stand no sneering. You come to me for help and you're going to get it, not because you scoff at my views, but in spite of it; not for your sake, but that of the old Academy. You and I are the only West Pointers at this post, bar the dear old general. You and I are classmates, and I know you, and don't believe in you, but the money's yours for the asking. You say you come to me as an old friend, and I have never had faith in your friendship. I know how other men's and some women's names have suffered at your hands, and I don't know what you may have done to mine, but——" and now Harris was on his feet, standing over Willett—sitting there gripping the frail arms of a canvas-covered straddle-box, and looking up into the elder soldier's—the junior officer's—face in amaze. Never before had Willett been so braved by man or woman—"But your name shall be protected for just two reasons—and protected just so long as you can show you're worth it. But—Willett, I'm not preaching on drink or gambling now. There's another thing you've got to stop—or I'm done with you." And then Harris himself stopped short.
Tonio-Son of the Sierras Page 17
