Tonio-Son of the Sierras

by King, Charles

  Thirty minutes later, dusty and weary, five troopers rode slowly through the southward willows, across the sandy flats and up the slope to the adjutant's office, while the garrison, neglecting its evening meal, swarmed out to greet them. Six saddle-bags were crowded with letters and papers—the first in a fortnight—and the sergeant-major and his clerks went busily to work sorting out the mail, while Archer and his officers eagerly questioned the sergeant in charge. They were men of Captain Freeman's troop, all out scouting from McDowell. They camped last night at Silver Springs, fifty miles south-west, and came on from there while the captain and the troop turned back to the Verde Valley. No, they had neither seen nor heard of hostile Indians. All such seemed to have cleared out, for the time being at least. Had they met the Almy couriers on their way? Not one. They had come the lower trail by way of Standard Peak, where they had a signal station and guard now, where they left mail and rations for them, and then pushed on over into the valley. The Almy couriers took the short cut. No, they had seen nobody but some Mexicans, and hadn't much to say to them, 'cause Sanchez—'Patchie Sanchez—had been caught and was in the guard-house at McDowell, charged with being mixed up in the shooting of Sergeant Graves. That, at least, was welcome news. Had anything been heard of General Crook? Yes, something. Apache-Mohave runners came in to the bivouac at Silver Springs, with despatches, before they left, and that was one reason the captain turned back. One of them was wounded. They'd had a scrimmage with Tontos, they said, but got through safely, barring just this one—'Tonio they called him—said he was a chief of the old tribe.

  "'Tonio there, and wounded!" cried Archer, while Strong and Bonner almost sprang to their feet, in surprise.

  "'Tonio, sir, certainly," said the sergeant. "The doctor had him dressing his wound when we came away. It was only slight."

  "Then," said the general, "by this time they've got my despatches, and 'Tonio's a doomed Indian!"

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  The week was closing, the third of a mournful little series of seven-day happenings, the like of which Almy had never before experienced, and it was hoped might never know again. "The Moon of Many Woes," as later it transpired the Indians had named the night goddess of November, was a thing of the past. A new queen had come, hovering like silvery filament over the black barrier of the Mazatzal in a sky cloudless and glinting with myriad points of fire. The nights were cold and still, the days soft yet brilliant in the blaze of an unshrouded sun. An almost Sabbath-like calm hovered over the valley, for even signal smokes had ceased to blur the horizon. Not a hostile Indian had been heard of since the coming of Freeman's couriers. The brawling gang of "greaser" gamblers had stolen away from the "ghost ranch." Even the ghost himself seemed to walk no more. Something had happened to call the firm of Muñoz y Sanchez elsewhere, and Dago, darkly glowering and scowling about the store, where day and night the bookkeeper sat absorbed in accounts and letters, muttered many a carramba, and had even been goaded into explosive carrajo, because a defrauded soldiery, thirsting for revenge or restitution, persisted in connecting him with these skilled but quite unprincipled experts of the alluring game of monte, whereas Dago hated the sight of Muñoz, of whom he stood in dread.

  But while all men knew the "greasers" had gone, and many wondered why, and none at Almy could tell, there was abundant reason to believe they would soon reappear. Much news had been coming in—news from Crook's column along the Mogollon and the eastward foothills—good news, too, for far and wide the Indians were heeding his Gospel of Peace, which, tersely translated, read: "Come in and be fed. Stay out and be fought," and by scores the mountain warriors, with their queerly assorted families, were flocking to the San Carlos and Apache reservations, and at last there seemed promise of a general burial of the hatchet. At last there was hope, wrote Stannard, that the Bennett boys would be restored. Good news, too, and stacks of mail, had come from Prescott and from far distant homes, but the bit of news that appealed to all but a chosen few at Camp Almy, as by all means the most important and welcome, was "The paymaster's coming!" The paymaster, indeed, after weeks of detention, was scheduled to be at the post by nightfall of the coming Tuesday or Wednesday, and Wednesday would usher in the old-time saturnalia of the south-western frontier, the joy of the laundress, soldier and sutler, the dread of every post and company commander from Her Majesty's dominion to the Mexican line—Pay Day.

  And stacks of letters and some few papers and magazines—by no manner of means all that were hopefully started—had come to the Archers and Mrs. Stannard and the exiles of official Almy, and stacks of letters were there for the slowly bettering young soldier lying helpless under the commander's roof, faithfully tended and devotedly nursed, the object of the fondest hope and love and prayer—Lieutenant Harold Willett, on detached service from "the Lost and Strayed," as aide-de-camp to the commanding general, Department of Arizona, who never yet since the day he left Vancouver Barracks had set eyes on him. Most of these letters, tied in tape, stood piled like bricks upon the mantel-shelf in the darkened quarters. Some few of them, in feminine superscription and bearing the Portland postmark, Dr. Bentley had seen fit to segregate and set aside. They had been placed for safe keeping in the hands of Mrs. Stannard, of whom, said Bentley, "there are not ten women of her sense in the whole service," which, said Lieutenant Blake, of Camp McDowell, when told of the fact, "is a most egregious exaggeration," and no woman there knew just what he meant. Blake at the moment was riding boot to boot with his captain, Freeman, for between the two there dwelt an attachment and understanding rarely seen between captain and subaltern, but Freeman guffawed at his junior's whimsical remark, and told it, just to try the effect on three of the four heroines then quartered at the camp. No one of their number was there who did not envy Mrs. Stannard her place in public estimation, but no one of them, could they have known, would have envied her the plight in which she found herself—joint custodian, with Bentley, of Hal Willett's unconscious confidences—compelled to see a young girl's rapturous love lavished upon a man so saturated with the incense of feminine idolatry as to be more than apt to underrate the priceless boon of a pure woman's heart-whole devotion.

  They had clipped short, and shaved, much of the hair from the back and left side of Harold's handsome head, where fell the blows that had stunned him, but as those severe contusions healed, and it transpired that the skull was sound, the doctor's main anxiety was transferred to the gunshot wound, which might well be serious in view of the amount of anatomy traversed, yet even that was healing, healthfully, steadily. "A beautiful constitution has this damned young Lovelace," said Bentley to Bucketts, in whom he had long since found a kindred spirit. "Just look at that!" and with a nod over his pipe stem, he indicated the bunch of letters forwarded from the Columbia. "Why don't you"—began Bucketts, but dropped it—he knew it was impossible. He knew, moreover, that when both mother and daughter have set their hearts on a single man, paterfamilias is powerless. "The whole family's infatuated," said Bentley, "and in his whole handsome carcase there isn't half the man in Willett that there is in that dried up little chap yonder."

  "The dried up little chap yonder," dismounting slowly and carefully from one of Turner's staidest troop horses, was the unappreciated Harris, returning from one of the first tentatives in saddle. Days before this, had he been permitted, Harris would have been up and away, he cared little whither. He wished to shake the dust of Almy from his deerskins, get back to the mountains and the war-path, get over the Mazatzal to McDowell and 'Tonio—'Tonio, his faithful friend and fellow-scout, now languishing presumably behind prison bars, awaiting the orders of the Chief of Chieftains in his case, for all pleadings were vain. The last barrier to belief in his guilt had gone with the recovery of the revolver and the exposure of the cock-and-bull story, said Archer, by which he had humbugged Freeman and Blake into believing he had really been slashed in hand-to-hand fight with Tonto Apaches. The first name spoken by Willett, after the fever had left him, and speedily he began to recover
sense, was that of 'Tonio—'Tonio who had shot him.

  It had affected Harris to the point, almost, of relapse. He still fought vehemently against the story, declaring 'Tonio too high-minded, in spite of Indian blood and tradition, for a dirty bit of assassination. The brutal and bungling way in which the thing was done, said he, was enough to prove that 'Tonio had no hand in it. Thus could he talk to Bentley, at least, and even to Bucketts, who would listen, though he would not lie, and say he thought Harris right.

  None the less there had been amaze at McDowell when Archer's demand was received. 'Tonio had been taken to hospital on his arrival, kindly, skilfully cared for by the young post surgeon, while the couriers had been sent on to Prescott. 'Tonio's wound was a knife slash in the left arm, and another in the side. He had lost much blood and had little left to build up with. He was too weak to attempt escape, wrote Major Brown, the post commander, even if he knew he was under arrest, which he did not. "If I have to confine him it shall not be with such cattle as that half cad, half coyote, Sanchez," and Harris, being very improperly told of this missive, could almost have walked the weary miles to McDowell to fall upon the major's neck and bless him. "The very fact that 'Tonio was cut and slashed conflicts with every theory in the case," said he. "Who would have cut and slashed him but Willett, if 'Tonio attacked him, and Willett had no knife."

  And still Camp Almy clung to the belief that 'Tonio was Harold Willett's assailant and would-be murderer. Even Bonner, a conservative, had this to say: "Willett admits he struck 'Tonio. What Indian ever forgave that affront? He hates Willett as he loves Harris, and such an Indian love is almost as strong as his hate. We have some reason to think Willett no friend of Harris. 'Tonio went further and thought him an enemy. Couple that with his own grievance and there's more than sufficient motive for his crime."

  The topic was too one-sided to be mildly interesting. Moreover, the paymaster was coming, which overshadowed all minor considerations, and Turner was to take twenty men and meet him midway over to McDowell, and could have taken fifty had volunteers been called for, and the garrison to a man would have offered to sally forth, "with mattock and with spade" to patch up the crazy road that twisted through Picacho Pass—anything to get the man and his money to Camp Almy, for "devil a cent of four months' pay had the garrison, and more than double that," said Sergeant Malloy, "is owin' me in I.O.U.'s that they wouldn't take for a treat at the store."

  The night before Turner's fellows were to start, Mr. Harris coming with the doctor slowly homeward from the mess room and listening again, disgustedly, to arguments against his attempting to ride back with the paymaster to see 'Tonio at McDowell, the two came suddenly upon Archer, just stepping forth into the pallid moonlight. The general pulled up short at sight of them, and Harris silently raised his cap, the old-time salutation to the post commander.

  "I was just about sending for you, Bentley," began the chief, as courteously he returned the salutation. "Bella thinks Willett's a bit flighty again, just now. Could you go in a moment? Come and take a chair, Harris," he added, as the doctor disappeared from the hallway. "We haven't seen you in a coon's age. What's this I hear about your wanting to go up to McDowell? Bentley says you're not yet strong enough."

  "It's to see 'Tonio, sir. I'm about the only friend he has left," and Harris would have ignored the proffered chair, but the general again indicated his wish, which meant compliance.

  "He'll need all he can get, I am afraid, my boy," and the answer was kind, even conciliatory. How was he ever going to admit to this uncompromising young campaigner that he had done him mighty wrong in his official despatch? Some time the boy must know it. Better know it through him, when it could be explained, perhaps condoned. They had exhausted the 'Tonio subject, so far as was possible between commander and subaltern. They had never yet talked it as man to man. When they did it would be on Archer's initiation, not that of Harris. The more the old soldier studied the young man the better he liked him. The less they discussed 'Tonio, the better Harris liked Archer. It was useless saying more. Harris silently took the chair at his senior's side and Archer continued:

  "If it would contribute to your strength as much as your peace of mind, I'd send you over in the forbidden ambulance, my boy"—how the voice trembled at the word that so often, so constantly in bygone days, was on his lips!—"but Bentley says 'not yet'—not even for a week, so what can an old fellow do?"

  "You are all that is kind—to me, general," was the grave answer, "and I hope to persuade Bentley before the paymaster goes back. If I do——"

  "If you do—that settles it—— What is it, dear?" he asked, half rising from his chair. Harris was already on his feet. Lilian, all in white, save the belt at her slim waist, stood at the doorway and had spoken.

  "Dr. Bentley asks that you come to him a moment, father. He is with—Mr. Willett." She saw who stood there by his side, and it was not so easy to say "Harold." Harris, bowing, would have backed from the veranda, but Archer interposed. "No, stay here awhile, lad; I—I want to talk with you. I'll be back in a moment."

  Very possibly he thought he could be. But the moment lengthened. Lilian had come slowly forth. Something had told her she was neither needed nor desired in the room just then. Even her mother, silently, had left the bedside and was hovering about the doorway. And now here was Harris. Lilian had matured a little, and paled not a little, in these few days of vigil and anxiety, but she was inexpressibly lovely as she stood and looked wistfully into his face. "You know he isn't quite so well to-day?" she said. "There's fever again. He craves ice so. What wouldn't I—we—give for some? What do you think he called me"—she gave a queer little nervous laugh—"just a moment ago as I was fanning him?"

  Harris did not answer. He would have hazarded "Sanctissima," possibly, as he stood there looking intently into her clear, soft eyes, with all their depth of tenderness and trust. Good God! Why should any man have to have a past, when love such as this was possible? "He called me Stella. Mother said he was dreaming of the pet dog he left at Vancouver, but his eyes were wide open—looking right up at me."

  Harris knew well who Stella was. The name was appended to many a letter and "wire" that came to him during First Class camp, and later, begging him to tell her of Mr. Willett, and now here was this fair girl virtually bidding him say he had known a Stella. He ground his teeth as he turned aside to set a chair for her. There had been others since Stella, unless all indications lied. What might she not say if she knew them all?

  "I called my mother Topsy and Aunt Ophelia, both, when I was getting over typhoid and Uncle Tom's Cabin," said he.

  "Then Stella was only——" and the blue eyes were searching his.

  "Only a—you know I was nearly 'found' in French. What would you call the parallel to a nom de plume? Nom de chien? Nom de—something visionary, at all events. He'll be sitting up day after to-morrow and telling you—all about it."

  She stood before him, with those pretty, slender, white hands loosely clasped, the clear, truthful, beautiful eyes looking straight into his sun-tanned, yet pallid face. No man in his time at the Point had ever known Harris to flinch at the truth or dodge an issue. "He is square as they make 'em," was the verdict of his classmates, and square he had been through his subaltern days, and now to be square meant the dealing to this sweet and trusting girl a blow that, while it might down his rival, would wreck her happiness. He now had dodged an issue at last, and then came the further trial:

  "Mr. Harris, dogs don't write. Harold's talking about Stella's letters, and says you get them."

  He had dodged. He might as well flinch. The truth he would not tell her. A lie he could not tell her. He did, perhaps, the best he could for himself and the worst, perhaps, for her. He acted.

  "Don't believe a word of it, Miss Lilian. He's mooning yet."

  "Then—there wasn't any girl?—any letters?"

  "There's only one girl in creation he cares for."

  "But—Stella?" she persisted.

  "Never
saw his Stella in all my life. What he needs is ice, and I'm going to see he gets it."

  With that he was gone, deaf to the words of relief the poor child would have spoken—trying to be deaf to the fierce upbraiding of conscience, and failing as he deserved, miserably.

  An hour later that evening, with a pack mule, blankets, old newspapers and a brace of cracker boxes, two half-tamed Mohaves were heading for the heights to the north-east, where water would freeze in the canteens these December nights, and the rock tanks were nearly solid ice. Two hours later while Harris, nervous, irritable, and filled with nameless self-reproach, was pacing the narrow veranda at the doctor's quarters, there was a stir at the southward end of the post, a sound of hoofbeats and footfalls, a running to and fro and lighting up at the office. An orderly came on the jump and banged at the adjutant's door, and Strong shuffled forth in the moonlight and joined other dark forms over at head-quarters. The sentries were calling the midnight hour without, and the doctor was snoring placidly within. It was barely ten minutes before Strong came back, in one of his hurries, and Harris hailed for the tidings.

  "Oh, you'll be glad, I'm betting!" was the answer, half-rueful, half-relieved, for somehow Strong had "taken to" the doctor's guest—and to doubting his own. "Those galoots at McDowell let up on their watch, and 'Tonio's walked off—'gone where the woodbine twineth'—'Patchie Sanchez with him!"

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  That meant new trouble—trouble for Major Brown commanding the little two-company station—the "tuppenny post," his subaltern, Blake, derisively termed it—trouble for Blake, who was officer of the day, and was held on tenterhooks for many a day thereafter—trouble for Sergeant Collins, who was directly in command of the guard—"Collins né Oolahan," as Freeman wrote him down, it having been discovered that this versatile Celt had served a previous enlistment in the "Lost and Strayed," when four of its companies were pioneering shortly after the war, where even the paymaster couldn't find them. Such of them as could be found in course of years were gathered up and sent to San Francisco for further exploration in other desert lands, but Oolahan and four of his fellows of Company "A," not having returned from wagon escort duty, were finally dropped as dead or deserted (those were days wherein nobody much cared which), whereas they were merely drunk at Cerbat. Under other names, as orthodox as the originals, they were now doing valorous and valuable service in other commands, Collins in particular proving a capital fighter and trooper, to the end that the best interests of the service were subserved by keeping a keen eye on his present and a "Nelson blind" on his past. Of the three soldiers thus involved at McDowell, Collins was the one who took it most to heart, for Collins had come to think ill of 'Tonio, whom at first he had championed. Collins despised 'Patchie Sanchez, whom he had known five years, and described as a "durrty cross betune a skunk and a spitbox," a greaser Indian who would knife his best friend. As for 'Tonio, whom he had known ever since he came to Arizona in '65, and once held to be "the wan good Indian in it," 'Tonio had made him believe he too held Sanchez in contempt. Yet, to all appearance, the two, who up to this night had been confined entirely apart, had gone together. One of the counts in the unwritten indictments against McDowell was that its officers and men had lionized the dangerous Indian they were bidden to hold under careful guard, had held him without bond or shackle in a vacant room of the hospital, until that very day, when, stung by an inspector's comment, Brown ordered him at last into confinement with Sanchez, who was shackled to a post in the prison room. Yet all that was left of either was the "greaser's" chains. Could there have been collusion?