An Apache Princess Part 14

"Lieutenant, quick! for G.o.d's sake! They're coming!" cried the voice of the German soldier at the wall, and wrenching his wrist from the clasp of the dying man, Blakely sprang recklessly to his feet and to the mouth of the cave just as Stern's carbine broke the stillness with resounding roar. Half a dozen rifles barked their instant echo among the rocks. From up the hillside rose a yell of savage hate and another of warning. Then from behind their curtaining rocks half a dozen dusky forms, their dirty white breechclouts streaming behind them, sprang suddenly into view and darted, with goatlike ease and agility, zigzagging up the eastward wall. It was a foolish thing to do, but Blakely followed with a wasted shot, aimed one handed from the shoulder, before he could regain command of his judgment. In thirty seconds the cliff was as bare of Apaches as but the moment before it had been dotted. Something, in the moment when their savage plans and triumph seemed secure, had happened to alarm the entire party. With warning shouts and signals they were scurrying out of the deep ravine, scattering, apparently, northward. But even as they fled to higher ground there was order and method in their retreat. While several of their number clambered up the steep, an equal number lurked in their covert, and Blakely's single shot was answered instantly by half a dozen, the bullets striking and splas.h.i.+ng on the rocks, the arrows bounding or glancing furiously. Stern ducked within, out of the storm.

Blakely, flattening like hunted squirrel close to the parapet, flung down his empty carbine and strove to reach another, lying loaded at the southward loophole, and at the outstretched hand there whizzed an arrow from aloft whose guiding feather fairly seared the skin, so close came the barbed messenger. Then up the height rang out a shrill cry, some word of command in a voice that had a familiar tang to it, and that was almost instantly obeyed, for, under cover of sharp, well-aimed fire from aloft, from the shelter of projecting rock or stranded bowlder, again there leaped into sight a few scattered, sinewy forms that rushed in bewildering zigzag up the steep, until safe beyond their supports, when they, too, vanished, and again the cliff stood barren of Apache foemen as the level of the garrison parade. It was science in savage warfare against which the drill book of the cavalry taught no method whatsoever. Another minute and even the shots had ceased. One glimpse more had Blakely of dingy, trailing breechclouts, fluttering in the breeze now stirring the fringing pines and cedars, and all that was left of the late besiegers came clattering down the rocks in the shape of an Indian s.h.i.+eld. Stern would have scrambled out to nab it, but was ordered down. "Back, you idiot, or they'll have you next!" And then they heard the feeble voice of Wren, pleading for water and demanding to be lifted to the light. The uproar of the final volley had roused him from an almost deathlike stupor, and he lay staring, uncomprehending, at Carmody, whose glazing eyes were closed, whose broken words had ceased. The poor fellow was drifting away into the shadows with his story still untold.

"Watch here, Stern, but keep under cover," cried Blakely. "I'll see to the captain. Listen for any shot or sound, but hold your fire," and then he turned to his barely conscious senior and spoke to him as he would to a helpless child. Again he poured a little brandy in his cup.

Again he held it to ashen lips and presently saw the faint flutter of reviving strength. "Lie still just a moment or two, Wren," he murmured soothingly. "Lie still. Somebody's coming. The troop is not far off.

You'll soon have help and home and--Angela"--even then his tongue faltered at her name. And Wren heard and with eager eyes questioned imploringly. The quivering lips repeated huskily the name of the child he loved. "Angela--where?"

"Home--safe--where you shall be soon, old fellow, only--brace up now.

I must speak one moment with Carmody," and to Carmody eagerly he turned. "You were speaking of Elise and the fire--of Downs, sergeant ----" His words were slow and clear and distinct, for the soldier had drifted far away and must be recalled. "Tell me again. What was it?"

But only faint, swift gasping answered him. Carmody either heard not, or, hearing, was already past all possibility of reply. "Speak to me, Carmody. Tell me what I can do for you?" he repeated. "What word to Elise?" He thought the name might rouse him, and it did. A feeble hand was uplifted, just an inch or two. The eyelids slowly fluttered, and the dim, almost lifeless eyes looked pathetically up into those of the young commander. There was a moment of almost breathless silence, broken only by a faint moan from Wren's tortured lips and the childish whimpering of that other--the half-crazed, terror-stricken soldier.

"Elise," came the whisper, barely audible, as Carmody strove to lift his head, "she--promised"--but the head sank back on Blakely's knee. Stern was shouting at the stone gate--shouting and springing to his feet and swinging his old scouting hat and gazing wildly down the canon. "For G.o.d's sake hush, man!" cried the lieutenant. "I must hear Carmody." But Stern was past further shouting now. Sinking on his knees, he was sobbing aloud. Scrambling out into the daylight of the opening, but still shrinking within its shelter, the half-crazed, half-broken soldier stood stretching forth his arms and calling wild words down the echoing gorge, where sounds of shouting, l.u.s.ty-lunged, and a ringing order or two, and then the clamor of carbine shots, told of the coming of rescue and new life and hope, and food and friends, and still Blakely knelt and circled that dying head with the one arm left him, and pleaded and besought--even commanded. But never again would word or order stir the soldier's willing pulse. The sergeant and his story had drifted together beyond the veil, and Blakely, slowly rising, found the lighted entrance swimming dizzily about him, first level and then up-ended; found himself sinking, whither he neither knew nor cared; found the canon filling with many voices, the sound of hurrying feet and then of many rus.h.i.+ng waters, and then--how was it that all was dark without the cave, and lighted--lantern-lighted--here within? They had had no lantern, no candle. Here were both, and here was a familiar face--old Heartburn's--bending rea.s.suringly over Wren, and someone was ----. Why, where was Carmody? Gone! And but a moment ago that dying head was there on his knee, and then it was daylight, too, and now--why, it must be after nightfall, else why these lanterns? And then old Heartburn came bending over him in turn, and then came a rejoiceful word:

"h.e.l.lo, Bugs! Well, it _is_ high time you woke up! Here, take a swig of this!"

Blakely drank and sat up presently, dazed, and Heartburn went on with his cheery talk. "One of you men out there call Captain Stout. Tell him Mr. Blakely's up and asking for him," and, feeling presently a glow of warmth coursing in his veins, the Bugologist roused to a sitting posture and began to mumble questions. And then a burly shadow appeared at the entrance, black against the ruddy firelight in the canon without, where other forms began to appear. Down on his knee came Stout to clasp his one available hand and even clap him on the back and send unwelcome jar through his fevered, swollen arm. "Good boy, Bugs! You're coming round famously. We'll start you back to Sandy in the morning, you and Wren, for nursing, petting, and all that sort of thing. They are las.h.i.+ng the saplings now for your litters, and we've sent for Graham, too, and he'll meet you on the the way, while we shove on after s.h.i.+eld's people."

"s.h.i.+eld--Raven s.h.i.+eld?" queried Blakely, still half dazed. "s.h.i.+eld was killed--at Sandy," and yet there was the memory of the voice he knew and heard in this very canon.

"s.h.i.+eld, yes; and now his brother heads them. Didn't he send his card down to you, after the donicks, and be d.a.m.ned to him? You foregathered with both of them at the agency. Oh, they're all alike, Bugs, once they're started on the warpath. Now we must get you out into the open for a while. The air's better."

And so, an hour later, his arm carefully dressed and bandaged, comforted by needed food and fragrant tea and the news that Wren was reviving under the doctor's ministrations, and would surely mend and recover, Blakely lay propped by the fire and heard the story of Stout's rush through the wilderness to their succor. Never waiting for the dawn, after a few hours' rest at Beaver Spring, the st.u.r.dy doughboys had eagerly followed their skilled and trusted leader all the hours from eleven, stumbling, but never halting even for rest or rations, and at last had found the trail four miles below in the depths of the canon. There some scattering shots had met them, arrow and rifle both, from up the heights, and an effort was made to delay their progress. Wearied and footsore though were his men, they had driven the scurrying foe from rock to rock and then, in a lull that followed, had heard the distant sound of firing that told them whither to follow on. Only one man, Stern, was able to give them coherent word or welcome when at last they came, for Chalmers and Carmody lay dead, Wren in a stupor, Blakely in a deathlike swoon, and "that poor chap yonder" loony and hysterical as a crazy man. Thank G.o.d they had not, as they had first intended, waited for the break of day.

Another dawn and Stout and most of his men had pushed on after the Apaches and in quest of the troop at Sunset Pa.s.s. By short stages the soldiers left in charge were to move the wounded homeward. By noon these latter were halted under the willows by a little stream. The guards were busy filling canteens and watering pack mules, when the single sentry threw his rifle to the position of "ready" and the gun lock clicked loud. Over the stony ridge to the west, full a thousand yards away, came a little band of riders in single file, four men in all. Wren was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Blakely, feverish and excited, was wide awake. Mercifully the former never heard the first question asked by the leading rider--Arnold, the ranchman--as he came jogging into the noonday bivouac. Stone, sergeant commanding, had run forward to meet and acquaint him with the condition of the rescued men. "Got there in time then, thank G.o.d!" he cried, as wearily he flung himself out of saddle and glanced quickly about him. There lay Wren, senseless and still between the lashed ribs of his litter. There lay Blakely, smiling feebly and striving to hold forth a wasted hand, but Arnold saw it not. Swiftly his eyes flitted from face to face, from man to man, then searched the little knot of mules, sidelined and nibbling at the stunted herbage in the glen. "I don't see Punch," he faltered. "Wh-where's Miss Angela?"

CHAPTER XXI

OUR VANISHED PRINCESS

Then came a story told in fierce and excited whisperings, Arnold the speaker, prompted sometimes by his companions; Stone, and the few soldiers grouped about him, awe-stricken and dismayed. Blakely had started up from his litter, his face white with an awful dread, listening in wordless agony.

At six the previous morning, loping easily out from Sandy, Arnold's people had reached the ranch and found the veteran colonel with his orderlies impatiently waiting for them. These latter had had abundant food and coffee and the colonel was fuming with impatience to move, but Arnold's people had started on empty stomachs, counting on a hearty breakfast at the ranch. Jose could have it ready in short order. So Byrne, with his men, mounted and rode ahead on the trail of the infantry, saying the rest could overtake him before he reached the rocky and dangerous path over the first range. For a few miles the Beaver Valley was fairly wide and open. Not twenty minutes later, as Arnold's comrades sat on the porch on the north side of the house, they heard swift hoof-beats, and wondered who could be coming now.

But, without an instant's pause, the rider had galloped by, and one of the men, hurrying to the corner of the ranch, was amazed to see the lithe, slender form of Angela Wren speeding her pet pony like the wind up the sandy trail. Arnold refused to believe at first, but his eyes speedily told him the same story. He had barely a glimpse of her before she was out of sight around a grove of willows up the stream.

"Galloping to catch the colonel," said he, and such was his belief.

Angela, he reasoned, had hastened after them to send some message of love to her wounded father, and had perhaps caught sight of the trio far out in the lead. Arnold felt sure that they would meet her coming back, sure that there was no danger for her, with Byrne and his fellows well out to the front. They finished their breakfast, therefore, reset their saddles, mounted and rode for an hour toward the Mogollon and still the pony tracks led them on, overlying those of the colonel's party. Then they got among the rocks and only at intervals found hoof-prints; but, far up along the range, caught sight of the three hors.e.m.e.n, and so, kept on. It was after ten when at last they overtook the leaders, and then, to their consternation, Angela Wren was not with them. They had neither seen nor heard of her, and Byrne was aghast when told that, alone and without a guide, she had ridden in among the foothills of those desolate, pathless mountains.

"The girl is mad," said he, "and yet it's like her to seek to reach her father."

Instantly they divided forces to search for her. Gorges and canons innumerable seamed the westward face of this wild spur of the Sierras, and, by the merest luck in the world, one of Arnold's men, spurring along a stony ridge, caught sight of a girlish form far across a deep ravine, and quickly fired two shots in signal that he had "sighted"

the chase. It brought Arnold and two of his men to the spot and, threading their way, sometimes afoot and leading their steeds, sometimes in saddle and urging them through the labyrinth of bowlders, they followed on. At noon they had lost not only all sight of her, but of their comrades, nor had they seen the latter since. Byrne and his orderlies, with three of the party that "pulled out" from Sandy with Arnold in the morning, had disappeared. Again and again they fired their Henrys, hoping for answering signal, or perhaps to attract Angela's attention. All doubt as to her purpose was now ended. Mad she might be, but determined she was, and had deliberately dodged past them at the Beaver, fearing opposition to her project. At two, moreover, they found that she could "trail" as well as they, for among the stunted cedars at the crest of a steep divide, they found the print of the stout brogans worn by their infantry comrades, and, down among the rocks of the next ravine, crushed bits of hardtack by a "tank" in the hillside. She had stopped there long enough at least to water Punch, then pushed on again.

Once more they saw her, not three miles ahead at four o'clock, just entering a little clump of pines at the top of a steep acclivity. They fired their rifles and shouted loud in hopes of halting her, but all to no purpose. Night came down and compelled them to bivouac. They built a big fire to guide the wanderers, but morning broke without sign of them; so on they went, for now, away from the rocks the trail was often distinct, and once again they found the pony hoof-prints and thanked G.o.d. At seven by Arnold's watch, among the breaks across a steep divide they found another tank, more crumbs, a grain sack with some scattered barley, more hardtack and the last trace of Angela.

Arnold's hand shook, as did his voice, as he drew forth a little fluttering ribbon--the "snood" poor Wren so loved to see binding his child's luxuriant hair.

They reasoned she had stopped here to feed and water her pony, and had probably bathed her face and flung loose her hair and forgotten later the binding ribbon. They believed she had followed on after Stout's hard-marching company. It was easy to trail. They counted on finding her when they found her father, and now here lay Wren unconscious of her loss, and Blakely, realizing it all--cruelly, feverishly realizing it--yet so weakened by his wounds as to be almost powerless to march or mount and go in search of her.

No question now as to the duty immediately before them. In twenty minutes the pack mules were again strapped between the saplings, the little command was slowly climbing toward the westward heights, with Arnold and two of his friends scouting the rough trail and hillsides, firing at long intervals and listening in suspense almost intolerable for some answering signal. The other of their number had volunteered to follow Stout over the plateau toward the Pa.s.s and acquaint him with the latest news.

While the sun was still high in the heavens, far to the northward, they faintly heard or thought they heard two rifle shots. At four o'clock, as they toiled through a tangle of rock and stunted pine, Arnold, riding well to the front, came suddenly out upon a bare ledge from which he could look over a wild, wide sweep of mountain side, stretching leagues to north and south, and there his keen and practiced eye was greeted by a sight that thrilled him with dread unspeakable. Dread, not for himself or his convoy of wounded, but dread for Angela. Jutting, from the dark fringe of pines along a projecting bluff, perhaps four miles away, little puffs or clouds of smoke, each separate and distinct, were sailing straight aloft in the pulseless air--Indian signals beyond possibility of doubt. Some Apaches, then, were still hovering about the range overlooking the broad valley of the Sandy, some of the bands then were prowling in the mountains between the scouting troops and the garrisoned post. Some must have been watching this very trail, in hopes of intercepting couriers or stragglers, some _must_ have seen and seized poor Angela.

He had sprung from saddle and leveled his old field gla.s.s at the distant promontory, so absorbed in his search he did not note the coming of the little column. The litter bearing Blakely foremost of the four had halted close beside him, and Blakely's voice, weak and strained, yet commanding, suddenly startled him with demand to be told what he saw, and Arnold merely handed him the gla.s.s and pointed. The last of the faint smoke puffs was just soaring into s.p.a.ce, making four still in sight. Blakely never even took the binocular. He had seen enough by the unaided eye.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "INDIAN SIGNALS BEYOND POSSIBILITY OF A DOUBT"]

With uplifted hand the sergeant had checked the coming of the next litter, Wren's, and those that followed it. One of the wounded men, the poor lad crazed by the perils of the siege, was alert and begging for more water, but Wren was happily lost to the world in swoon or slumber. To the soldier bending over him he seemed scarcely breathing.

Presently they were joined by two of Arnold's party who had been searching out on the left flank. They, too, had seen, and the three were now in low-toned conference. Blakely for the moment was unnoted, forgotten.

"That tank--where we found the ribbon--was just about two miles yonder," said Arnold, pointing well down the rugged slope toward the southwest, where other rocky, pine-fringed heights barred the view to the distant Sandy. "Surely the colonel or some of his fellows must be along here. Ride ahead a hundred yards or so and fire a couple of shots," this to one of his men, who silently reined his tired bronco into the rude trail among the pine cones and disappeared. The others waited. Presently came the half-smothered sound of a shot and a half-stifled cry from the rearmost litter. Every such shock meant new terror to that poor lad, but Wren never stirred. Half a minute pa.s.sed without another sound than faint and distant echo; then faint, and not so distant, came another sound, a prolonged shout, and presently another, and then a horseman hove in sight among the trees across a nearly mile-wide dip. Arnold and his friends rode on to meet him, leaving the litters at the crest. In five minutes one of the riders reappeared and called: "It's Horn, of the orderlies. He reports Colonel Byrne just ahead. Come on!" and turning, dove back down the twisted trail.

The colonel might have been just ahead when last seen, but when they reached the tank he was far aloft again, scouting from another height to the northward, and while the orderly went on to find and tell him, Arnold and his grave-faced comrade dismounted there to await the coming of the litters. Graver were the faces even than before. The news that had met them was most ominous. Two of those who searched with Colonel Byrne had found pony tracks leading northward--leading in the very direction in which they had seen the smoke. There was no other pony shoe in the Sandy valley. It could be none other than Angela's little friend and comrade--Punch.

And this news they told to Blakely as the foremost litter came. He listened with hardly a word of comment; then asked for his scouting notebook. He was sitting up now. They helped him from his springy couch to a seat on the rocks, and gave him a cup of the cold water.

One by one the other litters were led into the little amphitheater and unlashed. Everyone seemed to know that here must be the bivouac for the night, their abiding place for another day, perhaps, unless they should find the captain's daughter. They spoke, when they spoke at all, in m.u.f.fled tones, these rough, war-worn men of the desert and the mountain. They bent over the wounded with sorrowing eyes, and wondered why no surgeon had come out to meet them. Heartburn, of course, had done his best, dressing and rebandaging the wounds at dawn, but then he had to go on with Stout and the company, while one of the Apache Yumas was ordered to dodge his way in to Sandy, with a letter urging that Graham be sent out to follow the trail and meet the returning party.

Meanwhile the sun had dropped behind the westward heights; the night would soon be coming down, chill and overcast. Byrne was still away, but he couldn't miss the tank, said one of the troopers who had ridden with him. Twice during the morning they had all met there and then gone forth again, searching--searching. Punch's little hoof-tracks, cutting through a sandy bit in the northward ravine, had drawn them all that way, but nothing further had been found. His horse, too, said the orderly, was lame and failing, so he had been bidden to wait by the water and watch for couriers either from the front or out from the post. Byrne was one of those never-give-up men, and they all knew him.

Barley was served out to the animals, a little fire lighted, lookouts were stationed, and presently their soldier supper was ready, and still Blakely said nothing. He had written three notes or letters, one of which seemed to give him no little trouble, for one after another he thrust two leaves into the fire and started afresh. At length they were ready, and he signaled to Arnold. "You can count, I think, on Graham's getting here within a few hours," said he. "Meantime you're as good a surgeon as I need. Help me on with this sling." And still they did not fathom his purpose. He was deathly pale, and his eyes were eloquent of dread unspeakable, but he seemed to have forgotten pain, fever, and prostration. Arnold, in the silent admiration of the frontier, untied the support, unloosed the bandages, and together they redressed the ugly wound. Then presently the Bugologist stood feebly upon his feet and looked about him. It was growing darker, and not another sound had come from Byrne.

"Start one of your men into Sandy at once," said Blakely, to the sergeant, and handed him a letter addressed to Major Plume. "He will probably meet the doctor before reaching the Beaver. These other two I'll tell you what to do with later. Now, who has the best horse?"

Arnold stared. Sergeant Stone quickly turned and saluted. "The lieutenant is not thinking of mounting, I hope," said he.

Blakely did not even answer. He was studying the orderly's bay. Stiff and a little lame he might be, but, refreshed and strengthened by abundant barley, he was a better weight-carrier than the other, and Blakely had weight. "Saddle your horse, Horn," said he, "and fasten on those saddle-bags of mine."

"But, lieutenant," ventured Arnold, "you are in no shape to ride anything but that litter. Whatever you think of doing, let me do."

"What I am thinking of doing n.o.body else can do," said Blakely. "What you can do is, keep these two letters till I call for them. If at the end of a week I fail to call, deliver them as addressed and to n.o.body else. Now, before dark I must reach that point younder," and he indicated the spot where in the blaze of the westering sun a ma.s.s of rock towered high above the fringing pine and mournful shadows at its base, a glistening landmark above the general gloom at the lower level and at that hour of the afternoon. "Now," he added quietly, "you can help me into saddle."

"But for G.o.d's sake, lieutenant, let some of us ride with you,"

pleaded Arnold. "If Colonel Byrne was here he'd never let you go."

"Colonel Byrne is not here, and I command, I believe," was the brief, uncompromising answer. "And no man rides with me because, with another man, I'd never find what I'm in search of." For a moment he bent over Wren, a world of wordless care, dread, and yet determination in his pale face. Arnold saw his wearied eyes close a moment, his lips move as though in pet.i.tion, then he suddenly turned. "Let me have that ribbon," said he bluntly, and without a word Arnold surrendered it.

Stone held the reluctant horse, Arnold helped the wounded soldier into the saddle. "Don't worry about me--any of you," said Blakely, in brief farewell. "Good-night," and with that he rode away.

Arnold and the men stood gazing after him. "Grit clean through," said the ranchman, through his set teeth, for a light was dawning on him, as he pondered over Blakely's words. "May the Lord grant I don't have to deliver these!" Then he looked at the superscriptions. One letter was addressed to Captain, or Miss Janet, Wren--the other to Mrs.

Plume.

CHAPTER XXII

SUSPENSE

Sandy again. Four of the days stipulated by Lieutenant Blakely had run their course. The fifth was ushered in, and from the moment he rode away from the bivouac at the tanks no word had come from the Bugologist, no further trace of Angela. In all its history the garrison had known no gloom like this. The hospital was filled with wounded. An extra surgeon and attendants had come down from Prescott, but Graham was st.u.r.dily in charge. Of his several patients Wren probably was now causing him the sorest anxiety, for the captain had been grievously wounded and was pitiably weak. Now, when aroused at times from the la.s.situde and despond in which he lay, Wren would persist in asking for Angela, and, not daring to tell him the truth, Janet, Calvinist that she was to the very core, had to do fearful violence to her feelings and lie. By the advice of bluff old Byrne and the active connivance of the post commander, they had actually, these stern Scotch Presbyterians, settled on this as the deception to be practiced--that Angela had been drooping so sadly from anxiety and dread she had been taken quite ill, and Dr. Graham had declared she must be sent up to Prescott, or some equally high mountain resort, there to rest and recuperate. She was in good hands, said these arch-conspirators. She might be coming home any day. As for the troop and the campaign, he mustn't talk or worry or think about them. The general, with his big field columns, had had no personal contact with the Indians. They had scattered before him into the wild country toward the great Colorado, where Stout, with his hickory-built footmen, and Brewster, with most of Wren's troop, were stirring up Apaches night and day, while Sanders and others were steadily driving on toward the old Wingate road. Stout had found Brewster beleaguered, but safe and sound, with no more men killed and few seriously wounded.