CHAPTER XVI
A RETURN TO COMMAND
With but a single orderly at his back, Mr. Blakely had left Camp Sandylate at night; had reached the agency, twenty miles up stream, twohours before the dawn and found young Bridger waiting for him. Theyhad not even a reliable interpreter now. Arahawa, "WashingtonCharley," had been sent to the general at Camp McDowell. Lola'sfather, with others of her kin, had taken Apache leave and gone insearch of the missing girl. But between the sign language and the_patois_ of the mountains, a strange mixture of Spanish, English, andTonto Apache, the officers had managed, with the aid of their men, togather explanation of the fierce excitement prevailing all thatprevious day among the Indians at the agency. There had been anotherfight, a chase, a scattering of both pursuers and pursued. Most of thetroops were at last accounts camping in the rocks near Sunset Pass.Two had been killed, several were wounded, three were missing, lost toeverybody. Even the Apaches swore they knew not where they were--asergeant, a trumpeter, and "Gran Capitan" himself--Captain Wren.
In the paling starlight of the coming day Blakely and Bridger pliedthe reluctant Indians with questions in every form possible withtheir limited knowledge of the sign language. Blakely, having spent somany years on staff duty, had too little knowledge of practicalservice in the field. Bridger was but a beginner at best. Togetherthey had decided on their course. A wire was sent to Sandy saying thatfrom all they could gather the rumors were probably true, but urgingthat couriers be sent for Dick, the Cherry Creek settler, and WalesArnold, another pioneer who had lived long in Apache land and owned aranch on the little Beaver. They could get more out of the Indiansthan could these soldiers. It would be hours after dawn before eitherDick or his fellow frontiersman could arrive. Meanwhile Sandy mustbear the suspense as well as it might. The next wire came from Bridgerat nine o'clock:
Arnold arrived hour ago. Examined six. Says stories probably true. Confident Wren not killed.
For answer Byrne wired that a detachment of a dozen men with threepackers had marched at five o'clock to report to Blakely for such dutyas he might require, and the answer came within the minute:
Blakely gone. Started for Snow Lake 4.30. Left orders detachment follow. Took orderly and two Apache Yuma scouts.
Byrne, Cutler, and Graham read with grave and anxious faces, but saidvery little. It was Blakely's way.
And that was the last heard of the Bugologist for as much as a week.
Meantime there was a painful situation at Fort Whipple, away up in"the hills." Major Plume, eager on his wife's account to get her tothe seashore--"Monterey or Santa Barbara," said the sapient medicaldirector--and ceaselessly importuned by her and viciously nagged byElise, found himself bound to the spot. So long as Mullins stuck tohis story Plume knew it would never do for him to leave. "A day or twomore and he may abate or amend his statement," wrote Graham. Indeed,if Norah Shaughnessy were not there to prompt--to prop--his memory,Graham thought it like enough that even now the soldier would havewavered. But never a jot or tittle had Mullins been shaken from theoriginal statement.
"There was two women," he said, "wid their shawls over their heads,"and those two, refusing to halt at his demand, had been overtaken andone of them seized, to his bitter cost, for the other had driven akeen-bladed knife through his ribs, even as he sought to examine hiscaptive. "They wouldn't spake," said he, "so what could I do but pullthe shawl from the face of her to see could she be recognized?" Thencame the fierce, cat-like spring of the taller of the two. Then thewell-nigh fatal thrust. What afterwards became of the women he couldsay no more than the dead. Norah might rave about its being theFrenchwoman that did it to protect the major's lady--this he spoke inwhispered confidence and only in reply to direct question--but itwouldn't be for the likes of him to preshume. Mullins, it seems, was asoldier of the old school.
Then came fresh and dire anxiety at Sandy. Four days after Blakely'sstart there appeared two swarthy runners from the way of Beaver Creek.They bore a missive scrawled on the paper lining of a cracker box, andit read about as follows:
CAMP IN SUNSET PASS, November 3d.
COMMANDING OFFICER, CAMP SANDY:
Scouting parties returning find no trace of Captain Wren and Sergeant Carmody, but we shall persevere. Indians lurking all about us make it difficult. Shall be needing rations in four days. All wounded except Flynn doing fairly well. Hope couriers sent you on 30th and 31st reached you safely.
The dispatch was in the handwriting of Benson, a trooper of goodeducation, often detailed for clerical work. It was signed "Brewster,Sergeant."
Who then were the couriers, and what had become of them? What fate hadattended Blakely in his lonely and perilous ride? What man or pair ofmen could pierce that cordon of Indians lurking all around them andreach the beleaguered command? What need to speculate on the fate ofthe earlier couriers anyway? Only Indians could hope to outwit Indiansin such a case. It was madness to expect white men to get through. Itwas madness for Blakely to attempt it. Yet Blakely was gone beyondrecall, perhaps beyond redemption. From him, and from the detachmentthat was sent by Bridger to follow his trail, not a word had come ofany kind. Asked if they had seen or heard anything of such parties,the Indian couriers stolidly shook their heads. They had followed theold Wingate road all the way until in sight of the valley. Then,scrambling through a rocky labyrinth, impossible for hoof or wheel,had made a short cut to the head waters of the Beaver. Now Blakely,riding from the agency eastward slowly, should have found that Wingatetrail before the setting of the first day's sun, and his followerscould not have been far behind. It began to look as though theBugologist had never reached the road. It began to be whispered aboutthe post that Wren and his luckless companions might never be found atall. Kate Sanders had ceased her song. She was now with Angela day andnight.
One hope, a vague one, remained beside that of hearing from thebaker's dozen that rode on Blakely's trail. Just as soon as Byrnereceived the Indian story concerning Wren's disappearance, he sentrunners eastward on the track of Sanders's troop, with written adviceto that officer to drop anything he might be doing along the BlackMesa and, turning northward, to make his way through a countryhitherto untrod by white man, between Baker's Butte at the south andthe Sunset Mountains at the north. He was ordered to scout the canonof Chevlon's Fork, and to look for sign on every side until, somewhereamong the "tanks" in the solid rock about the mountain gateway knownas Sunset Pass, he should join hands with the survivors of Webb'stroop, nursing their wounded and guarding the new-made graves of theirdead. Under such energetic supervision as that of Captain Sanders itwas believed that even Apache Yuma scouts could be made to accomplishsomething, and that new heart would be given Wren's dispirited men.By this time, too, if Blakely had not fallen into the hands of theApaches, he should have been joined by the intended escort, and, thusstrengthened, could either push on to the pass, or, if surrounded,take up some strong position among the rocks and stand off hisassailants until found by his fellow-soldiers under Sanders. Moreover,Byrne had caused report of the situation to be sent to the general viaCamp McDowell, and felt sure he would lose no time in directing thescouting columns to head for the Sunset country. Scattered as were thehostile Apaches, it was apparent that they were in greater forcenorthward, opposite the old reservation, than along the Mogollon Rangesoutheast of it. There was hope, activity, animation, among the littlecamps and garrisons toward the broad valley of the Gila as the earlydays of November wore away. Only here at Sandy was there suspense aswell as deep despond.
It was a starlit Sunday morning that Blakely rode away eastward fromthe agency. It was Wednesday night when Sergeant Brewster's runnerscame, and never a wink of sleep had they or their inquisitors untilThursday was ushered in. It was Saturday night again, a week from thenight Neil Blakely strove to see and say good-by to Angela Wren. Itwas high time other runners came from Brewster, unless they, too, hadbeen cut off, as must have been the fate of their forer
unners. Alldrills had been suspended at Sandy; all duty subordinated to guard.Cutler had practically abolished the daily details, had doubled hissentries, had established outlying pickets, and was even bent onthrowing up intrenchments or at least digging rifle pits, lest theApaches should feel so "cocky" over their temporary successes as toessay an attack on the post. Byrne smiled and said they would hardlytry that, but he approved the pickets. It was noted that for nearly aweek,--not since Blakely's start from the agency,--no signal fires hadbeen seen in the Red Rock country or about the reservation. Mr.Truman, acting as post quartermaster, had asked for additional men toprotect his little herd, for the sergeant in charge declared that,twice, long-distance shots had come from far away up the boulderedheights to the west. The daily mail service had been abandoned, sonervous had the carrier become, and now, twice each week, a corporaland two men rode the rugged trail, thus far without seeing a sign ofApaches. The wire, too, was undisturbed, but an atmosphere of alarmand dread clung about the scattered ranches even as far as the AguaFria to the west, and the few officials left at Prescott found itimpossible to reassure the settlers, who, quitting their new homes,had either clustered about some favored ranch for general defense or,"packing" to Fort Whipple, were clamoring there for protection withwhich to return to and occupy their abandoned roofs.
And all this, said Byrne, between his set teeth, because a bumptiousagent sought to lay forceful hands upon the daughter of a chief. PoorDaly! He had paid dearly for that essay. As for Natzie, and her shadowLola, neither one had been again seen. They might indeed have droppedback from Montezuma Well after the first wild stampede, but onlyfruitless search had the soldiers made for them. Even their ownpeople, said Bridger, at the agency, were either the biggest liarsthat ever lived or the poorest trailers. The Apaches swore the girlscould not be found. "I'll bet Sergeant Shannon could nail them," saidHart, the trader, when told of the general denial among the Indians.But Shannon was far away from the field column, leading his moccasinedcomrades afoot and in single file long, wearisome climbs up jaggedcliffs or through deep canons, where unquestionably the foe had beenin numbers but the day before, yet now they were gone. Shannon mightwell be needed at the far front, now that most of the Apache scoutshad proved timid or worthless, but Byrne wished he had him closerhome.
It was the Saturday night following the coming of the runners withconfirmation of the grewsome Indian stories. Colonel Byrne, withGraham, Cutler, and Westervelt, had been at the office half an hour inconsultation when, to the surprise of every soul at Sandy, a four-muleteam and Concord wagon came bowling briskly into the post, and MajorPlume, dust-covered and grave, marched into the midst of theconference and briefly said: "Gentlemen, I return to resume command."
Nobody had a word to say beyond that of welcome. It was manifestly theproper thing for him to do. Unable, in face of the stories afloat, totake his wife away, his proper place in the pressing emergency was athis post in command.
To Colonel Byrne, who guardedly and somewhat dubiously asked, "Howabout Mrs. Plume and that--French thing?" the major's answer wasprompt:
"Both at Fort Whipple and in--good hands," said he. "My wife realizesthat my duty is here, and, though her recovery may be retarded, shedeclares she will remain there or even join me. She, in fact, was soinsistent that I should bring her back with me that it embarrassed mesomewhat. I vetoed it, however."
Byrne gazed at him from under his shaggy eyebrows. "H'm," said he, "Ifancied she had shaken the dust of Sandy from her shoes for good andall--that she hoped never to come back."
"I, too," answered Plume ingenuously. "She hated the very mention ofit,--this is between ourselves,--until this week. Now she says herplace is here with me, no matter how she may suffer," and the majorseemed to dwell with pride on this new evidence of his wife'sdevotion. It was, indeed, an unusual symptom, and Byrne had to tryhard to look credulous, which Plume appreciated and hurried on:
"Elise, of course, seemed bent on talking her out of it, but, withWren and Blakely both missing, I could not hesitate. I had to come.Oh, captain, is Truman still acting quartermaster?" this to Cutler."He has the keys of my house, I suppose."
And so by tattoo the major was once more harbored under his old roofand full of business. From Byrne and his associates he quicklygathered all particulars in their possession. He agreed with themthat another day must bring tidings from the east or prove that theApaches had surrounded and perhaps cut down every man of the command.He listened eagerly to the details Byrne and others were able to givehim. He believed, by the time "taps" came, he had already settled on aplan for another relief column, and he sent for Truman, thequartermaster.
"Truman," said he, "how much of a pack train have you got left?"
"Hardly a mule, sir. Two expeditions out from this post swallows uppretty much everything."
"Very true; yet I may have to find a dozen packs before we get halfthrough this business. The ammunition is in your hands, too, isn't it?Where do you keep it?" and the major turned and gazed out in thestarlight.
"Only place I got, sir--quartermaster's storehouse," and Truman eyedhis commander doubtfully.
"Well, I'm squeamish about such things as that," said the major,looking even graver, "especially since this fire here. By the way, wasmuch of Blakely's property--er--rescued--or recovered?"
"Very little, sir. Blakely lost pretty much everything, except somepapers in an iron box--the box that was warped all out of shape."
"Where is it now?" asked Plume, tugging at the strap of a dressingcase and laying it open on the broad window-seat.
"In my quarters, under my bed, sir."
"Isn't that rather--unsafe?" asked Plume. "Think how quick _he_ wasburned out."
"Best I can do, sir. But he said it contained little of value, mainlyletters and memoranda. No valuables at all, in fact. The lock wouldn'twork, so the blacksmith strap-ironed it for him. That prevents itbeing opened by anyone, you know, who hasn't the proper tools."
"I see," said Plume reflectively. "It seems rather unusual to takesuch precaution with things of no value. I suppose Blakely knows hisown business, however. Thank you very much Truman. Good-night."
"I suppose he did, at least, when he had the blacksmith iron thatbox," thought Truman, as he trudged away. "He did, at any rate, whenhe made me promise to keep it with the utmost care. Not even you canhave it, Major Plume, although you are the post commander."