An Apache Princess

by Captain Charles King

  Blakely rose to his feet and wearily leaned upon the breastworks, peering cautiously over. Yesterday the sight of a scouting hat would have brought instant whiz of arrow, but not a missile saluted him now. One arm, his left, was rudely bandaged and held in a sling, a rifle ball from up the cliff, glancing from the inner face of the parapet, had torn savagely through muscle and sinew, but mercifully scored neither artery nor bone. An arrow, whizzing blindly through a southward loophole, had grazed his cheek, ripping a straight red seam far back as the lobe of the ear, which had been badly torn. Blakely had little the look of a squire of dames as, thus maimed and scarred and swathed in blood-stained cotton, he peered down the deep and shadowy cleft and searched with eyes keen, if yet unskilled, every visible section of the opposite wall. What could their silence mean? Had they found other game, pitifully small in numbers as these besieged, and gone to butcher them, knowing well that, hampered by their wounded, these, their earlier victims, could not hope to escape? Had they got warning of the approach of some strong force of soldiery—Brewster scouting in search of them, or may be Sanders himself? Had they slipped away, therefore, and could the besieged dare to creep forth and shout, signal, or even fire away two or three of these last precious cartridges in hopes of catching the ear of searching comrades?

  Wren, exhausted, had apparently dropped into a fitful doze. His eyes were shut, his lips were parted, his long, lean fingers twitched at times as a tremor seemed to shoot through his entire frame. Another day like the last or at worst like this, without food or nourishment, and even such rugged strength as had been his would be taxed to the utmost. There might be no to-morrow for the sturdy soldier who had so gallantly served his adopted country, his chosen flag. As for Chalmers, the summons was already come. Far from home and those who most loved and would sorely grieve for him, the brave lad was dying. Carmody, kneeling by his side, but the moment before had looked up mutely in his young commander's face, and his swimming, sorrowing eyes had told the story.

  Nine o'clock had come without a symptom of alarm or enemy from without, yet death had invaded the lonely refuge in the rocks, claiming one victim as his tribute for the day and setting his seal upon still another, the prospective sacrifice for the dismal morrow, and Blakely could stand the awful strain no longer.

  "Sergeant," said he, "I must know what this means. We must have help for the captain before this sun goes down, or he may be gone before we know it."

  And Carmody looked him in the face and answered: "I am strong yet and unhurt. Let me make the try, sir. Some of our fellows must be scouting near us, or these beggars wouldn't have quit. I can find the boys, if anyone can."

  Blakely turned and gazed one moment into the deep and dark recess where lay his wounded and the dying. The morning wind had freshened a bit, and a low, murmurous song, nature's Æolian, came softly from the swaying pine and stunted oak and juniper far on high. The whiff that swept to their nostrils from the lower depths of the cañon told its own grewsome tale. There, scattered along the stream bed, lay the festering remains of their four-footed comrades, first victims of the ambuscade. Death lurked about their refuge then on every side, and was even invading their little fortress. Was this to be the end, after all? Was there neither help nor hope from any source?

  Turning once again, a murmured prayer upon his lips, Blakely started at sight of Carmody. With one hand uplifted, as though to caution silence, the other concaved at his ear, the sergeant was bending eagerly forward, his eyes dilating, his frame fairly quivering. Then, on a sudden, up he sprang and swung his hat about his head. "Firing, sir! Firing, sure!" he cried. Another second, and with a gasp and moan he sank to earth transfixed; a barbed arrow, whizzing from unseen space, had pierced him through and through.

  Chapter XX - Where is Angela?

  *

  For a moment as they drew under shelter the stricken form of the soldier, there was nothing the defense could do but dodge. Then, leaving him at the edge of the pool, and kicking before them the one cowed and cowering shirker of the little band, Blakely and the single trooper still unhit, crept back to the rocky parapet, secured a carbine each and knelt, staring up the opposite wall in search of the foe. And not a sign of Apache could they see.

  Yet the very slant of the arrow as it pierced the young soldier, the new angle at which the bullets bounded from the stony crest, the lower, flatter flight of the barbed missiles that struck fire from the flinty rampart, all told the same story. The Indians during the hours of darkness, even while dreading to charge, had managed to crawl, snake-like, to lower levels along the cliff and to creep closer up the stream bed, and with stealthy, noiseless hands to rear little shelters of stone, behind which they were now crouching invisible and secure. With the illimitable patience of their savage training they had then waited, minute after minute, hour after hour, until, lulled at last into partial belief that their deadly foe had slipped away, some of the defenders should be emboldened to venture into view, and then one well-aimed volley at the signal from the leader's rifle, and the vengeful shafts of those who had as yet only the native weapon, would fall like lightning stroke upon the rash ones, and that would end it. Catlike they had crouched and watched since early dawn. Catlike they had played the old game of apparent weariness of the sport, of forgetfulness of their prey and tricked their guileless victims into hope and self-exposure, then swooped again, and the gallant lad whose last offer and effort had been to set forth in desperate hope of bringing relief to the suffering, had paid for his valor with his life. One arrow at least had gone swift and true, one shaft that, launched, perhaps, two seconds too soon for entire success, had barely anticipated the leader's signal and spoiled the scheme of bagging all the game. Blakely's dive to save his fallen comrade had just saved his own head, for rock chips and spattering lead flew on every side, scratching, but not seriously wounding him.

  And then, when they "thought on vengeance" and the three brown muzzles swept the opposite wall, there followed a moment of utter silence, broken only by the faint gasping of the dying man. "Creep back to Carmody, you," muttered Blakely to the trembling lad beside him. "You are of no account here unless they try to charge. Give him water, quick." Then to Stern, his one unhurt man, "You heard what he said about distant firing. Did you hear it?"

  "Not I, sir, but I believe they did—an' be damned to them!" And Stern's eyes never left the opposite cliff, though his ears were strained to catch the faintest sound from the lower cañon. It was there they last had seen the troop. It was from that direction help should come. "Watch them, but don't waste a shot, man. I must speak to Carmody," said Blakely, under his breath, as he backed on hands and knees, a painful process when one is sore wounded. Trembling, whimpering like whipped child, the poor, spiritless lad sent to the aid of the stricken and heroic, crouched by the sergeant's side, vainly striving to pour water from a clumsy canteen between the sufferer's pallid lips. Carmody presently sucked eagerly at the cooling water, and even in his hour of dissolution seemed far the stronger, sturdier of the two—seemed to feel so infinite a pity for his shaken comrade. Bleeding internally, as was evident, transfixed by the cruel shaft they did not dare attempt to withdraw, even if the barbed steel would permit, and drooping fainter with each swift moment, he was still conscious, still brave and uncomplaining. His dimmed and mournful eyes looked up in mute appeal to his young commander. He knew that he was going fast, and that whatever rescue might come to these, his surviving fellow-soldiers, there would be none for him; and yet in his supreme moment he seemed to read the question on Blakely's lips, and his words, feeble and broken, were framed to answer.

  "Couldn't—you hear 'em, lieutenant?" he gasped. "I can't be—mistaken. I know—the old—Springfield sure! I heard 'em way off—south—a dozen shots," and then a spasm of agony choked him, and he turned, writhing, to hide the anguish on his face. Blakely grasped the dying soldier's hand, already cold and limp and nerveless, and then his own voice seemed, too, to break and falter.

  "Don't try to
talk, Carmody; don't try! Of course you are right. It must be some of our people. They'll reach us soon. Then we'll have the doctor and can help you. Those saddle-bags!" he said, turning sharply to the whimpering creature kneeling by them, and the lad drew hand across his streaming eyes and passed the worn leather pouches. From one of them Blakely drew forth a flask, poured some brandy into its cup and held it to the soldier's lips. Carmody swallowed almost eagerly. He seemed to crave a little longer lease of life. There was something tugging at his heartstrings, and presently he turned slowly, painfully again. "Lieutenant," he gasped, "I'm not scared to die—this way anyhow. There's no one to care—but the boys—but there's one thing"—and now the stimulant seemed to reach the failing heart and give him faint, fluttering strength—"there's one thing I ought—I ought to tell. You've been solid with the boys—you're square, and I'm not—I haven't always been. Lieutenant—I was on guard—the night of the fire—and Elise, you know—the French girl—she—she's got most all I saved—most all I—won, but she was trickin' me—all the time, lieutenant—me and Downs that's gone—and others. She didn't care. You—you aint the only one I—I—"

  "Lieutenant!" came in excited whisper, the voice of Stern, and there at his post in front of the cave he knelt, signaling urgently. "Lieutenant, quick!"

  "One minute, Carmody! I've got to go. Tell me a little later." But with dying strength Carmody clung to his hand.

  "I must tell you, lieutenant—now. It wasn't Downs's fault. She—she made—"

  "Lieutenant, quick! for God'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 splashing 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 shield. 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 cañon. "For God'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, lusty-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 cañon filling with many voices, the sound of hurrying feet and then of many rushing 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 reassuringly 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:

  "Hello, 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 the
n a burly shadow appeared at the entrance, black against the ruddy firelight in the cañon 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 lashing 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 Shield's people."

  "Shield—Raven Shield?" queried Blakely, still half dazed. "Shield was killed—at Sandy," and yet there was the memory of the voice he knew and heard in this very cañon.

  "Shield, yes; and now his brother heads them. Didn't he send his card down to you, after the donicks, and be damned 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 sturdy 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 cañon. 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 God they had not, as they had first intended, waited for the break of day.