Tonio-Son of the Sierras

by King, Charles

  "It is as 'Tonio says," answered Crook, with grave inclination of the head. "His brother chief, Captain Stannard, sustains him. Is it not so, Stannard?"

  "Every word of it, sir!" was the blunt reply, as Stannard rose from his seat. "We found two Apache-Mohaves killed. We chased the Tontos into the mountains. Lieutenant Harris and 'Tonio, with Apache-Mohave scouts, rescued Mrs. Bennett, and led us." Whereat Archer's sad, white face was bowed upon his hands. Oh, that luckless despatch!

  "We are listening, 'Tonio," said the general, as Stannard slowly resumed his seat, looking almost disappointed that there had been none to contradict or doubt his view.

  "My father asks me why I left the camp after we had brought home our Capitan Chiquito. It was because my people came to the willows and called me. The sister of Comes Flying was weeping for her brother. Ramon and Alvarez were angered and talking battle and revenge, and Pancha came to warn me and to beg me come or there would be much trouble. My young men were doubly angered. They said the white brother had broken his promise, had feasted the Tontos and had starved them, had killed Comes Flying and driven our women and children to the mountains. They had seen more. They had seen their chief struck in the face with the glove of the young soldier chief—who is not here." And again the black eyes sought everywhere throughout the circle. "Ramon, Alvarez and others had vowed that he should die because of Comes Flying and of me. It was for this they played all so many hours with the riders from the Verde. They would head them off and hold them. The soldiers would come to rescue, and maybe the young chief. If so, they would lure him out beyond the others, and they did. I could not break their will. I saw their plan only just in time. They were in hiding among the rocks beyond the ridge, with only one or two in sight before them. He was galloping straight into their trap. There was just one way to save him and be true to our pledge to the Great Father. I shot to kill his horse, not him. My rifle would have carried just as true had it been aimed at his heart. He who struck me at the ranch—and denounced me here—owes his life to 'Tonio."

  In the dramatic pause that followed a murmur of sympathy and admiration, irrepressible, flew from lip to lip. He noted it, but gave no sign.

  "The young white chief says again I shot or sought to kill him that night at the ford. Again I could have done so, and again I sought to save. He was my enemy. He was"—and here, with affection all could see, the glittering eyes seemed to soften as they turned on Harris, sitting pale, silent and observant—"the enemy of this my brother and my friend. I would no longer go within the soldier lines. In spite of what I had done the white-haired chief ordered his soldiers to kill or take me prisoner. They could not find me, but I tried to warn my brother there was trouble—they would kill his brother chief, then there would be fearful war, but my brother was wounded still and could not come.

  "Then the young stranger chief was lured out again by Sanchez—his people and mine. They swear to me they did not kill him—that the white man, Case, did that. He, too, hated him. But Sanchez lied to me. He promised to take back the pistol my people found the night I shot his horse, and he never did, nor messages I sent. So I know not who fired the shot, who clubbed him, but Sanchez had that pistol—Sanchez lied to me! I was not that night so near as the Picacho, and when the soldiers came to find me I went farther, with two of my people. We met the Great Chief's couriers. We met more Tontos. We fought them back and I was wounded. They took me to McDowell, and no man was unkind until the night they put me in the iron cell with Sanchez, and he told me I should never see the Great Chief, my father; that I should hang for shooting the white chief, Willett. When I slept he was there. When I awakened he was gone, and the iron bars were gone. I went out into the night—into the mountains—until I found my young chief. Then the truth was told me. Then we followed, and found Sanchez. Then my people heard the story and helped me find the way to the cave where the boys were hidden. The Great Spirit of my fathers knows I have never broken my promise. That is all that 'Tonio can say. I have spoken."

  And then as he finished and the last word had been translated, all in language far less vivid than his native tongue, all men seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and seek instinctively to rise and gather about him. The general slowly found his feet, rose to his full height, stepped straightway forward to where the Indian stood, placed his left hand on the gaunt and bony shoulder, and with his ungloved right seized and grasped and held that of the elder chieftain, his own eyes twinkling, moistening, as he spoke.

  "'Tonio—Brother—the Great Father shall know, and if I live, all his people shall know, how deeply you have suffered, how truly you have stood our friend."

  And then, still clasping the warrior's hand, Crook turned to his officers, for by this time every man was on his feet, every eye was again upon them, every face lighted with interest, and many with emotion. Silently the general glanced about him, and at his signal Archer came forward, his handsome old head bared, his fine eyes filling. At his approach the commander drew back a step, releasing 'Tonio's hand. Then the soldier who but a fortnight back had sought to prison, possibly to kill, this soldier of the desert and the mountain, following his superior's lead, held forth his hand, a thinned and trembling one, yet the clasp in which it took that sinewy brown one was one an Indian could never doubt. Looking straight into 'Tonio's fearless eyes, the veteran spoke: "'Tonio—Brother—I did you wrong. I beg your pardon and I ask your friendship."

  For a moment, silence, then for answer came but the single word:

  "Hermano."

  When presently hands unclasped and others began to gather about him, it was seen as Stannard came forward he had linked his arm in that of Harris, and would not be denied. The general caught sight of them, and a smile like sunshine lighted up his beaming face. "That's right, Stannard. This way, Capitan Chiquito! We all want you." And then, though by dozens now—officers, agent, interpreter and territorial officials—they were swarming about the impassive central figure, they gave way right and left that the two friends might meet, and 'Tonio, turning from Archer's handclasp, saw his young champion and leader, and the stern, dark features melted, the bold, fearless, challenging eyes softened on the instant. He would have sprung forward to some act of Indian homage, but Harris was too quick and checked him. Their eyes met. Then both hands—all four hands—went out at once.

  It was at this juncture, as certain of the department staff began to bethink themselves of important duties awaiting them at their offices, that one of the old-time characters of the old army, a field officer of distinction in the war days, was heard to express himself somewhat as follows: "Well, whereaway is Willett now?"—a question that had occurred to every member present, and to many a man and woman without the council, but this was its first audible expression.

  "Willett," said the general calmly, yet in tone that all beneath the canopy could hear, "made known to me days ago that he desired to withdraw his accusation, but I had my reason for insisting. As to the question, where is Willett?—he is here to testify, if need be, before a civil court. We have still to settle with Sanchez."

  Moreover, as the Indians finally moved away, Bright and Harris both escorting 'Tonio, there were emissaries of the agency at their heels, for in 'Tonio's train walked both Ramon and Alvarez, on whom it might be well to keep an eye.

  But 'Tonio's trial—"'Tonio's triumph," as Blake declared it—was not yet over for the day. The watchspring saws and tiny file found on Sanchez, when finally taken, had explained the method of that McDowell escape. With these and with bacon-rind to grease them, only a little time and labor had been needed, nor was there ever found proof against Corporal Collins, or the sentry, that either had connived at the subsequent escape of 'Tonio. He had awakened and found his undesired cellmate missing, and the window was clear. So that way he could have gone, though there were many who believed the door itself had been opened to him. In any event, he saw freedom without, and suspected wrong and treachery within. Why should he not go? Who was to blame him? Crook's cordiality
to the accountable officer of the day, Lieutenant Blake, went far to show that he was far from resentful of the result. It really looked as though the Gray Fox would rather 'Tonio had never been confined.

  And later that winter's day, along toward sunset, another scene, far less dramatic and impressive, was enacted at the office of the sheriff, a mile away in town.

  An adobe wall, some seven feet high, surrounded the corral, and beneath the canvas awning on the southern side certain offenders against the peace and dignity of Yavapai County had been assembled under the eye of tobacco-chewing deputies. There were the Sanchez half-brothers, 'Patchie and José, both shackled. There was Muñoz, similarly decked. There slouched Dago, unfettered, but carefully watched. There were two more of the riffraff of the redoubtable ghost ranch, and two of the victims of the more skilful play, and potent doping, of the proprietors. All were under surveillance, several under charges, but where was Case?

  It was Blackbeard who answered that question at five o'clock, when, from the post ambulance, he and Bright sprang forth, and presently aided to alight a very solemn-looking civilian, shaved, dressed and groomed with extreme care, but for pallor and nervousness, a reputable-looking criminal—Case. Accused with assault with attempt to kill, the bookkeeper, none the less, had been taken in charge by officers of the army, with the entire consent of the officers of the law, and Sanchez the elder, José, that is, weakened at the sight of him. He was sober and clothed in his right mind, as Wickham meant he should be. Moreover, he looked no longer afraid. Case had met his master at the game of bluff, and now, with nothing left to hope, had nothing left to dread.

  Short work the sheriff made of the matter in hand. There had been a killing down on the Agua Fria, and the killer was still at large. Here was only a bungling attempt to kill, and everybody concerned was at hand.

  "Case," said he shortly, "when you were brought here you swore it was 'Tonio who shot Lieutenant Willett."

  "I didn't swear," said Case. "I stated; but either would have been wrong. I said it when myself accused and when I had been drinking. I am ready to tell everything I know."

  "Then wait a moment," answered the official, turning to a deputy, who pulled at an inner door, and said, "This way, gentlemen," whereat everybody filed out into the corral where there was far more room, and where presently they were joined by the agent and his interpreter, by a little group of officers, Stannard, Strong and Willett—the latter very pale and weary-looking. A moment later the gateway swung open and in walked Harris, with 'Tonio by his side and two tribesmen following. The gate was quickly closed in the face of an eager knot of townspeople, but at sight of the assembled party the Sanchez brothers cowered still farther back beneath the shelter, and the sheriff ordered José out into the light. He came, yellow-white, and cringing.

  "You said, first, that 'Tonio shot that man," and the sheriff pointed to Willett. "Did you lie?"

  "Si," gulped the Mexican.

  "Then who did it?"

  José shrank. His eyes furtively, quickly swept the group, then fell again.

  "You said Case—this man," said the sheriff, with a hand on Case's shoulder. "Did you lie again?"

  "He—he shoot, an' run away."

  "You lie, three times! Only one shot was fired and that from your own pistol. Here it is! Case never had it, for all you swore to it."

  "Muñoz saw him—shoot!"

  "That so, Muñoz? Come out here!" and a deputy collared and thrust him forth.

  "Si; Case," answered Muñoz miserably.

  And then at last the dago broke bounds. All the pent-up hatred of the months boiled over in his heart. All the fear vanished in presence of these supporters and at sight of these now abject bullies. Out he sprang, all vehement denunciation:

  "Lie!" said he—"damn lie! Muñoz hit!—Sanchez shoot! All try kill. Then run—run, for soldiers come!"

  It was then that Lieutenant Willett stepped forward and interposed.

  "Mr. Sheriff," said he, "whatever my earlier opinion on the subject, I know more now. I know it was not 'Tonio. I believe it was not this—this gentleman—Mr. Case. If you will favor me a moment I can make it clear to you, but"—and here the heavily lashed, mournful brown eyes sought the group of Mexicans—"I should hold—those fellows."

  And so, once more within the little office, Willett briefly told his tale. There were present Wickham, Bright and Harris, the sheriff and one deputy. "I should be glad to have you call in Mr. Case," said he. So Case was summoned and came and took a chair by the chimney and bowed his head upon his hands.

  "There had been a card transaction," said Willett. "I owed Mr. Case three hundred dollars, and he or his friends thought I was going to leave without settling. He sent me a note saying he wished to see me. It was midnight before I could go down. He had left the office, but hailed me from the window of Craney's shack. We met near the ford, had words, and I struck him—struck him twice, knocking him down, and then his friends, or followers, as I supposed, pitched upon me. I surely saw one Indian, and, knowing 'Tonio's—grievance, and being warned against him, that was the last idea I had, as I was knocked senseless. Mr. Sheriff, I refuse to enter any complaint against Mr. Case. He is—entirely blameless."

  "That seems to let you out, Case," said the sheriff sententiously, but the bookkeeper never raised his head.

  "Is there anything else I can say—or do?" asked Willett, holding his natty forage-cap at the side of his head. "It should be done now, for—I am to leave here—to-night."

  It was then Case's turn. In an instant he was on his feet.

  "Going?" he demanded, a strange, hungry look in his eyes. "I'm not yet free, and I've got to speak with you."

  "There is no need," said Willett gravely. "I know."

  "You mean?—you heard——?"

  "My letters have told me—everything," was the quiet answer.

  "And you are going?"

  "Back to Portland—and to——"

  With that he would have turned, but Case sprang forward. There was perceptible start among the lookers-on. It might mean another attempt. The sheriff seized him, but Case, with feverish strength, shook himself loose, and Willett turned back, faced him, and waited for him to speak. It was a moment before Case could find breath, then came the words:

  "My God, man! Will you give me your word—your hand—on that?"

  For all answer Willett drew off the dainty glove of white lisle thread, took the outstretched hand of Case, wrung it, and turned in silence from the room.

  There were men who mounted and rode with him a mile or more that night, and came back silent and sorrowing, yet thinking better of Hal Willett than any of their number had ever thought before.

  "He has gone to do the one square thing that's left him," said Old Stannard, as the buckboard whirled away, "and his resignation goes with him."

  L'ENVOI.

  That was many a long year ago, and for many a month thereafter men and women at Whipple and Sandy, McDowell and Almy would talk for hours about Willett, his strange character, his broken career. It was not long before the truth, the whole truth, was known. Case for a time would not return to Almy. He found some work to keep him busy at Prescott, and would have had to do no work at all, said the agent of the Wells-Fargo, "if he'd kept his money, but he sent every damned cent of four hundred dollars to somebody up at Portland." He was forever on the lookout for the coming of the buckboard with the mail—we had no telegraph until '74—and his excitement over the receipt of certain letters and newspapers, along in mid-February, was something not soon to be forgotten. He had been sober and solemn as an anchorite for over six long weeks, and this night, to the joy of the gamblers in the Alcazar, insisted on "setting 'em up" for all hands, soldier and civilian; then, to their amaze, insisted further on their drinking to the health of Mr. and Mrs. Hal Willett, by gad! "for he's a square man at last."

  And the news lacked no confirmation at the barracks. There came a missive to Wickham; there was a message to the general; there was a ver
y earnest message to 'Tonio; there was even a letter in Willett's hand to Evelyn Darrah. No one ever saw its contents save the girl to whom it was addressed, but there came nothing to be forwarded to the Archers at Camp Almy. From that night among the cedars Lilian never again saw Harold Willett. It was a pitifully insignificant little packet of letters the young officer found on his desk the morning of his return from the Hassayampa road. It contained only the pages he had penned to his Lily of the Desert. The earlier ones were fond, endearing, sweet as girl could ask, and had been rapturously welcomed, read and reread, kissed and fondled and treasured. The later ones were hurried, perfunctory, full of excuses, full, alas! of lies that he knew and that he hated himself for writing. There was not so much as a line from her, nor was one needed. Between the few words spoken by his general in the darkness of the veranda and that one conference with Wickham, Willett knew exactly what he had to face. Just as it had dawned upon him that breathless night at Almy, when the ravings of the Irish deserter told him that his sin had followed and had found him out, he realized here at Whipple that all was known and, for him, all was over. He had burned in vain the burning and accusing letters that poor girl in Portland had written him. Her mother at last, learning everything, had written to Crook, and, through Wickham, who had investigated both Case and the deserter Dooley, Willett received his congé. There should be no public break. It was to be announced that at his own request Lieutenant Willett stood relieved from duty as aide-de-camp to the department commander, and would proceed to rejoin his regiment in the Department of the Columbia; but even Wickham started with surprise and incredulity when, accompanying this application, at the close of 'Tonio's dramatic trial, Willett gravely handed him another paper—his resignation as an officer of the army.