An Apache Princess

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

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.