An Apache Princess

December, and the noonday sun at Sandy still beat hotly on the barren

level of the parade. The fierce and sudden campaign seemed ended, for

the time, at least, as only in scattered remnants could the renegade

Indians be found. Eastward from the Agua Fria to the Chiquito, and

northward from the Salado to the very cliffs of the grand cañon, the

hard-worked troopers had scoured the wild and mountainous country,

striking hard whenever they found a hostile band, striving ever,

through interpreters and runners, to bring the nervous and suspicious

tribes to listen to reason and to return to their reservations. This

for long days, however, seemed impossible.

The tragic death of Raven

Shield, most popular of the young chiefs, struck down, as they

claimed, when he was striving only to defend Natzie, daughter of a

revered leader, had stirred the savages to furious reprisals, and

nothing but the instant action of the troops in covering the valley

had saved the scattered settlers from universal massacre. Enough had

been done by one band alone to thrill the West with horror, but these

had fled southward into Mexico and were safe beyond the border. The

settlers were slowly creeping back now to their abandoned homes, and

one after another the little field detachments were marching to their

accustomed stations. Sandy was filling up again with something besides

the broken down and wounded.

First to come in was Stout's triumphant half hundred, the happiest

family of horse and foot, commingled, ever seen upon the Pacific

slope, for their proud lot it had been to reach and rescue Angela,

beloved daughter of the regiment, and Blakely, who had well-nigh

sacrificed himself in the effort to find and save her. Stout and his

thirty "doughboys," Brewster, the sergeant, with his twenty troopers,

had been welcomed by the entire community as the heroes of the brief

campaign, but Stout would none of their adulation.

"There is the one you should thank and bless," said he, his eyes

turning to where stood Natzie, sad and silent, watching the attendants

who were lifting Neil Blakely from the litter to the porch of the

commanding officer.

They had brought her in with them, Lola and Alchisay as well--the last

two scowling and sullen, but ruled by the chieftain's daughter. They

had loaded her with praise and thanks, but she paid no heed. Two hours

after Stout and his troopers had reached the cliff and driven away the

murderous band of renegades--Tontos and Apache Yumas--bent on stealing

her captives, there had come a little party of her own kindred in

answer to her signals, but these would have been much too late.

Blakely would have been butchered. Angela and her benefactors, too,

would probably have been the victims of their captors. Natzie could

look for no mercy from them now. Through Wales Arnold, the captain and

his men had little by little learned the story of Natzie's devotion.

In the eyes of her father, her brother, her people, Blakely was

greater even than the famous big chief, Crook, the Gray Fox, who had

left them, ordered to other duties but the year gone by. Blakely had

quickly righted the wrongs done them by a thieving agent. Blakely had

given fair trial to and saved the life of Mariano, that fiery brother,

who, ironed by the former agent's orders, had with his shackled hands

struck down his persecutor and then escaped. Blakely had won their

undying gratitude, and Stout and Arnold saw now why it was that one

young brave, at least, could not share the love his people bore for

Gran Capitan Blanco--that one was Quonothay--the Chief Raven Shield.

They saw now why poor Natzie had no heart to give her Indian lover.

They saw now why it was that Natzie wandered from the agency and

hovered for some days before the outbreak there around the post. It

was to be near the young white chief whom she well-nigh worshiped,

whom she had been accustomed to see every day of her life during his

duties at the agency. They saw now why it was the savage girl had

dared the vengeance of the Apaches by the rescue of Angela. She

believed her to be Blakely's sister, yet they could not give the

reason why. They knew very little of Neil Blakely, but what they did

know made them doubt that he could ever have been the one at fault.

Over this problem both ranchman and soldier, Arnold and Stout, looked

grave indeed. It was not like Blakely that he should make a victim of

this young Indian girl. She was barely sixteen, said Arnold, who knew

her people well. She had never been alone with Blakely, said her

kinsfolk, who came that night in answer to her signals. She had saved

Angela, believing her to be Blakely's own blood, had led her to her

own mountain refuge, and then, confident that Blakely would make

search for it and for his sister, had gone forth and found him,

already half-dazed with fever and exhaustion, and had striven to lead

his staggering horse up that precipitous trail. It was the poor

brute's last climb. Blakely she managed to bring in safety to her

lofty eerie. The horse had fallen, worn out in the effort, and died on

the rocks below. She had roused Angela with what she thought would be

joyful tidings, even though she saw that her hero was desperately ill.

She thought, of course, the white girl knew the few words of Spanish

that she could speak. All this was made evident to Arnold and Stout,

partly through Natzie's young brother, who had helped to find and

support the white chief, partly through the girl herself. It was

evident to Arnold, too, that up to the time of their coming nothing

had happened to undeceive Natzie as to that relationship. They tried

to induce her to return to the agency, although her father and brother

were still somewhere with the hostile bands, but she would not, she

would go with them to Sandy, and they could not deny her. More than

once on that rough march of three days they found themselves asking

what would the waking be. Angela, daughter of civilization, under safe

escort, had been sent on ahead, close following the courier who

scurried homeward with the news. Natzie, daughter of the wilderness,

could not be driven from the sight of Blakely's litter. The dumb,

patient, pathetic appeal of her great soft eyes, as she watched every

look in the doctor's face, was something wonderful to see. But now, at

last, the fevered sufferer was home, still only semi-conscious, being

borne within the walls of the major's quarters, and she who had saved

him, slaved for him, dared for him, could only mutely gaze after his

prostrate and wasted form as it disappeared within the darkened

hallway in the arms of his men. Then came a light step bounding along

the veranda--then came Angela, no longer clad in the riding garb in

which hitherto Natzie had seen her, but in cool and shimmering white,

with gladness and gratitude in her beautiful eyes, with welcome and

protection in her extended hand, and the Indian girl looked strangely

from her to the dark hallway within which her white hero had

disappeared, and shrank back from the proffered touch. If this was the

soldier's sister should not she now be at the soldier's side? Had she

other lodge than that which gave him shelter, now that his own was

burned? Angela saw for the first time aversion, question, suspicion in

the great black eyes from which the softness and the pleading had

suddenly fled. Then, rebuffed, disturbed, and troubled, she turned to

Arnold, who would gladly have slipped away.