An Apache Princess

One woman there was who, with others, had aimlessly hastened up the

line, and who seemed now verging on hysterics--the major's wife. It

was Mrs. Graham who rebukefully sent her own braw young brood

scurrying homeward through the gathering dusk, and then possessed

herself of Mrs. Plume. "The shock has unnerved you," she charitably,

soothingly whispered: "Come away with me," but the major's wife

refused to go. Hart, the big post trader, had just reached the spot,

driving up in his light buckboard. His usually jovial face was full of

sympathy and trouble. He could not believe the news, he said. Mr.

Blakely had been with him so short a time beforehand and was coming

down again at once, so Downs, the striker, told him, when some soldier

ran in to say the lieutenant had been half killed by Captain Wren.

Plume heard him talking and came down the low steps to meet and confer

with him, while the others, men and women, listened eagerly, expectant

of developments. Then Hart became visibly embarrassed. Yes, Mr.

Blakely had come up from below and begged the loan of a pony, saying

he must get to the post at once to see Major Plume. Hadn't he seen the

major? No! Then Hart's embarrassment increased. Yes, something had

happened. Blakely had told him, and in fact they--he--all of them had

something very important on hand. He didn't know what to do now, with

Mr. Blakely unable to speak, and, to the manifest disappointment of

the swift-gathering group, Hart finally begged the major to step aside

with him a moment and he would tell him what he knew. All eyes

followed them, then followed the major as he came hurrying back with

heightened color and went straight to Dr. Graham at the sufferer's

side. "Can I speak with him? Is he well enough to answer a question or

two?" he asked, and the doctor shook his head. "Then, by the Lord,

I'll have to wire to Prescott!" said Plume, and left the room at

once. "What is it?" feebly queried the patient, now half-conscious.

But the doctor answered only "Hush! No talking now, Mr. Blakely," and

bade the others leave the room and let him get to sleep.

But tattoo had not sounded that still and starlit evening when a

strange story was in circulation about the post, brought up from the

trader's store by pack-train hands who said they were there when Mr.

Blakely came in and asked for Hart--"wanted him right away, bad," was

the way they put it. Then it transpired that Mr. Blakely had found no

sport at bug-hunting and had fallen into a doze while waiting for

winged insects, and when he woke it was to make a startling

discovery--his beautiful Geneva watch had disappeared from one pocket

and a flat note case, carried in an inner breast pocket of his white

duck blouse, and containing about one hundred dollars, was also gone.

Some vagrant soldier, possibly, or some "hard-luck outfit" of

prospectors, probably, had come upon him sleeping, and had made way

with his few valuables. Two soldiers had been down stream, fishing for

what they called Tonto trout, but they were looked up instantly and

proved to be men above suspicion. Two prospectors had been at Hart's,

nooning, and had ridden off down stream toward three o'clock. There

was a clew worth following, and certain hangers-on about the trader's,

"layin' fer a job," had casually hinted at the prospect of a game down

at Snicker's--a ranch five miles below. Here, too, was something worth

investigating. If Blakely had been robbed, as now seemed more than

likely, Camp Sandy felt that the perpetrator must still be close at

hand and of the packer or prospector class.