An Apache Princess

"Will you wait--one moment?" he suddenly asked. "I'll go to the rocks

yonder and call her," and then, almost as suddenly, the voice was

again uplifted in the same weird, barbaric song, and the singer had

gone from the depths of the opposite thicket and was somewhere farther

up stream, still hidden from their gaze--still, possibly, ignorant of

Angela's presence. The brown eyes were at the moment following the

tall, white form, moving slowly through the winding, faintly-worn

pathway toward the upper shallows where, like stepping stones, the big

rocks stretched from shore to shore, and she was startled to note that

the moment the song began he stopped short a second or two, listened

intently, then almost sprang forward in his haste to reach the

crossing. Another minute and he was out of sight among the shrubbery.

Another, and she heard the single shot of a revolver, and there he

stood at the rocky point, a smoking pistol in his hand. Instantly the

song ceased, and then his voice was uplifted, calling, "Natzie!

Natzie!" With breathless interest Angela gazed and, presently, parting

the shrubbery with her little brown hands, the Indian girl stepped

forth into the light and stood in silence, her great black eyes fixed

mournfully upon him. Could this be their mountain princess--the

daring, the resolute, the commanding? Could this be the fierce,

lissome, panther-like creature before whose blow two of their stoutest

men had fallen? There was dejection inexpressible in her very

attitude. There was no longer bravery or adornment in her dress. There

was no more of queen--of chieftain's daughter--in this downcast child

of the desert.

He called again, "Natzie," and held forth his hand. Her head had

drooped upon her breast, but, once again, she looked upon him, and

then, with one slow, hesitant, backward glance about her, stepped

forward, her little, moccasined feet flitting from rock to rock across

the murmuring shallows until she stood before him. Then he spoke, but

she only shook her head and let it droop again, her hands passively

clasping. He knew too little of her tongue to plead with her. He knew,

perhaps, too little of womankind to appreciate what he was doing.

Finding words useless, he gently took her hand and drew her with him,

and passively she obeyed, and for a moment they disappeared from

Angela's view. Then presently the tall, white form came again in

sight, slowly leading the unresisting child, until, in another moment,

they stepped within the little open space among the willows. At the

same instant Angela arose, and the daughter of the soldier and the

daughter of the savage, the one with timid yet hopeful welcome and

greeting in her lovely face, the other with sudden amaze, scorn,

passion, and jealous fury in her burning eyes, stood a breathless

moment confronted. Then, all in a second, with one half-stifled,

inarticulate cry, Natzie wrenched her hand from that of Blakely, and,

with the spring of a tigress, bounded away. Just at the edge of the

pool she halted, whirled about, tore from her bosom a flat, oblong

packet and hurled it at his feet; then, with the dart of a

frightened deer, drove through the northward willows. Angela saw her

run blindly up the bank, leaping thence to the rocks below, bounding

from one to another with the wild grace of the antelope. Another

instant and she had reached the opposite shore, and there, tossing her

arms wildly above her head, her black tresses streaming behind her,

with a cry that was almost a scream, she plunged into the heart of the

thicket; the stubborn branches closed behind her, and our Apache queen

was gone. As they met, so had they parted, by the waters of the pool.