An Apache Princess

Plume looked up in sudden joy. "You mean to tell me you didn't--you

weren't there till after--the cry?"

Wren's stern Scottish face was a sight to see. "Of what can you

possibly be thinking, Major Plume?" he demanded, slowly now, for wrath

was burning within him, and yet he strove for self-control. He had had

a lesson and a sore one.

"I will answer that--a little later, Captain Wren," said Plume, rising

from his seat, rejoicing in the new light now breaking upon him.

Westervelt, too, had gasped a sigh of relief. No man had ever known

Wren to swerve a hair's breadth from the truth. "At this moment time

is precious if the real criminal is to be caught at all. You were

first to reach the sentry. Had you seen no one else?"

In the dead silence that ensued within the room the sputter of hoofs

without broke harshly on the ear. Then came spurred boot heels on the

hollow, heat-dried boarding, but not a sound from the lips of Captain

Wren. The rugged face, twitching with pent-up indignation the moment

before, was now slowly turning gray. Plume stood facing him in growing

wonder and new suspicion.

"You heard me, did you not? I asked you did you see anyone else

during--along the sentry post when you went out?"

A fringed gauntlet reached in at the doorway and tapped. Sergeant

Shannon, straight as a pine, stood expectant of summons to enter and

his face spoke eloquently of important tidings, but the major waved

him away, and, marveling, he slowly backed to the edge of the porch.

"Surely you can answer that, Captain Wren," said Plume, his clear-cut,

handsome face filled with mingled anxiety and annoy. "Surely you

should answer, or--"

The ellipsis was suggestive, but impotent. After a painful moment came

the response: "Or--take the consequences, major?" Then slowly--"Very well, sir--I

must take them."