An Apache Princess

There, down in the Sandy bottom, was explanation of it all. Two

soldiers were bending over a prostrate form in civilian dress. Two

swarthy Apaches, one on his face, the other, ten rods away, writhing

on his side, lay weltering in blood. Out along the sandy barren and

among the clumps of mezquite and greasewood, perhaps as many as ten

soldiers, members of the guard, were scattering in rude skirmish

order; now halting and dropping on one knee to fire, now rushing

forward; while into the willows, that swept in wide concave around the

flat, a number of forms in dirty white, or nothing at all but

streaming breechclout, were just disappearing.

Northward, too, beyond the post of No. 4, other little squads and

parties could be faintly seen scurrying away for the shelter of the

willows, and as Byrne reached the major's side, with the

to-be-expected query "Whatinhell'sthematter?" the last of the fleeing

Apaches popped out of sight, and Plume turned toward him in mingled

wrath and disgust: "That--ass of an agent!" was all he could say, as he pointed to the

prostrate figure in pepper and salt.

Byrne half slid, half stumbled down the bank and bent over the wounded

man. Dead he was not, for, with both hands clasped to his breast, Daly

was cradling from side to side and saying things of Apaches totally

unbecoming an Indian agent and a man of God. "But who did it? and

how?--and why?" demanded Byrne of the ministering soldiers.

"Tried to 'rest two Patchie girls, sir," answered the first,

straightening up and saluting, "and her feller wouldn't stand it, I

reckon. Knifed the agent and Craney, too. Yonder's the feller."

Yonder lay, face downward, as described, a sinewy young brave of the

Apache Mohave band, his newer, cleaner shirt and his gayly ornamented

sash and headgear telling of superior rank and station among his kind.

With barely a glance at Craney, squatted beside a bush, and with teeth

and hands knotting a kerchief about a bleeding arm, Byrne bent over

the Apache and turned the face to the light.

"Good God!" he cried, at the instant, "it's Quonathay--Raven Shield!

Why, you know him, corporal!"--this to Casey, of Wren's troop,

running to his side. "Son of old Chief Quonahelka! I wouldn't have had

this happen for all the girls on the reservation. Who were they? Why

did he try to arrest them? Here! I'll have to ask him--stabbed or

not!" And, anxious and angering, the colonel hastened over toward the

agent, now being slowly aided to his feet. Plume, too, had come

sidelong down the sandy bank with Cutler, of the infantry, asking

where he should put in his men. "Oh, just deploy across the flats to

stand off any possible attack," said Plume. "Don't cross the Sandy,

and, damn it all! get a bugler out and sound recall!" For now the

sound of distant shots came echoing back from the eastward cliffs. The

pursuit had spread beyond the stream. "I don't want any more of those

poor devils hurt. There's mischief enough already," he concluded.