An Apache Princess

It had been observed that, during those few days of hurried packing

and preparation, Major Plume had not once gone to Blakely's quarters.

True, he had visited only Dr. Graham, and had begged him to explain

that anxiety on account of Mrs. Plume prevented his making the round

of farewell calls; but that he was thoughtful of others to the last

was shown in this: Plume had asked Captain Cutler, commander of the

post, to order the release of that wretch Downs. "He has been

punished quite sufficiently, I think," said Plume, "and as I was

instrumental in his arrest I ask his liberation." At tattoo,

therefore, the previous evening "the wretch" had been returned to

duty, and at five in the morning was found hovering about the major's

quarters. When invited by the sergeant of the guard to explain, he

replied, quite civilly for him, that it was to say good-by to Elise.

"Me and her," said he, "has been good friends."

Presumably he had had his opportunity at the kitchen door before the

start, but still he lingered, feigning professional interest in the

condition of the sleek mules that were to haul the Concord over fifty

miles of rugged road, up hill and down dale before the setting of the

sun. Then, while the officers and ladies clustered thick on one side

of the black vehicle, Downs sidled to the other, and the big black

eyes of the Frenchwoman peered down at him a moment as she leaned

toward him, and, with a whispered word, slyly dropped a little folded

packet into his waiting palm. Then, as though impatient, Plume shouted

"All right. Go on!" The Concord whirled away, and something like a

sigh of relief went up from assembled Sandy, as the first kiss of the

rising sun lighted on the bald pate of Squaw Peak, huge sentinel of

the valley, looming from the darkness and shadows and the mists of the

shallow stream that slept in many a silent pool along its massive,

rocky base. With but a few hurried, embarrassed words, Clarice Plume

had said adieu to Sandy, thinking never to see it again. They stood

and watched her past the one unlighted house, the northernmost along

the row. They knew not that Mr. Blakely was at the moment bidding

adieu to others in far humbler station. They only noted that, even at

the last, he was not there to wave a good-by to the woman who had once

so influenced his life. Slowly then the little group dissolved and

drifted away. She had gone unchallenged of any authority, though the

fate of Mullins still hung in the balance. Obviously, then, it was not

she whom Byrne's report had implicated, if indeed that report had

named anybody. There had been no occasion for a coroner and jury.

There would have been neither coroner nor jury to serve, had they been

called for. Camp Sandy stood in a little world of its own, the only

civil functionary within forty miles being a ranchman, dwelling seven

miles down stream, who held some Territorial warrant as a justice of

the peace.