An Apache Princess

But Norah Shaughnessy, from the gable window of the Trumans' quarters,

shook a hard-clinching Irish fist and showered malediction after the

swiftly speeding ambulance. "Wan 'o ye," she sobbed, "dealt Pat

Mullins a coward and cruel blow, and I'll know which, as soon as ever

that poor bye can spake the truth." She would have said it to that

hated Frenchwoman herself, had not mother and mistress both forbade

her leaving the room until the Plumes were gone.

Three trunks had been stacked up and secured on the hanging rack at

the rear of the Concord. Others, with certain chests and boxes, had

been loaded into one big wagon and sent ahead. The ambulance, with

the Dalys and the little escort of seven horsemen, awaited the rest of

the convoy on the northward flats, and the cloud of their combined

dust hung long on the scarred flanks as the first rays of the rising

sun came gilding the rocks at Boulder Point, and what was left of the

garrison at Sandy turned out for reveille.

That evening, for the first time since his injury, Mr. Blakely took

his horse and rode away southward in the soft moonlight, and had not

returned when tattoo sounded. The post trader, coming up with the

latest San Francisco papers, said he had stopped a moment to ask at

the store whether Schandein, the ranchman justice of the peace before

referred to, had recently visited the post.

That evening, too, for the first time since his dangerous wound,

Trooper Mullins awoke from his long delirium, weak as a little child;

asked for Norah, and what in the world was the matter with him--in bed

and bandages, and Dr. Graham, looking into the poor lad's dim,

half-opening eyes, sent a messenger to Captain Cutler's quarters to

ask would the captain come at once to hospital. This was at nine

o'clock.

Less than two hours later a mounted orderly set forth with dispatches

from the temporary post commander to Colonel Byrne at Prescott. A wire

from that point about sundown had announced the safe arrival of the

party from Camp Sandy. The answer, sent at ten o'clock, broke up the

game of whist at the quarters of the inspector general. Byrne, the

recipient, gravely read it, backed from the table, and vainly strove

not to see the anxious inquiry in the eyes of Major Plume, his guest.

But Plume cornered him.

"From Sandy?" he asked. "May I read it?"

Byrne hesitated just one moment, then placed the paper in his junior's

hand. Plume read, turned very white, and the paper fell from his

trembling fingers. The message merely said: Mullins recovering and quite rational, though very weak. He

says two women were his assailants. Courier with dispatches

at once.