An Apache Princess

"They will start when I am ready, Mr. Blakely," said Cutler, "and

you certainly will not start before. In point of fact, sir, you may

not be allowed to start at all."

It was now Blakely's turn to redden to the brows. "You surely will not

prevent my going to join my troop, now that it is in contact with the

enemy," said he. "All I need is a few hours' sleep. I can start at

seven."

"You cannot, with my consent, Mr. Blakely," said the captain dryly.

"There are reasons, in fact, why you can't leave here for any purpose

unless the general himself give contrary orders. Matters have come up

that--you'll probably have to explain."

And here Doty entered, hearing only the captain's last. At sight of

his adjutant the captain stopped short in his reprimand. "See to it

that these runners have a good supper, Mr. Doty," said Cutler. "Stir

up my company cook, if need be, but take them with you now." Then,

turning again on Blakely, "The doctor wishes you to go to bed at once,

Mr. Blakely, and I will see you in the morning, but no more riding

away without permission," he concluded, and thereby closed the

interview. He had, indeed, other things to say to, and inquire of,

Blakely, but not until he had further consulted Graham. He confidently

expected the coming day would bring instructions from headquarters to

hold both Blakely and Trooper Downs at the post, as a result of his

dispatches, based on the revelation of poor Pat Mullins. But Downs,

forewarned, perhaps, had slipped into hiding somewhere--an old trick

of his, when punishment was imminent. It might be two or three days

before Downs turned up again, if indeed he turned up at all, but

Blakely was here and could be held. Hence the "horse order" of the

earlier evening.

It was nearly two when Blakely reached his quarters, rebuffed and

stung. He was so nervous, however, that, in spite of serious fatigue,

he found it for over an hour impossible to sleep. He turned out his

light and lay in the dark, and the atmosphere of the room seemed

heavily charged with rank tobacco. His new "striker" had sat up, it

seems, keeping faithful vigil against his master's return, but, as the

hours wore on, had solaced himself with pipe after pipe, and wandering

about to keep awake. Most of the time, he declared, he had spent in a

big rocking chair on the porch at the side door, but the scent of the

weed and of that veteran pipe permeated the entire premises, and the

Bugologist hated dead tobacco. He got up and tore down the blanket

screen at the side windows and opened all the doors wide and tried his

couch again, and still he wooed the drowsy god in vain. "Nor poppy nor

mandragora" had he to soothe him. Instead there were new and anxious

thoughts to vex, and so another half hour he tossed and tumbled, and

when at last he seemed dropping to the borderland, perhaps, of dreams,

he thought he must be ailing again and in need of new bandages or

cooling drink or something, for the muffled footfalls, betrayed by

creaking pine rather than by other sound, told him drowsily that the

attendant or somebody, cautioned not to disturb him, was moving

slowly across the room. He might have been out on the side porch to

get cool water from the olla, but he needn't be so confoundedly slow

and cautious, though he couldn't help the creaking. Then, what could

the attendant want in the front room, where were still so many of the

precious glass cases unharmed, and the Bugologist's favorite books and

his big desk, littered with papers, etc.? Blakely thought to hail and

warn him against moving about among those brittle glass things, but

reflected that he, the new man, had done the reshifting under his,

Blakely's, supervision, and knew just where each item was placed and

how to find the passage way between them. It really was a trifle

intricate.