An Apache Princess

Over at "C" Troop's quarters was the lieutenant's saddle, ready packed

with blanket, greatcoat, and bulging saddle-bags. Over in "C" Troop's

stables was Deltchay--the lieutenant's bronco charger, ready fed and

groomed, wondering why he was kept in when the other horses were out

at graze. With the saddle kit were the troop carbine and revolver,

Blakely's personal arms being now but stockless tubes of seared and

blistered steel. Back of "C" Troop's quarters lolled a half-breed

Mexican packer, with a brace of mules, one girt with saddle, the other

in shrouding aparejo--diamond-hitched, both borrowed from the post

trader with whom Blakely's note of hand was good as a government four

per cent.--all ready to follow the lieutenant to the field whither

right and duty called him. There, too, was Nixon, the new "striker,"

new clad as was his master, and full panoplied for the field, yet

bemoaning the loss of soldier treasures whose value was never fully

realized until they were irrevocably gone. Six o'clock, six-thirty,

six-forty-five and even seven sped by and still there came no summons

to join the soldier master. There had come instead, when Nixon urged

that he be permitted to lead forth both his own troop horse and

Deltchay, the brief, but significant reply: "Shut yer gab, Nixon.

There's no horse goes till the captain says so!"

At seven o'clock, at last, the post commander came forth from his

doorway; saw across the glaring level of the parade the form of Mr.

Blakely impatiently pacing the veranda at the adjutant's office, and,

instead of going thither, as was his wont, Captain Cutler turned the

other way and strode swiftly to the hospital, where Graham met him at

the bedside of Trooper patient Patrick Mullins. "How is he?" queried

Cutler.

"Sleeping--thank God--and not to be wakened," was the Scotchman's

answer. "He had a bad time of it during the fire."

"What am I to tell Blakely?" demanded Cutler, seeking strength for his

faltering hand. "You're bound to help me now, Graham."

"Let him go and you may make it worse," said the doctor, with a

clamp of his grizzled jaws. "Hold him here and you're sure to."

"Can't you, as post surgeon, tell him he isn't fit to ride?"

"Not when he rides the first half of the night and puts out a nasty

fire the last. Can't you, as post commander, tell him you forbid his

going till you hear from Byrne and investigate the fire?" If Graham

had no patience with a frail woman, he had nothing but contempt for a

weak man. "If he's bound to be up and doing something, though," he

added, "send him out with a squad of men and orders to hunt for

Downs."

Cutler had never even thought of it. Downs was still missing. No one

had seen him. His haunts had been searched to no purpose. His horse

was still with the herd. One man, the sergeant of the guard, the

previous day, had marked the brief farewell between the missing man

and the parting maid--had seen the woman's gloved hand stealthily put

forth and the little folded packet passed to the soldier's ready palm.

What that paper contained no man ventured to conjecture. Cutler and

Graham, notified by Sergeant Kenna of what he had seen, puzzled over

it in vain. Norah Shaughnessy could perhaps unravel it, thought the

doctor, but he did not say.