An Apache Princess

With but a single orderly at his back, Mr. Blakely had left Camp Sandy

late at night; had reached the agency, twenty miles up stream, two

hours before the dawn and found young Bridger waiting for him. They

had not even a reliable interpreter now. Arahawa, "Washington

Charley," had been sent to the general at Camp McDowell. Lola's

father, with others of her kin, had taken Apache leave and gone in

search of the missing girl.

But between the sign language and the

patois of the mountains, a strange mixture of Spanish, English, and

Tonto Apache, the officers had managed, with the aid of their men, to

gather explanation of the fierce excitement prevailing all that

previous day among the Indians at the agency. There had been another

fight, a chase, a scattering of both pursuers and pursued. Most of the

troops were at last accounts camping in the rocks near Sunset Pass.

Two had been killed, several were wounded, three were missing, lost to

everybody. Even the Apaches swore they knew not where they were--a

sergeant, a trumpeter, and "Gran Capitan" himself--Captain Wren.

In the paling starlight of the coming day Blakely and Bridger plied

the reluctant Indians with questions in every form possible with

their limited knowledge of the sign language. Blakely, having spent so

many years on staff duty, had too little knowledge of practical

service in the field. Bridger was but a beginner at best. Together

they had decided on their course. A wire was sent to Sandy saying that

from all they could gather the rumors were probably true, but urging

that couriers be sent for Dick, the Cherry Creek settler, and Wales

Arnold, another pioneer who had lived long in Apache land and owned a

ranch on the little Beaver. They could get more out of the Indians

than could these soldiers. It would be hours after dawn before either

Dick or his fellow frontiersman could arrive. Meanwhile Sandy must

bear the suspense as well as it might. The next wire came from Bridger

at nine o'clock: Arnold arrived hour ago. Examined six. Says stories probably

true. Confident Wren not killed.

For answer Byrne wired that a detachment of a dozen men with three

packers had marched at five o'clock to report to Blakely for such duty

as he might require, and the answer came within the minute: Blakely gone. Started for Snow Lake 4.30. Left orders

detachment follow. Took orderly and two Apache Yuma scouts.

Byrne, Cutler, and Graham read with grave and anxious faces, but said

very little. It was Blakely's way.

And that was the last heard of the Bugologist for as much as a week.