Our Vanished Princess

: An Apache Princess

Then came a story told in fierce and excited whisperings, Arnold the

speaker, prompted sometimes by his companions; Stone, and the few

soldiers grouped about him, awe-stricken and dismayed. Blakely had

started up from his litter, his face white with an awful dread,

listening in wordless agony.



At six the previous morning, loping easily out from Sandy, Arnold's

people had reached the ranch and found the ve eran colonel with his

orderlies impatiently waiting for them. These latter had had abundant

food and coffee and the colonel was fuming with impatience to move,

but Arnold's people had started on empty stomachs, counting on a

hearty breakfast at the ranch. Jose could have it ready in short

order. So Byrne, with his men, mounted and rode ahead on the trail of

the infantry, saying the rest could overtake him before he reached the

rocky and dangerous path over the first range. For a few miles the

Beaver Valley was fairly wide and open. Not twenty minutes later, as

Arnold's comrades sat on the porch on the north side of the house,

they heard swift hoof-beats, and wondered who could be coming now.

But, without an instant's pause, the rider had galloped by, and one of

the men, hurrying to the corner of the ranch, was amazed to see the

lithe, slender form of Angela Wren speeding her pet pony like the wind

up the sandy trail. Arnold refused to believe at first, but his eyes

speedily told him the same story. He had barely a glimpse of her

before she was out of sight around a grove of willows up the stream.

"Galloping to catch the colonel," said he, and such was his belief.

Angela, he reasoned, had hastened after them to send some message of

love to her wounded father, and had perhaps caught sight of the trio

far out in the lead. Arnold felt sure that they would meet her coming

back, sure that there was no danger for her, with Byrne and his

fellows well out to the front. They finished their breakfast,

therefore, reset their saddles, mounted and rode for an hour toward

the Mogollon and still the pony tracks led them on, overlying those of

the colonel's party. Then they got among the rocks and only at

intervals found hoof-prints; but, far up along the range, caught sight

of the three horsemen, and so, kept on. It was after ten when at last

they overtook the leaders, and then, to their consternation, Angela

Wren was not with them. They had neither seen nor heard of her, and

Byrne was aghast when told that, alone and without a guide, she had

ridden in among the foothills of those desolate, pathless mountains.

"The girl is mad," said he, "and yet it's like her to seek to reach

her father."



Instantly they divided forces to search for her. Gorges and canons

innumerable seamed the westward face of this wild spur of the Sierras,

and, by the merest luck in the world, one of Arnold's men, spurring

along a stony ridge, caught sight of a girlish form far across a deep

ravine, and quickly fired two shots in signal that he had "sighted"

the chase. It brought Arnold and two of his men to the spot and,

threading their way, sometimes afoot and leading their steeds,

sometimes in saddle and urging them through the labyrinth of bowlders,

they followed on. At noon they had lost not only all sight of her, but

of their comrades, nor had they seen the latter since. Byrne and his

orderlies, with three of the party that "pulled out" from Sandy with

Arnold in the morning, had disappeared. Again and again they fired

their Henrys, hoping for answering signal, or perhaps to attract

Angela's attention. All doubt as to her purpose was now ended. Mad she

might be, but determined she was, and had deliberately dodged past

them at the Beaver, fearing opposition to her project. At two,

moreover, they found that she could "trail" as well as they, for among

the stunted cedars at the crest of a steep divide, they found the

print of the stout brogans worn by their infantry comrades, and, down

among the rocks of the next ravine, crushed bits of hardtack by a

"tank" in the hillside. She had stopped there long enough at least to

water Punch, then pushed on again.



Once more they saw her, not three miles ahead at four o'clock, just

entering a little clump of pines at the top of a steep acclivity. They

fired their rifles and shouted loud in hopes of halting her, but all

to no purpose. Night came down and compelled them to bivouac. They

built a big fire to guide the wanderers, but morning broke without

sign of them; so on they went, for now, away from the rocks the trail

was often distinct, and once again they found the pony hoof-prints and

thanked God. At seven by Arnold's watch, among the breaks across a

steep divide they found another tank, more crumbs, a grain sack with

some scattered barley, more hardtack and the last trace of Angela.

Arnold's hand shook, as did his voice, as he drew forth a little

fluttering ribbon--the "snood" poor Wren so loved to see binding his

child's luxuriant hair.



They reasoned she had stopped here to feed and water her pony, and had

probably bathed her face and flung loose her hair and forgotten later

the binding ribbon. They believed she had followed on after Stout's

hard-marching company. It was easy to trail. They counted on finding

her when they found her father, and now here lay Wren unconscious of

her loss, and Blakely, realizing it all--cruelly, feverishly realizing

it--yet so weakened by his wounds as to be almost powerless to march

or mount and go in search of her.



No question now as to the duty immediately before them. In twenty

minutes the pack mules were again strapped between the saplings, the

little command was slowly climbing toward the westward heights, with

Arnold and two of his friends scouting the rough trail and hillsides,

firing at long intervals and listening in suspense almost intolerable

for some answering signal. The other of their number had volunteered

to follow Stout over the plateau toward the Pass and acquaint him with

the latest news.



While the sun was still high in the heavens, far to the northward,

they faintly heard or thought they heard two rifle shots. At four

o'clock, as they toiled through a tangle of rock and stunted pine,

Arnold, riding well to the front, came suddenly out upon a bare ledge

from which he could look over a wild, wide sweep of mountain side,

stretching leagues to north and south, and there his keen and

practiced eye was greeted by a sight that thrilled him with dread

unspeakable. Dread, not for himself or his convoy of wounded, but

dread for Angela. Jutting, from the dark fringe of pines along a

projecting bluff, perhaps four miles away, little puffs or clouds of

smoke, each separate and distinct, were sailing straight aloft in the

pulseless air--Indian signals beyond possibility of doubt. Some

Apaches, then, were still hovering about the range overlooking the

broad valley of the Sandy, some of the bands then were prowling in the

mountains between the scouting troops and the garrisoned post. Some

must have been watching this very trail, in hopes of intercepting

couriers or stragglers, some must have seen and seized poor Angela.



He had sprung from saddle and leveled his old field glass at the

distant promontory, so absorbed in his search he did not note the

coming of the little column. The litter bearing Blakely foremost of

the four had halted close beside him, and Blakely's voice, weak and

strained, yet commanding, suddenly startled him with demand to be told

what he saw, and Arnold merely handed him the glass and pointed. The

last of the faint smoke puffs was just soaring into space, making

four still in sight. Blakely never even took the binocular. He had

seen enough by the unaided eye.






With uplifted hand the sergeant had checked the coming of the next

litter, Wren's, and those that followed it. One of the wounded men,

the poor lad crazed by the perils of the siege, was alert and begging

for more water, but Wren was happily lost to the world in swoon or

slumber. To the soldier bending over him he seemed scarcely breathing.

Presently they were joined by two of Arnold's party who had been

searching out on the left flank. They, too, had seen, and the three

were now in low-toned conference. Blakely for the moment was unnoted,

forgotten.



"That tank--where we found the ribbon--was just about two miles

yonder," said Arnold, pointing well down the rugged slope toward the

southwest, where other rocky, pine-fringed heights barred the view to

the distant Sandy. "Surely the colonel or some of his fellows must be

along here. Ride ahead a hundred yards or so and fire a couple of

shots," this to one of his men, who silently reined his tired bronco

into the rude trail among the pine cones and disappeared. The others

waited. Presently came the half-smothered sound of a shot and a

half-stifled cry from the rearmost litter. Every such shock meant new

terror to that poor lad, but Wren never stirred. Half a minute passed

without another sound than faint and distant echo; then faint, and not

so distant, came another sound, a prolonged shout, and presently

another, and then a horseman hove in sight among the trees across a

nearly mile-wide dip. Arnold and his friends rode on to meet him,

leaving the litters at the crest. In five minutes one of the riders

reappeared and called: "It's Horn, of the orderlies. He reports

Colonel Byrne just ahead. Come on!" and turning, dove back down the

twisted trail.



The colonel might have been just ahead when last seen, but when they

reached the tank he was far aloft again, scouting from another height

to the northward, and while the orderly went on to find and tell him,

Arnold and his grave-faced comrade dismounted there to await the

coming of the litters. Graver were the faces even than before. The

news that had met them was most ominous. Two of those who searched

with Colonel Byrne had found pony tracks leading northward--leading in

the very direction in which they had seen the smoke. There was no

other pony shoe in the Sandy valley. It could be none other than

Angela's little friend and comrade--Punch.



And this news they told to Blakely as the foremost litter came. He

listened with hardly a word of comment; then asked for his scouting

notebook. He was sitting up now. They helped him from his springy

couch to a seat on the rocks, and gave him a cup of the cold water.

One by one the other litters were led into the little amphitheater and

unlashed. Everyone seemed to know that here must be the bivouac for

the night, their abiding place for another day, perhaps, unless they

should find the captain's daughter. They spoke, when they spoke at

all, in muffled tones, these rough, war-worn men of the desert and

the mountain. They bent over the wounded with sorrowing eyes, and

wondered why no surgeon had come out to meet them. Heartburn, of

course, had done his best, dressing and rebandaging the wounds at

dawn, but then he had to go on with Stout and the company, while one

of the Apache Yumas was ordered to dodge his way in to Sandy, with a

letter urging that Graham be sent out to follow the trail and meet the

returning party.



Meanwhile the sun had dropped behind the westward heights; the night

would soon be coming down, chill and overcast. Byrne was still away,

but he couldn't miss the tank, said one of the troopers who had ridden

with him. Twice during the morning they had all met there and then

gone forth again, searching--searching. Punch's little hoof-tracks,

cutting through a sandy bit in the northward ravine, had drawn them

all that way, but nothing further had been found. His horse, too, said

the orderly, was lame and failing, so he had been bidden to wait by

the water and watch for couriers either from the front or out from the

post. Byrne was one of those never-give-up men, and they all knew him.



Barley was served out to the animals, a little fire lighted, lookouts

were stationed, and presently their soldier supper was ready, and

still Blakely said nothing. He had written three notes or letters, one

of which seemed to give him no little trouble, for one after another

he thrust two leaves into the fire and started afresh. At length they

were ready, and he signaled to Arnold. "You can count, I think, on

Graham's getting here within a few hours," said he. "Meantime you're

as good a surgeon as I need. Help me on with this sling." And still

they did not fathom his purpose. He was deathly pale, and his eyes

were eloquent of dread unspeakable, but he seemed to have forgotten

pain, fever, and prostration. Arnold, in the silent admiration of the

frontier, untied the support, unloosed the bandages, and together they

redressed the ugly wound. Then presently the Bugologist stood feebly

upon his feet and looked about him. It was growing darker, and not

another sound had come from Byrne.



"Start one of your men into Sandy at once," said Blakely, to the

sergeant, and handed him a letter addressed to Major Plume. "He will

probably meet the doctor before reaching the Beaver. These other two

I'll tell you what to do with later. Now, who has the best horse?"



Arnold stared. Sergeant Stone quickly turned and saluted. "The

lieutenant is not thinking of mounting, I hope," said he.



Blakely did not even answer. He was studying the orderly's bay. Stiff

and a little lame he might be, but, refreshed and strengthened by

abundant barley, he was a better weight-carrier than the other, and

Blakely had weight. "Saddle your horse, Horn," said he, "and fasten on

those saddle-bags of mine."



"But, lieutenant," ventured Arnold, "you are in no shape to ride

anything but that litter. Whatever you think of doing, let me do."



"What I am thinking of doing nobody else can do," said Blakely. "What

you can do is, keep these two letters till I call for them. If at the

end of a week I fail to call, deliver them as addressed and to nobody

else. Now, before dark I must reach that point younder," and he

indicated the spot where in the blaze of the westering sun a mass of

rock towered high above the fringing pine and mournful shadows at its

base, a glistening landmark above the general gloom at the lower level

and at that hour of the afternoon. "Now," he added quietly, "you can

help me into saddle."



"But for God's sake, lieutenant, let some of us ride with you,"

pleaded Arnold. "If Colonel Byrne was here he'd never let you go."



"Colonel Byrne is not here, and I command, I believe," was the brief,

uncompromising answer. "And no man rides with me because, with another

man, I'd never find what I'm in search of." For a moment he bent over

Wren, a world of wordless care, dread, and yet determination in his

pale face. Arnold saw his wearied eyes close a moment, his lips move

as though in petition, then he suddenly turned. "Let me have that

ribbon," said he bluntly, and without a word Arnold surrendered it.

Stone held the reluctant horse, Arnold helped the wounded soldier into

the saddle. "Don't worry about me--any of you," said Blakely, in brief

farewell. "Good-night," and with that he rode away.



Arnold and the men stood gazing after him. "Grit clean through," said

the ranchman, through his set teeth, for a light was dawning on him,

as he pondered over Blakely's words. "May the Lord grant I don't have

to deliver these!" Then he looked at the superscriptions. One letter

was addressed to Captain, or Miss Janet, Wren--the other to Mrs.

Plume.