A Find In The Sands

: An Apache Princess

The late afternoon of an eventful day had come to camp Sandy--just

such another day, from a meteorological viewpoint, as that on which

this story opened nearly twenty-four hours earlier by the shadows on

the eastward cliffs. At Tuesday's sunset the garrison was yawning with

the ennui born of monotonous and uneventful existence. As

Wednesday's sunset drew nigh and the mountain shadows overspread the

valley, even to the pposite crests of the distant Mogollon, the

garrison was athrill with suppressed excitement, for half a dozen

things had happened since the flag went up at reveille.



In the first place Captain Wren's arrest had been confirmed and Plume

had wired department headquarters, in reply to somewhat urgent query,

that there were several counts in his indictment of the captain, any

one of which was sufficient to demand a trial by court-martial, but he

wished, did Plume, for personal and official reasons that the general

commanding should send his own inspector down to judge for himself.



The post sergeant major and the three clerks had heard with sufficient

distinctness every word that passed between the major and the accused

captain, and, there being at Sandy some three hundred inquisitive

souls, thirsting for truth and light, it could hardly be expected of

this quartette that it should preserve utter silence even though

silence had been enjoined by the adjutant. It was told all over the

post long before noon that Wren had been virtually accused of being

the sentry's assailant as well as Lieutenant Blakely's. It was

whispered that, in some insane fury against the junior officer, Wren

had again, toward 3.30, breaking his arrest, gone up the row with the

idea of once more entering Blakely's house and possibly again

attacking him. It was believed that the sentry had seen and

interposed, and that, enraged at being balked by an enlisted man, Wren

had drawn a knife and stabbed him. True, no knife had been found

anywhere about the spot, and Wren had never been known to carry one.

But now a dozen men, armed with rakes, were systematically going over

the ground under the vigilant eye of Sergeant Shannon--Shannon, who

had heard the brief, emphatic interview between the major and the

troop commander and who had been almost immediately sent forth to

supervise this search, despite the fact that he had but just returned

from the conduct of another, the result of which he imparted to the

ears of only two men, Plume, the post commander, and Doty, his amazed

and bewildered adjutant. But Shannon had with him a trio of troopers,

one of whom, at least, had not been proof against inquisitive probing,

for the second sensation of the day was the story that one of the two

pairs of moccasin tracks, among the yielding sands of the willow

copse, led from where Mr. Blakely had been dozing to where the pony

Punch had been drowsing in the shade, for there they were lost, as the

maker had evidently mounted and ridden away. All Sandy knew that Punch

had no other rider than pretty Angela Wren.



A third story, too, was whispered in half a dozen homes, and was going

wild about the garrison, to the effect that Captain Wren, when accused

of being Mullins's assailant, had virtually declared that he had seen

other persons prowling on the sentry's post and that they, not he,

were the guilty ones; but when bidden to name or describe them, Wren

had either failed or refused; some said one, some said the other, and

the prevalent belief in Sudsville circles, as well as in the barracks,

was that Captain Wren was going crazy over his troubles. And now there

were women, ay, and men, too, though they spake with bated breath, who

had uncanny things to say of Angela--the captain's only child.



And this it was that led to sensation No. 4--a wordy battle of the

first magnitude between the next-door neighbor of the saddler sergeant

and no less a champion of maiden probity than Norah Shaughnessy--the

saddler sergeant's buxom daughter. All the hours since early morning

Norah had been in a state of nerves so uncontrollable that Mrs.

Truman--who knew of Norah's fondness for Mullins and marveled not that

Mullins always preferred the loneliness and isolation of the post on

No. 5--decided toward noon to send the girl home to her mother for a

day or so, and Norah thankfully went, and threw herself upon her

mother's ample breast and sobbed aloud. It was an hour before she

could control herself, and her agitation was such that others came to

minister to her. Of course there was just one explanation--Norah was

in love with Mullins and well-nigh crazed with grief over his untimely

taking off, for later reports from the hospital were most depressing.

This, at least, was sufficient explanation until late in the

afternoon. Then, restored to partial composure, the girl was sitting

up and being fanned in the shade of her father's roof-tree, when

roused by the voice of the next-door neighbor before mentioned--Mrs.

Quinn, long time laundress of Captain Sanders's troop and jealous as

to Wren's, was telling what she had heard of Shannon's discoveries,

opining that both Captain Wren and the captain's daughter deserved

investigation. "No wan need tell me there was others prowling about

Mullins's post at three in the marnin.' As for Angela--" But here Miss

Shaughnessy bounded from the wooden settee, and, with amazing vim and

vigor, sailed spontaneously into Mrs. Quinn.



"No wan need tell you--ye say! No wan need tell you, ye

black-tongued scandlum! Well, then, I tell ye Captain Wren did see

others prowlin' on poor Pat Mullins's post an' others than him saw

them too. Go you to the meejer, soon as ye like and say I saw them,

and if Captain Wren won't tell their names there's them that will."



The shrill tones of the infuriated girl were plainly audible all over

the flats whereon were huddled the little cabins of log and adobe

assigned as quarters to the few married men among the soldiery. These

were the halcyon days of the old army when each battery, troop, or

company was entitled to four laundresses and each laundress to one

ration. Old and young, there were at least fifty pairs of ears within

easy range of the battle that raged forthwith, the noise of which

reached even to the shaded precincts of the trader's store three

hundred yards away. It was impossible that such a flat-footed

statement as Norah's should not be borne to the back doors of "The

Row" and, repeated then from lip to lip, should soon be told to

certain of the officers. Sanders heard it as he came in from stable

duty, and Dr. Graham felt confident that it had been repeated under

the major's roof when at 6 P. M. the post commander desired his

professional services in behalf of Mrs. Plume, who had become

unaccountably, if not seriously, ill.



Graham had but just returned from a grave conference with Wren, and

his face had little look of the family physician as he reluctantly

obeyed the summons. As another of the auld licht school of Scotch

Presbyterians, he also had conceived deep-rooted prejudice to that

frivolous French aide-de-camp of the major's wife. The girl did dance

and flirt and ogle to perfection, and half a dozen strapping sergeants

were now at sword's points all on account of this objectionable Eliza.

Graham, of course, had heard with his ears and fathomed with his

understanding the first reports of Wren's now famous reply to his

commanding officer; and though Wren would admit no more to him than

he had to the major, Graham felt confident that the major's wife was

one of the mysterious persons seen by Wren, and declared by Norah, in

the dim starlight of the early morning, lurking along the post of No.

5. Graham had no doubt that Elise was the other. The man most

concerned in the case, the major himself, was perhaps the only one at

sunset who never seemed to suspect that Mrs. Plume could have been in

any way connected with the affair. He met the doctor with a world of

genuine anxiety in his eyes.



"My wife," said he, "is of a highly sensitive organization, and she

has been completely upset by this succession of scandalous affairs.

She and Blakely were great friends at St. Louis three years ago;

indeed, many people were kind enough to couple their names before our

marriage. I wish you could--quiet her," and the sounds from aloft,

where madame was nervously pacing her room, gave point to the

suggestion. Graham climbed the narrow stairs and tapped at the north

door on the landing. It was opened by Elise, whose big, black eyes

were dilated with excitement, while Mrs. Plume, her blonde hair

tumbling down her back, her peignoir decidedly rumpled and her

general appearance disheveled, was standing in mid-floor, wringing her

jeweled hands. "She looks like sixty," was the doctor's inward remark,

"and is probably not twenty-six."



Her first question jarred upon his rugged senses.



"Dr. Graham, when will Mr. Blakely be able to see--or read?"



"Not for a day or two. The stitches must heal before the bandages can

come off his eyes. Even then, Mrs. Plume, he should not be disturbed,"

was the uncompromising answer.



"Is that wretch, Downs, sober yet?" she demanded, standing and

confronting him, her whole form quivering with strong, half-suppressed

emotion.



"The wretch is sobering," answered Graham gravely. "And now, madame,

I'll trouble you to take a chair. Do you," with a glance of grim

disfavor, "need this girl for the moment? If not, she might as well

retire."



"I need my maid, Dr. Graham, and I told Major Plume distinctly I did

not need you," was the impulsive reply, as the lady strove against the

calm, masterful grasp he laid on her wrist.



"That's as may be, Mrs. Plume. We're often blind to our best

interests. Be seated a moment, then I'll let you tramp the soles of

your feet off, if you so desire." And so he practically pulled her

into a chair; Elise, glaring the while, stood spitefully looking on.

The antipathy was mutual.



"You've slept too little of late, Mrs. Plume," continued the doctor,

lucklessly hitting the mark with a home shot instantly resented, for

the lady was on her feet again.



"Sleep! People do nothing but sleep in this woebegone hole!" she

cried. "I've had sleep enough to last a lifetime. What I want is to

wake--wake out of this horrible nightmare! Dr. Graham, you are a

friend of Captain Wren's. What under heaven possessed him, with his

brutal strength, to assault so sick a man as Mr. Blakely? What

possible pretext could he assert?" And again she was straining at her

imprisoned hand and seeking to free herself, Graham calmly studying

her the while, as he noted the feverish pulse. Not half an hour

earlier he had been standing beside the sick bed of a fair young girl,

one sorely weighted now with grave anxieties, yet who lay patient and

uncomplaining, rarely speaking a word. They had not told the half of

the web of accusation that now enmeshed her father's feet, but what

had been revealed to her was more than enough to banish every thought

of self or suffering and to fill her fond heart with instant and

loving care for him. No one, not even Janet, was present during the

interview between father and child that followed. Graham found him

later locked in his own room, reluctant to admit even him, and

lingering long before he opened the door; but even then the

tear-stains stood on his furrowed face, and the doctor knew he had

been sobbing his great heart out over the picture of his child--the

child he had so harshly judged and sentenced, all unheard. Graham had

gone to him, after seeing Angela, with censure on his tongue, but he

never spoke the words. He saw there was no longer need.



"Let the lassie lie still the day," said he, "with Kate, perhaps, to

read to her. Your sister might not choose a cheering book. Then

perhaps we'll have her riding Punch again to-morrow." But Graham did

not smile when meeting Janet by the parlor door.



He was thinking of the contrast in these two, his patients, as with

professional calm he studied the troubled features of the major's wife

when the voice of Sergeant Shannon was heard in the lower hall,

inquiring for the major, and in an instant Plume had joined him. In

that instant, too, Elise had sped, cat-like, to the door, and Mrs.

Plume had followed. Possibly for this reason the major led the

sergeant forth upon the piazza and the conversation took place in

tones inaudible to those within the house; but, in less than a minute,

the doctor's name was called and Graham went down.



"Look at this," said Plume. "They raked it out of the sand close to

where Mullins was lying." And the major held forth an object that

gleamed in the last rays of the slanting sunshine. It was Blakely's

beautiful watch.