A Strange Coming

: An Apache Princess

With one orderly and a pair of Apache Yuma scouts, Neil Blakely had

set forth in hopes of making his way to Snow Lake, far up in the range

to the east. The orderly was all very well,--like most of his fellows,

game, true, and tried,--but few were the leaders who had any faith in

Apache Yumas. Of those Indians whom General Crook had successively

conquered, then turned to valuable use, the Hualpais had done well and

prov d reliable; the Apache Mohaves had served since '73, and in scout

after scout and many a skirmish had proved loyal and worthy allies

against the fierce, intractable Tontos, many of whom had never yet

come in to an agency or accepted the bounty of the government. Even a

certain few of these Tontos had proffered fealty and been made useful

as runners and trailers against the recalcitrants of their own band.

But the Apache Yumas, their mountain blood tainted by the cross with

the slothful bands of the arid, desert flats of the lower Colorado,

had won a bad name from the start, and deserved it. They feared the

Tontos, who had thrashed them again and again, despoiled them of their

plunder, walked away with their young women, insulted and jeered at

their young men. Except when backed by the braves of other bands,

therefore, the Apache Yumas were fearful and timorous on the trail.

Once they had broken and run before a mere handful of Tontos, leaving

a wounded officer to his fate. Once, when scaling the Black Mesa

toward this very Snow Lake, they had whimpered and begged to be sent

home, declaring no enemy was there in hiding, when the peaks were

found alive with Tontos. The Red Rock country and the northward spurs

of the Mogollon seemed fraught with some strange, superstitious terror

in their eyes, and if the "nerve" of a dozen would desert them when

ordered east of the Verde, what could be expected of Blakely's two? No

wonder, then, the elders at Sandy were sorely troubled!



But the Bugologist had nothing else to choose from. All the reliable,

seasoned scouts were already gone with the various field columns. Only

Apache Yumas remained, and only the least promising of the Apache

Yumas at that. Bridger remembered how reluctantly these two had obeyed

the summons to go. "If they don't sneak away and come back swearing

they have lost the lieutenant, I'm a gopher," said he, and gave orders

accordingly to have them hauled before him should they reappear.

Confidently he looked to see or hear of them as again lurking about

the commissary storehouse after the manner of their people, beggars to

the backbone. But the week went by without a sign of them. "There's

only one thing to explain that," said he. "They've either deserted to

the enemy or been cut off and killed." What, then, had become of

Blakely? What fate had befallen Wren?



By this time, late Saturday night, acting for the department commander

now lost somewhere in the mountains, Byrne had re-enforced the guards

at the agency and the garrison at Sandy with infantry drawn from Fort

Whipple at Prescott, for thither the Apaches would never venture. The

untrammeled and sovereign citizen had his own way of treating the

obnoxious native to the soil.



By this time, too, further word should have come from some of the

field columns, Sanders's especially. But though runners had reached

the post bearing brief dispatches from the general, showing that he

and the troops from the more southerly posts were closing in on the

wild haunts of the Tontos about Chevlon's Fork, not a sign had come

from this energetic troop commander, not another line from Sergeant

Brewster or his men, and there were women at Camp Sandy now nearly mad

with sleepless dread and watching. "It means," said Byrne, "that the

hostiles are between us and those commands. It means that couriers

can't get through, that's all. I'm betting the commands are safe

enough. They are too strong to be attacked." But Byrne was silent as

to Blakely; he was dumb as to Wren. He was growing haggard with

anxiety and care and inability to assure or comfort. The belated

rations needed by Brewster's party, packed on mules hurried down from

Prescott, were to start at dawn for Sunset Pass under stout infantry

guard, and they, too, would probably be swallowed up in the

mountains. The ranch people down the valley, fearful of raiding

Apaches, had abandoned their homes, and, driving their stock before

them, had taken refuge in the emptied corrals of the cavalry. Even

Hart, the veteran trader, seemed losing his nerve under the strain,

for when such intrepid frontiersmen as Wales Arnold declared it

reckless to venture across the Sandy, and little scouting parties were

greeted with long-range shots from hidden foe, it boded ill for all

dwellers without the walls of the fort. For the first time in the

annals of Camp Sandy, Hart had sandbagged his lower story, and he and

his retainers practically slept upon their arms.



It was after midnight. Lights still burned dimly at the guard-house,

the adjutant's office, and over at the quarters of the commanding

officer, where Byrne and Plume were in consultation. There were

sleepless eyes in every house along the line. Truman had not turned in

at all. Pondering over his brief talk with the returned commander, he

had gone to the storehouse to expedite the packing of Brewster's

rations, and then it occurred to him to drop in a moment at the

hospital. In all the dread and excitement of the past two days, Pat

Mullins had been well-nigh forgotten. The attendant greeted him at the

entrance. Truman, as he approached, could see him standing at the

broad open doorway, apparently staring out through the starlight

toward the black and distant outlines of the eastward mountains.

Mullins at least was sleeping and seemed rapidly recovering, said he,

in answer to Truman's muttered query. "Major Plume," he added, "was

over to see him a while ago, but I told the major Pat was asleep."

Truman listened without comment, but noted none the less and lingered.

"You were looking out to the east," he said. "Seen any lights or

fire?"



"Not I, sir. But the sentry there on No. 4 had the corporal out just

now. He's seen or heard something, and they've moved over toward No.

5's post."



Truman followed. How happened it that when Byrne and Plume had so much

to talk of the latter could find time to come away over to the

hospital to inquire for a patient? And there! the call for half-past

twelve had started at the guard-house and rung out from the stables

and corrals. It was Four's turn to take it up now. Presently he did,

but neither promptly nor with confidence. There were new men on the

relief just down from Fort Whipple and strange to Sandy and its

surroundings; but surely, said Truman, they should not have been

assigned to Four and Five, the exposed or dangerous posts, so long as

there were other men, old-timers at Sandy, to take these stations. No.

4's "A-all's well" sounded more like a wail of remonstrance at his

loneliness and isolation. It was a new voice, too, for in those days

officers knew not only the face, but the voice, of every man in the

little command, and--could Truman be mistaken--he thought he heard a

subdued titter from the black shadows of his own quarters, and turned

his course thither to investigate. Five's shout went up at the

instant, loud, confident, almost boastful, as though in rebuke of

Four's timidity, and, as Truman half expected, there was the corporal

of the guard leaning on his rifle, close to the veranda steps, and so

absorbed he never heard the officer approach until the lieutenant

sharply hailed:



"Who's that on No. 4?"



"One of 'C' Company's fellers, sir," answered the watcher, coming to

his senses and attention at the instant. "Just down from Prescott, and

thinks he sees ghosts or Indians every minute. Nearly shot one of the

hounds a moment ago."



"You shouldn't put him on that post--"



"I didn't sir," was the prompt rejoinder. "'Twas the sergeant. He said

'twould do him good, but the man's really scared, lieutenant. Thought

I'd better stay near him a bit."



Across the black and desolate ruin of Blakely's quarters, and well out

on the northward mesa, they could dimly discern the form of the

unhappy sentry pacing uneasily along his lonely beat, pausing and

turning every moment as though fearful of crouching assailant. Even

among these veteran infantrymen left at Sandy, that northeast corner

had had an uncanny name ever since the night of Pat Mullins's

mysterious stabbing. Many a man would gladly have shunned sentry duty

at that point, but none dare confess to it. Partly as a precaution,

partly as protection to his sentries, the temporary commander had

early in the week sent out a big "fatigue" detail, with knives and

hatchets to slice away every clump of sage or greasewood that could

shelter a prowling Apache for a hundred yards out from the line. But

the man now on No. 4 was palpably nervous and distressed, in spite of

this fact. Truman watched him a moment in mingled compassion and

amusement, and was just turning aside to enter his open doorway when

the corporal held up a warning hand.



Through the muffling sand of the roadway in rear of the quarters, a

tall, dark figure was moving straight and swift toward the post of No.

4, and so far within that of No. 5 as to escape the latter's

challenge. The corporal sprung his rifle to the hollow of his arm and

started the next instant, sped noiselessly a few yards in pursuit,

then abruptly halted. "It's the major, sir," said he, embarrassed, as

Truman joined him again. "Gad, I hope No. 4 won't fire!"



Fire he did not, but his challenge came with a yell.

"W-whocomesthere?"--three words as one and that through chattering

teeth.



"Commanding officer," they heard Plume clearly answer, then in lower

tone, but distinctly rebukeful. "What on earth's the matter, No. 4?

You called off very badly. Anything disturbing you out here?"



The sentry's answer was a mumble of mingled confusion and distress.

How could he own to his post commander that he was scared? No. 5 now

was to be seen swiftly coming up the eastward front so as to be within

supporting or hearing distance--curiosity, not sympathy, impelling;

and so there were no less than five men, four of them old and tried

soldiers, all within fifty yards of the angle made by the two sentry

beats, all wide awake, yet not one of their number could later tell

just what started it. All on a sudden, down in Sudsville, down among

the southward quarters of the line, the hounds went rushing forth,

barking and baying excitedly, one and all heading for the brink of the

eastward mesa, yet halting short as though afraid to approach it

nearer, and then, darting up and down, barking, sniffing, challenging

angrily, they kept up their fierce alarm. Somebody or something was

out there in the darkness, perhaps at the very edge of the bluff, and

the dogs dare go no further. Even when the corporal, followed by No.

5, came running down the post, the hounds hung back, bristling and

savage, yet fearful. Corporal Foote cocked his rifle and went

crouching forward through the gloom, but the voice of the major was

heard:



"Don't go out there, corporal. Call for the guard," as he hurried in

to his quarters in search of his revolver. Truman by this time had run

for his own arms and together they reappeared on the post of No. 5, as

a sergeant, with half a dozen men, came panting from across the

parade, swift running to the scene.



"No. 4 would have it that there were Indians, or somebody skulking

about him when I was examining him a moment ago," said Plume

hurriedly. "Shut up, you brutes!" he yelled angrily at the nearest

hounds. "Scatter your men forward there, sergeant, and see if we can

find anything." Other men were coming, too, by this time, and a

lantern was dancing out from Doty's quarters. Byrne, pyjama-clad and

in slippered feet, shuffled out to join the party as the guard, with

rifles at ready, bored their way out to the front, the dogs still

suspiciously sniffing and growling. For a moment or two no explanation

offered. The noise was gradually quieting down. Then from far out to

the right front rose the shout: "Come here with that lantern!" and all

hands started at the sound.



Old Shaughnessy, saddler sergeant, was the first on the spot with a

light. All Sudsville seemed up and astir. Some of the women, even, had

begun to show at the narrow doorways. Corporal Foote and two of the

guard were bending over some object huddled in the sand. Together they

turned it over and tugged it into semblance of human shape, for the

thing had been shrouded in what proved to be a ragged cavalry blanket.

Senseless, yet feebly breathing and moaning, half-clad in tattered

skirt and a coarsely made camisa such as was worn by peon women of

the humblest class, with blood-stained bandages concealing much of the

face and head, a young Indian woman was lifted toward the light. A

soldier started on the run for Dr. Graham; another to the laundresses'

homes for water. Others, still, with the lanterns now coming flitting

down the low bluff, began searching through the sands for further

sign, and found it within the minute--sign of a shod horse and of

moccasined feet,--moccasins not of Tonto, but of Yuma make, said

Byrne, after a moment's survey.



Rough, yet tender, hands bore the poor creature to the nearest

shelter--Shaughnessy's quarters. Keen, eager eyes and bending forms

followed hoof and foot prints to the ford. Two Indians, evidently, had

lately issued, dripping, from the stream; one leading an eager horse,

for it had been dancing sidewise as they neared the post, the other,

probably sustaining the helpless burden on its back. Two Indians had

then re-entered the swift waters, almost at the point of emergence,

one leading a reluctant, resisting animal, for it had struggled and

plunged and set its fore feet against the effort. The other Indian had

probably mounted as they neared the brink. Already they must be a good

distance away on the other side, rendering pursuit probably useless.

Already the explanation of their coming was apparent. The woman had

been hurt or wounded when far from her tribe, and the Indians with her

were those who had learned the white man's ways, knew that he warred

not on women and would give this stricken creature care and comfort,

food and raiment and relieve them of all such trouble. It was easy to

account for their bringing her to Sandy and dropping her at the white

man's door, but how came they by a shod horse that knew the spot and

strove to break from them at the stables--strove hard against again

being driven away? Mrs. Shaughnessy, volubly haranguing all within

hearing as the searchers returned from the ford, was telling how she

was lying awake, worrin' about Norah and Pat Mullins and the boys that

had gone afield (owing her six weeks' wash) when she heard a dull

trampin' like and what sounded like horses' stifled squeal (doubtless

the leading Indian had gripped the nostrils to prevent the eager

neigh), and then, said she, all the dogs roused up and rushed out,

howling.



And then came a cry from within the humble doorway, where merciful

hands were ministering to the suffering savage, and Plume started at

the sound and glared at Byrne, and men stood hushed and startled and

amazed, for the voice was that of Norah and the words were strange

indeed:



"Fur the love of hivin, look what she had in her girdle! Shure it's

Leese's own scarf, I tell ye--the Frenchwoman at the major's!"



And Byrne thought it high time to enter and take possession.