Moccasin Tracks

: An Apache Princess

When Mr. Blakely left the post that afternoon he went afoot. When he

returned, just after the sounding of retreat, he came in saddle.

Purposely he avoided the road that led in front of the long line of

officers' quarters and chose instead the water-wagon track along the

rear. People among the laundresses' quarters, south of the mesa on

which stood the quadrangular inclosure of Camp Sandy, eyed him

curiously as he amble through on his borrowed pony; but he looked

neither to right nor left and hurried on in obvious discomposure. He

was looking pale and very tired, said the saddler sergeant's wife, an

hour later, when all the garrison was agog with the story of Wren's

mad assault. He never seemed to see the two or three soldiers, men of

family, who rose and saluted as he passed, and not an officer in the

regiment was more exact or scrupulous in his recognition of such

soldier courtesy as Blakely had ever been. They wondered, therefore,

at his strange abstraction. They wondered more, looking after him,

when, just as his stumbling pony reached the crest, the rider reined

him in and halted short in evident embarrassment. They could not see

what he saw--two young girls in gossamer gowns of white, with arms

entwining each other's waists, their backs toward him, slowly pacing

northward up the mesa and to the right of the road. Some old croquet

arches, balls, and mallets lay scattered about, long since abandoned

to dry rot and disuse, and, so absorbed were the damsels in their

confidential chat,--bubbling over, too, with merry laughter,--they

gave no heed to these until one, the taller of the pair, catching her

slippered foot in the stiff, unyielding wire, plunged forward and

fell, nearly dragging her companion with her. Blakely, who had hung

back, drove his barbless heels into the pony's flanks, sent him

lurching forward, and in less than no time was out of saddle and

aiding her to rise, laughing so hard she, for a moment, could not

speak or thank him. Save to flowing skirt, there was not the faintest

damage, yet his eyes, his voice, his almost tremulous touch were all

suggestive of deep concern, before, once more mounting, he raised his

broad-brimmed hat and bade them reluctant good-night. Kate Sanders ran

scurrying home an instant later, but Angela's big and shining eyes

followed him every inch of the way until he once more dismounted at

the upper end of the row and, looking back, saw her and waved his hat,

whereat she ran, blushing, smiling, and not a little wondering,

flustered and happy, into the gallery of their own quarters and the

immediate presence of her father. Blakely, meanwhile, had summoned his

servant:



"Take this pony at once to Mr. Hart," said he, "and say I'll be back

again as soon as I've seen the commanding officer."



When Downs, the messenger, returned to the house about half an hour

later, it was to find his master prostrate and bleeding on the bed in

his room, Dr. Graham and the hospital attendant working over him, the

major and certain of his officers, with gloomy faces and muttering

tongues, conferring on the piazza in front, and one of the

lieutenant's precious cases of bugs and butterflies a wreck of

shattered glass. More than half the officers of the post were present.

A bevy of women and girls had gathered in the dusk some distance down

the row. The wondering Milesian whispered inquiry of silent soldiers

lingering about the house, but the gruff voice of Sergeant Clancy bade

them go about their business. Not until nearly an hour later was it

generally known that Captain Wren had been escorted to his quarters by

the post adjutant and ordered to remain therein in close arrest.



If some older and more experienced officer than Duane had been there

perhaps the matter would not have proved so tragic, but the latter was

utterly unstrung by Wren's furious attack and the unlooked-for result.

Without warning of any kind, the burly Scot had launched his big fist

straight at Blakely's jaw, and sent the slender, still fever-weakened

form crashing through a case of specimens, reducing it to splinters

that cruelly cut and tore the bruised and senseless face. A corporal

of the guard, marching his relief in rear of the quarters at the

moment, every door and window being open, heard the crash, the wild

cry for help, rushed in, with his men at his heels, and found the

captain standing stunned and ghastly, with the sweat starting from his

brow, staring down at the result of his fearful work. From the front

Captain Sanders and his amazed lieutenant came hurrying. Together they

lifted the stricken and bleeding man to his bed in the back room and

started a soldier for the doctor on the run. The sight of this man,

speeding down the row, bombarded all the way with questions he could

not stop to answer, startled every soul along that westward-facing

front, and sent men and women streaming up the line toward Blakely's

quarters at the north end. The doctor fairly brushed them from his

path and Major Plume had no easy task persuading the tearful, pallid

groups of army wives and daughters to retire to the neighboring

quarters. Janet Wren alone refused point-blank. She would not go

without first seeing her brother. It was she who took the arm of the

awed, bewildered, shame-and conscience-stricken man and led him, with

bowed and humbled head, the adjutant aiding on the other side, back to

the door he had so sternly closed upon his only child, and that now as

summarily shut on him. Dr. Graham had pronounced the young officer's

injuries serious, and the post commander was angry to the very core.



One woman there was who, with others, had aimlessly hastened up the

line, and who seemed now verging on hysterics--the major's wife. It

was Mrs. Graham who rebukefully sent her own braw young brood

scurrying homeward through the gathering dusk, and then possessed

herself of Mrs. Plume. "The shock has unnerved you," she charitably,

soothingly whispered: "Come away with me," but the major's wife

refused to go. Hart, the big post trader, had just reached the spot,

driving up in his light buckboard. His usually jovial face was full of

sympathy and trouble. He could not believe the news, he said. Mr.

Blakely had been with him so short a time beforehand and was coming

down again at once, so Downs, the striker, told him, when some soldier

ran in to say the lieutenant had been half killed by Captain Wren.

Plume heard him talking and came down the low steps to meet and confer

with him, while the others, men and women, listened eagerly, expectant

of developments. Then Hart became visibly embarrassed. Yes, Mr.

Blakely had come up from below and begged the loan of a pony, saying

he must get to the post at once to see Major Plume. Hadn't he seen the

major? No! Then Hart's embarrassment increased. Yes, something had

happened. Blakely had told him, and in fact they--he--all of them had

something very important on hand. He didn't know what to do now, with

Mr. Blakely unable to speak, and, to the manifest disappointment of

the swift-gathering group, Hart finally begged the major to step aside

with him a moment and he would tell him what he knew. All eyes

followed them, then followed the major as he came hurrying back with

heightened color and went straight to Dr. Graham at the sufferer's

side. "Can I speak with him? Is he well enough to answer a question or

two?" he asked, and the doctor shook his head. "Then, by the Lord,

I'll have to wire to Prescott!" said Plume, and left the room at

once. "What is it?" feebly queried the patient, now half-conscious.

But the doctor answered only "Hush! No talking now, Mr. Blakely," and

bade the others leave the room and let him get to sleep.



But tattoo had not sounded that still and starlit evening when a

strange story was in circulation about the post, brought up from the

trader's store by pack-train hands who said they were there when Mr.

Blakely came in and asked for Hart--"wanted him right away, bad," was

the way they put it. Then it transpired that Mr. Blakely had found no

sport at bug-hunting and had fallen into a doze while waiting for

winged insects, and when he woke it was to make a startling

discovery--his beautiful Geneva watch had disappeared from one pocket

and a flat note case, carried in an inner breast pocket of his white

duck blouse, and containing about one hundred dollars, was also gone.

Some vagrant soldier, possibly, or some "hard-luck outfit" of

prospectors, probably, had come upon him sleeping, and had made way

with his few valuables. Two soldiers had been down stream, fishing for

what they called Tonto trout, but they were looked up instantly and

proved to be men above suspicion. Two prospectors had been at Hart's,

nooning, and had ridden off down stream toward three o'clock. There

was a clew worth following, and certain hangers-on about the trader's,

"layin' fer a job," had casually hinted at the prospect of a game down

at Snicker's--a ranch five miles below. Here, too, was something worth

investigating. If Blakely had been robbed, as now seemed more than

likely, Camp Sandy felt that the perpetrator must still be close at

hand and of the packer or prospector class.



But before the ranks were broken, after the roll-call, then invariably

held at half-past nine, Hart came driving back in a buckboard, with a

lantern and a passenger, the latter one of the keenest trailers among

the sergeants of Captain Sanders' troop, and Sanders was with the

major as the man sprang from the wagon and stood at salute.



"Found anything, sergeant?" asked Plume.



"Not a boot track, sir, but the lieutenant's own."



"No tracks at all--in that soft sand!" exclaimed the major,

disappointed and unbelieving. His wife had come slowly forward from

within doors, and, bending slightly toward them, stood listening.



"No boot tracks, sir. There's others though--Tonto moccasins!"



Plume stood bewildered. "By Jove! I never thought of that!" said he,

turning presently on his second troop commander. "But who ever heard

of Apaches taking a man's watch and leaving--him?"



"If the major will look," said the sergeant, quietly producing a

scouting notebook such as was then issued by the engineer department,

"I measured 'em and made rough copies here. There was two, sir. Both

came, both went, by the path through the willows up stream. We didn't

have time to follow. One is longer and slimmer than the other. If I

may make so bold, sir, I'd have a guard down there to-night to keep

people away; otherwise the tracks may be spoiled before morning."



"Take three men and go yourself," said the major promptly. "See

anything of any of the lieutenant's property? Mr. Hart told you,

didn't he?" Plume was studying the sergeant's pencil sketches, by the

light of the trader's lantern, as he spoke, a curious, puzzled look on

his soldierly face.



"Saw where the box had lain in the sand, sir, but no trace of the

net," and Sergeant Shannon was thinking less of these matters than of

his sketches. There was something he thought the major ought to see,

and presently he saw.



"Why, sergeant, these may be Tonto moccasin tracks, but not grown

men's. They are mere boys, aren't they?"



"Mere girls, sir."



There was a sound of rustling skirts upon the bare piazza. Plume

glanced impatiently over his shoulder. Mrs. Plume had vanished into

the unlighted hallway.



"That would account for their taking the net," said he thoughtfully,

"but what on earth would the guileless Tonto maiden do with a watch or

with greenbacks? They wouldn't dare show with them at the agency! How

far did you follow the tracks?"



"Only a rod or two. Once in the willows they can't well quit them till

they reach the shallows above the pool, sir. We can guard there

to-night and begin trailing at dawn."



"So be it then!" and presently the conference closed.



Seated on the adjoining gallery, alone and in darkness, stricken and

sorrowing, a woman had been silently observant of the meeting, and

had heard occasional snatches of the talk. Presently she rose; softly

entered the house and listened at a closed door on the northward

side--Captain Wren's own room. An hour previous, tortured between his

own thoughts and her well-meant, but unwelcome efforts to cheer him,

he had begged to be left alone, and had closed his door against all

comers.



Now, she as softly ascended the narrow stairway and paused for a

moment at another door, also closed. Listening a while, she knocked,

timidly, hesitatingly, but no answer came. After a while, noiselessly,

she turned the knob and entered.



A dim light was burning on a little table by the white bedside. A

long, slim figure, white-robed and in all the abandon of girlish

grief, was lying, face downward, on the bed. Tangled masses of hair

concealed much of the neck and shoulders, but, bending over, Miss Wren

could partially see the flushed and tear-wet cheek pillowed on one

slender white arm. Exhausted by long weeping, Angela at last had

dropped to sleep, but the little hand that peeped from under the

thick, tumbling tresses still clung to an odd and unfamiliar

object--something the older woman had seen only at a distance

before--something she gazed at in startled fascination this strange

and solemn night--a slender, long-handled butterfly net of filmy

gauze.