Rescue Requited

: An Apache Princess

A change had come over the spirit of Camp Sandy's dream. The garrison

that had gone to bed the previous night, leaving Natzie silent,

watchful, wistful at the post commander's door, had hardly a thought

that was not full of sympathy and admiration for her. Even women who

could not find it possible to speak of her probable relations with

Neil Blakely dwelt much in thought and word upon her superb devotion

and her genero ity. That he had encouraged her passionate and almost

savage love for him there were few to doubt, whatsoever they might

find it possible to say. That men and women both regarded her as,

beyond compare, the heroic figure of the campaign there was none to

gainsay. Even those who could not or did not talk of her at all felt

that such was the garrison verdict. There were no men, and but few

women, who would have condemned the doctor's act in leading her to

Blakely's bedside. Sandy had spoken of her all that wonderful evening

only to praise. It woke to hear the first tidings of the new day, and

to ask only What was the cause?--What had led to her wild, swift

vengeance? for Todd had in turn been carried to hospital, a

sore-stricken man. The night before Natzie was held a queen: now she

was held a captive.



It all happened so suddenly that even Plume, who witnessed the entire

incident, could not coherently explain it. Reveille was just over and

the men were going to breakfast when the major's voice was heard

shouting for the guard. Graham, first man to reach the scene, had

collided with Janet Wren, whimpering and unnerved, as he bounded into

the hallway. His first thought was that Plume's prophecy about the

knifing had come true, and that Blakely was the victim. His first

sight, when his eyes could do their office in that darkened room, was

of Blakely wresting something from the grasp of the Indian girl, whose

gaze was now riveted on that writhing object on the floor.



"See to him, doctor," he heard Blakely say, in feeble, but commanding

tone. "I will see to her." But Blakely was soon in no condition to see

to her or to anybody. The flicker of strength that came to him for a

second or two at sight of the tragedy, left him as suddenly--left him

feebler than before. He had no voice with which to protest when the

stretchermen, who bore away poor Todd, were followed instantly by

stout guardsmen who bore away Natzie. The dignity of the chieftain's

daughter had vanished now. She had no knife with which to deal death

to these new and most reluctant assailants--Graham found it under

Blakely's pillow, long hours later. But, with all her savage, lissome

strength she scratched and struck and struggled. It took three of

their burliest to carry her away, and they did it with shame-hidden

faces, while rude comrades chaffed and jeered and even shouted

laughing encouragement to the girl, whose screams of rage had drawn

all Camp Sandy to the scene. One doctor, two men, and the steward went

with their groaning burden one way to the hospital. One officer, one

sergeant, and half a dozen men had all they could do to take their

raging charge another way to the guard-house. Ah, Plume, you might

have spared that brave girl such indignity! But, where one face

followed the wounded man with sympathetic eyes, there were twenty that

never turned from the Indian girl until her screams were deadened by

the prison doors.



"She stabbed a soldier who meant her no harm," was Plume's sullen and

stubborn answer to all appeals, for good and gentle women went to him,

begging permission to go to her. It angered him presently to the

extent of repeating his words with needless emphasis and additions

when Mother Shaughnessy came to make her special appeal. Shure she had

learned how to care for these poor creatures, was her claim, along o'

having little Paquita on her hands so many days, "and now that poor

girl beyant will be screaming herself into fits!"



"Let her scream," said Plume, unstrung and shaken, "but hold you your

tongue or I'll find a separate cell for you. No woman shall be knifing

my men, and go unpunished, if I can help it," and so saying he turned

wrathfully from her.



"Heard you that now?" stormed Mother Shaughnessy, as he strode away.

"Who but he has helped his women to go unpunished--" and the words

were out and heard before the sergeant major could spring and silence

her. Before another day they were echoing all over the post--were on

their way to Prescott, even, and meeting, almost at the northward

gateway, the very women the raging laundress meant. Of her own free

will Clarice Plume was once again at Sandy, bringing with her, sorely

against the will of either, but because a stronger will would have it

so--and sent his guards to see to it--a cowed and scared and

semi-silent companion of whom much ill was spoken now about the

garrison--Elise Lebrun.



The news threw Norah Shaughnessy nearly into spasms. "'Twas she that

knifed Pat Mullins!" she cried. "'Twas she drove poor Downs to dhrink

and desartion. 'Twas she set Carmody and Shannon to cuttin' each

other's throats"--which was news to a garrison that had seen the

process extend no further than to each other's acquaintance. And more

and stormier words the girl went on to say concerning the commander's

household until Mullins himself mildly interposed. But all these

things were being told about the garrison, from which Lola and

Alchisay had fled in terror to spread the tidings that their princess

was a prisoner behind the bars. These were things that were being

told, too, to the men of Sanders's returning troop before they were

fairly unsaddled at the stables; and that night, before ever he sought

his soldier pillow, Shannon had been to "C" Troop's quarters in search

of Trooper Stern and had wrung from him all that he could tell of

Carmody's last fight on earth--of his last words to Lieutenant

Blakely.



Meantime a sorely troubled man was Major Plume. That his wife would

have to return to Sandy he had learned from the lips of Colonel Byrne

himself. Her own good name had been involved, and could only be

completely cleared when Wren and Blakely were sufficiently recovered

to testify, and when Mullins should be so thoroughly restored as to be

fit for close cross-examination. Plume could in no wise connect his

beloved wife with either the murderous assault on Mullins or the

mysterious firing of Blakely's quarters, but he knew that Sandy could

not so readily acquit her, even though it might saddle the actual deed

upon her instrument--Elise. He had ordered that Blakely should be

brought to his own quarters because there he could not be reached by

any who were unacceptable to himself, the post commander. There were

many things he wished to know about and from Blakely's lips alone. He

could not stoop to talk with other men about the foibles of his wife.

He knew that iron box in Truman's care contained papers, letters, or

something of deep interest to her. He knew full well now that, at

some time in the not far distant past, Blakely himself had been of

deep interest to her and she to Blakely. He had Blakely's last letter

to himself, written just before the lonely start in quest of Angela,

but that letter made no reference to the contents of the box or to

anything concerning their past. He had heard that Wales Arnold had

been intrusted with letters for Blakely to Clarice, his wife, and to

Captain, or Miss Janet Wren. Arnold had not been entirely silent on

the subject. He did not too much like the major, and rather rejoiced

in this opportunity to show his independence of him. Plume had gone so

far as to ask Arnold whether such letters had been intrusted to him,

and Wales said, yes; but, now that Blakely was safely back and

probably going to pull through, he should return the letters to the

writer as soon as the writer was well enough to appreciate what was

being done. Last, but not least, Plume had picked up near the door in

Blakely's room the circular, nearly flat, leather-covered case which

had dropped, apparently, from Natzie's gown, and, as it had neither

lock nor latch, Plume had opened it to examine its contents.



To his surprise it contained a beautifully executed miniature, a

likeness of a fair young girl, with soft blue eyes and heavy, arching

brows, a delicately molded face and mouth and chin, all framed in a

tumbling mass of tawny hair. It was the face of a child of twelve or

thirteen, one that he had never seen and of whom he knew nothing.

Neither cover, backing, nor case of the miniature gave the faintest

clew as to its original or as to its ownership. What was Natzie doing

with this?--and to whom did it belong? A little study satisfied him

there was something familiar in the face, yet he could not place it.



The very night of her coming, therefore, he told his wife the story

and handed her the portrait. One glance was enough. "I know it, yes,"

said Mrs. Plume, "though I, too, have never seen her. She died the

winter after it was taken. It is Mr. Blakely's sister, Ethel," and

Mrs. Plume sat gazing at the sweet girl features, with strange

emotion in her aging face. There was something--some story--behind all

this that Plume could not fathom, and it nettled him. Perhaps he, too,

was yielding to a fit of nerves. Elise, the maid, had been remanded to

her room, and could be heard moving about with heavy, yet uncertain

tread. "She is right over Blakely," quoth the major impatiently. "Why

can't the girl be quiet?"



"Why did you bring him here, then?" was the weary answer. "I cannot

control Elise. They have treated her most cruelly."



"There are things you cannot explain and that she must," said he, and

then, to change the subject, stretched forth his hand to take again

the picture. She drew it back one moment, then, remembering,

surrendered it.



"You saw this in--St. Louis, I suppose," said he awkwardly. He never

could bear to refer to those days--the days before he had come into

her life.



"Not that perhaps, but the photograph from which it was probably

painted. She was his only sister. He was educating her in the East."

And again her thoughts were drifting back to those St. Louis days,

when, but for the girl sister he so loved, she and Neil Blakely had

been well-nigh inseparable. Someone had said then, she remembered,

that she was jealous even of that love.



And now again her husband was gazing fixedly at the portrait, a light

coming into his lined and anxious face. Blakely had always carried

this miniature with him, for he now remembered that the agent, Daly,

had spoken of it. Natzie and others might well have seen it at the

reservation. The agent's wife had often seen it and had spoken of his

sorrow for the sister he had lost. The picture, she said, stood often

on his little camp table. Every Indian who entered his tent knew it

and saw it. Why, surely; Natzie, too, mused the major, and then aloud:



"I can see now what we have all been puzzling over. Angela Wren might

well have looked like this--four years ago."



"There is not the faintest resemblance," said Clarice, promptly rising

and quitting the room.



It developed with another day that Mrs. Plume had no desire to see

Miss Wren, the younger. She expressed none, indeed, when policy and

the manners of good society really required it. Miss Janet had come in

with Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Sanders to call upon the wife of the

commanding officer and say what words of welcome were possible as

appropriate to her return. "And Angela," said Janet, for reasons of

her own, "will be coming later." There was no response, nor was there

to the next tentative. The ladies thought Mrs. Plume should join

forces with them and take Natzie out of the single cell she occupied.

"Can she not be locked at the hospital, under the eye of the matron,

with double sentries? It is hard to think of her barred in that

hideous place with Apache prisoners and rude men all about her." But

again was Mrs. Plume unresponsive. She would say no word of interest

in either Angela or Natzie. At the moment when her husband was in

melting mood and when a hint from her lips would have secured the

partial release of the Indian girl, the hint was withheld. It would

have been better for her, for her husband, for more than one brave lad

on guard, had the major's wife seen fit to speak, but she would not.



So that evening brought release that, in itself, brought much relief

to the commanding officer and the friends who still stood by him.



Thirty-six hours now had Natzie been a prisoner behind the bars, and

no one of those we know had seen her face. At tattoo the drums and

fifes began their sweet, old-fashioned soldier tunes. The guard turned

out; the officer of the day buckled his belt with a sigh and started

forth to inspect, just as the foremost soldiers appeared on the porch

in front, buttoning their coats and adjusting their belts and slings.

Half their number began to form ranks; the other half "stood by,"

within the main room, to pass out the prisoners, many of whom wore a

clanking chain. All on a sudden there arose a wild clamor--shouts,

scuffling, the thunder of iron upon resounding woodwork, hoarse

orders, curses, shrieks, a yell for help, a shot, a mad scurry of many

feet, furious cries of "Head 'em off!" "Shoot!" "No, no, don't shoot!

You'll kill our own!" A dim cloud of ghostly, shadowy forms went

tearing away down the slope toward the south. There followed a

tremendous rush of troop after troop, company after company,--the

whole force of Camp Sandy in uproarious pursuit,--until in the dim

starlight the barren flats below the post, the willow patches along

the stream, the plashing waters of the ford, the still and glassy

surface of the shadowy pool, were speedily all alive with dark and

darting forms intermingled in odd confusion. From the eastward side,

from officers' row, Plume and his white-coated subordinates hastened

to the southward face, realizing instantly what must have

occurred--the long-prophesied rush of Apache prisoners for freedom.

Yet how hopeless, how mad, how utterly absurd was the effort! What

earthly chance had they--poor, manacled, shackled, ball-burdened

wretches--to escape from two hundred fleet-footed, unhampered,

stalwart young soldiery, rejoicing really in the fun and excitement of

the thing? One after another the shackled fugitives were run down and

overhauled, some not half across the parade, some in the shadows of

the office and storehouses, some down among the shrubbery toward the

lighted store, some among the shanties of Sudsville, some, lightest

weighted of all, far away as the lower pool, and so one after another,

the grimy, sullen, swarthy lot were slowly lugged back to the unsavory

precincts wherein, for long weeks and months, they had slept or

stealthily communed through the hours of the night. Three or four had

been cut or slashed. Three or four soldiers had serious hurts,

scratches or bruises as their fruits of the affray. But after all, the

malefactors, miscreants, and incorrigibles of the Apache tribe had

profited little by their wild and defiant essay--profited little, that

is, if personal freedom was what they sought.



But was it? said wise heads of the garrison, as they looked the

situation over. Shannon and some of his ilk were doing much

independent trailing by aid of their lanterns. Taps should have been

sounded at ten, but wasn't by any means, for "lights out" was the last

thing to be thought of. Little by little it dawned upon Plume and his

supporters that, instead of scattering, as Indian tactics demanded on

all previous exploits of the kind, there had been one grand, concerted

rush to the southward--planned, doubtless, for the purpose of drawing

the whole garrison thither in pursuit, while three pairs of moccasined

feet slipped swiftly around to the rear of the guard-house, out beyond

the dim corrals, and around to a point back of "C" Troop stables,

where other little hoofs had been impatiently tossing up the sands

until suddenly loosed and sent bounding away to where the North Star

hung low over the sheeny white mantle of San Francisco mountain.

Natzie, the girl queen, was gone from the guard-house: Punch, the Lady

Angela's pet pony, was gone from the corral, and who would say there

had not been collusion?



"One thing is certain," said the grave-faced post commander, as, with

his officers, he left the knot of troopers and troopers' wives

hovering late about the guard-house, "one thing is certain; with

Wren's own troopers hot on the heels of Angela's pony we'll have our

Apache princess back, sure as the morning sun."



"Like hell!" said Mother Shaughnessy.