The Meeting At Sandy

: An Apache Princess

December, and the noonday sun at Sandy still beat hotly on the barren

level of the parade. The fierce and sudden campaign seemed ended, for

the time, at least, as only in scattered remnants could the renegade

Indians be found. Eastward from the Agua Fria to the Chiquito, and

northward from the Salado to the very cliffs of the grand canon, the

hard-worked troopers had scoured the wild and mountainous country,

striking h rd whenever they found a hostile band, striving ever,

through interpreters and runners, to bring the nervous and suspicious

tribes to listen to reason and to return to their reservations. This

for long days, however, seemed impossible. The tragic death of Raven

Shield, most popular of the young chiefs, struck down, as they

claimed, when he was striving only to defend Natzie, daughter of a

revered leader, had stirred the savages to furious reprisals, and

nothing but the instant action of the troops in covering the valley

had saved the scattered settlers from universal massacre. Enough had

been done by one band alone to thrill the West with horror, but these

had fled southward into Mexico and were safe beyond the border. The

settlers were slowly creeping back now to their abandoned homes, and

one after another the little field detachments were marching to their

accustomed stations. Sandy was filling up again with something besides

the broken down and wounded.



First to come in was Stout's triumphant half hundred, the happiest

family of horse and foot, commingled, ever seen upon the Pacific

slope, for their proud lot it had been to reach and rescue Angela,

beloved daughter of the regiment, and Blakely, who had well-nigh

sacrificed himself in the effort to find and save her. Stout and his

thirty "doughboys," Brewster, the sergeant, with his twenty troopers,

had been welcomed by the entire community as the heroes of the brief

campaign, but Stout would none of their adulation.



"There is the one you should thank and bless," said he, his eyes

turning to where stood Natzie, sad and silent, watching the attendants

who were lifting Neil Blakely from the litter to the porch of the

commanding officer.



They had brought her in with them, Lola and Alchisay as well--the last

two scowling and sullen, but ruled by the chieftain's daughter. They

had loaded her with praise and thanks, but she paid no heed. Two hours

after Stout and his troopers had reached the cliff and driven away the

murderous band of renegades--Tontos and Apache Yumas--bent on stealing

her captives, there had come a little party of her own kindred in

answer to her signals, but these would have been much too late.

Blakely would have been butchered. Angela and her benefactors, too,

would probably have been the victims of their captors. Natzie could

look for no mercy from them now. Through Wales Arnold, the captain and

his men had little by little learned the story of Natzie's devotion.

In the eyes of her father, her brother, her people, Blakely was

greater even than the famous big chief, Crook, the Gray Fox, who had

left them, ordered to other duties but the year gone by. Blakely had

quickly righted the wrongs done them by a thieving agent. Blakely had

given fair trial to and saved the life of Mariano, that fiery brother,

who, ironed by the former agent's orders, had with his shackled hands

struck down his persecutor and then escaped. Blakely had won their

undying gratitude, and Stout and Arnold saw now why it was that one

young brave, at least, could not share the love his people bore for

Gran Capitan Blanco--that one was Quonothay--the Chief Raven Shield.

They saw now why poor Natzie had no heart to give her Indian lover.

They saw now why it was that Natzie wandered from the agency and

hovered for some days before the outbreak there around the post. It

was to be near the young white chief whom she well-nigh worshiped,

whom she had been accustomed to see every day of her life during his

duties at the agency. They saw now why it was the savage girl had

dared the vengeance of the Apaches by the rescue of Angela. She

believed her to be Blakely's sister, yet they could not give the

reason why. They knew very little of Neil Blakely, but what they did

know made them doubt that he could ever have been the one at fault.

Over this problem both ranchman and soldier, Arnold and Stout, looked

grave indeed. It was not like Blakely that he should make a victim of

this young Indian girl. She was barely sixteen, said Arnold, who knew

her people well. She had never been alone with Blakely, said her

kinsfolk, who came that night in answer to her signals. She had saved

Angela, believing her to be Blakely's own blood, had led her to her

own mountain refuge, and then, confident that Blakely would make

search for it and for his sister, had gone forth and found him,

already half-dazed with fever and exhaustion, and had striven to lead

his staggering horse up that precipitous trail. It was the poor

brute's last climb. Blakely she managed to bring in safety to her

lofty eerie. The horse had fallen, worn out in the effort, and died on

the rocks below. She had roused Angela with what she thought would be

joyful tidings, even though she saw that her hero was desperately ill.

She thought, of course, the white girl knew the few words of Spanish

that she could speak. All this was made evident to Arnold and Stout,

partly through Natzie's young brother, who had helped to find and

support the white chief, partly through the girl herself. It was

evident to Arnold, too, that up to the time of their coming nothing

had happened to undeceive Natzie as to that relationship. They tried

to induce her to return to the agency, although her father and brother

were still somewhere with the hostile bands, but she would not, she

would go with them to Sandy, and they could not deny her. More than

once on that rough march of three days they found themselves asking

what would the waking be. Angela, daughter of civilization, under safe

escort, had been sent on ahead, close following the courier who

scurried homeward with the news. Natzie, daughter of the wilderness,

could not be driven from the sight of Blakely's litter. The dumb,

patient, pathetic appeal of her great soft eyes, as she watched every

look in the doctor's face, was something wonderful to see. But now, at

last, the fevered sufferer was home, still only semi-conscious, being

borne within the walls of the major's quarters, and she who had saved

him, slaved for him, dared for him, could only mutely gaze after his

prostrate and wasted form as it disappeared within the darkened

hallway in the arms of his men. Then came a light step bounding along

the veranda--then came Angela, no longer clad in the riding garb in

which hitherto Natzie had seen her, but in cool and shimmering white,

with gladness and gratitude in her beautiful eyes, with welcome and

protection in her extended hand, and the Indian girl looked strangely

from her to the dark hallway within which her white hero had

disappeared, and shrank back from the proffered touch. If this was the

soldier's sister should not she now be at the soldier's side? Had she

other lodge than that which gave him shelter, now that his own was

burned? Angela saw for the first time aversion, question, suspicion in

the great black eyes from which the softness and the pleading had

suddenly fled. Then, rebuffed, disturbed, and troubled, she turned to

Arnold, who would gladly have slipped away.



"Can't you make her understand, Mr. Arnold?" she pleaded. "I don't

know a word of her language, and I so want to be her friend--so want

to take her to my home!"



And then the frontiersman did a thing for which, when she heard of it

one sunset later, his better half said words of him and to him that

overstepped all bounds of parliamentary usage, and that only a wife

would dare to employ. With the blundering stupidity of his sex, poor

Arnold "settled things" for many a day and well-nigh ruined the

sweetest romance that Sandy had ever seen the birth of.



"Ah, Miss Angela! only one place will ever be home to Natzie now. Her

eyes will tell you that."



And already, regardless of anything these women of the white chiefs

might think or say, unafraid save of seeing him no more, unashamed

save of being where she could not heed his every look or call or

gesture, the daughter of the mountain and the desert stood gazing

again after the vanished form her eyes long months had worshiped, and

the daughter of the schools and civilization stood flushing one-half

moment, then slowly paling, as, without another glance or effort, she

turned silently away. Kate Sanders it was who sprang quickly after her

and encircled the slender waist with her fond and clasping arm.



That night the powers of all Camp Sandy were exhausted in effort to

suitably provide for Natzie and her two companions. Mrs. Sanders, Mrs.

Bridger, even Mother Shaughnessy and Norah pleaded successively with

this princess of the wilderness, and pleaded in vain. Food and

shelter elsewhere they proffered in abundance. Natzie sat stubbornly

at the major's steps, and sadly at first, and angrily later, shook her

head to every proposition. Then they brought food, and Lola and

Alchisay ate greedily. Natzie would hardly taste a morsel. Every time

Plume or Graham or a soldier nurse came forth her mournful eyes would

study his face as though imploring news of the sufferer, who lay

unconscious of her vigil, if not of her existence. Graham's treatment

was beginning to tell, and Blakely was sleeping the sleep of the just.

They had not let him know of the poor girl's presence at the door.

They would not let her in for fear he might awake and see her, and ask

the reason of her coming. They would not send or take her away, for

all Sandy was alive with the strange story of her devotion. The

question on almost every lip was "How is this to end?"



At tattoo there came a Mexican woman from one of the down-stream

ranches, sent in by the post trader, who said she could speak the

Apache-Mohave language sufficiently well to make Natzie understand the

situation, and this frontier linguist strove earnestly. Natzie

understood every word she said, was her report, but could not be made

to understand that she ought to go. In the continued absence of Mrs.

Plume, both the major and the post surgeon had requested of Mrs.

Graham that she should come over for a while and "see what she could

do," and, leaving her own sturdy bairnies, the good, motherly soul had

come and presided over this diplomatic interview, proposing various

plans for Natzie's disposition for the night. And other ladies

hovering about had been sympathetically suggestive, but the Indian

girl had turned deaf ear to everything that would even temporarily

take her from her self-appointed station. At ten o'clock Mother

Shaughnessy, after hanging uneasily about the porch a moment or two,

gave muttered voice to a suggestion that other women had shrunk from

mentioning:



"Has she been tould Miss Angela and--him--is no kin at all, at all?"



"I don't want her told," said Mrs. Graham briefly.



And so Natzie was still there, sitting sleepless in the soft and

radiant moonlight, when toward twelve o'clock Graham came forth from

his last visit for the night, and she lifted up her head and looked

him dumbly in the face,--dumbly, yet imploring a word of hope or

comfort,--and it was more than the soft-hearted Scot could bear.

"Major," said he, as he gently laid a big hand upon the black and

tangled wealth of hair, "that lad in yonder would have been beyond the

ken of civilization days ago if it hadn't been for this little savage.

I'm thinking he'll sleep none the worse for her watching over him.

Todd's there for the night, the same that attended him before, and she

won't be strange with him--or I'm mistaken."



"Why?" asked Plume, mystified.



"I'm not saying, until Blakely talks for himself. For one reason I

don't know. For another, he's the man to tell, if anybody," and a

toss of the head toward the dark doorway told who was meant by "he."



"D'you mean you'd have this girl squatting there by Blakely's bedside

the rest of the night?" asked the commander, ruffled in spirit.

"What's to prevent her singing their confounded death song, or

invoking heathen spirits, or knifing us all, for that matter?"



"What was to prevent her from knifing the Bugologist and Angela both,

when she had 'em?" was the sturdy reply. "The girl's a theoretical

heathen, but a practical Christian. Come with us, Natzie," he

finished, one hand extended to aid her to rise, the other pointing to

the open doorway. She was on her feet in an instant, and, silently

signing her companions to stay, followed the doctor into the house.



And so it happened that when Blakely wakened, hours later, the sight

that met him, dimly comprehending, was that of a blue-coated soldier

snoozing in a reclining chair, a blue-blanketed Indian girl seated on

the floor near the foot of his bed, looking with all her soul in her

gaze straight into his wondering eyes. At his low whisper, "Natzie,"

she sprang to her feet without word or sound; seized the thin white

hand tremulously extended toward her, and, pillowing her cheek upon

it, knelt humbly by the bedside, her black hair streaming to the

floor. A pathetic picture it made in the dim light of the newborn day,

forcing itself through the shrouded windows, and Major Plume, restless

and astir the hour before reveille, stood unnoted a moment at the

doorway, then strode back through the hall and summoned from the

adjoining veranda another sleepless watcher, gratefully breathing the

fragrance of the cool, morning air; and presently two dim forms had

softly tiptoed to that open portal, and now stood gazing within until

their eyes should triumph over the uncertain light--the post commander

in his trim-fitting undress uniform, the tall and angular shape of

Wren's elderly sister--the "austere vestal" herself. It may have been

a mere twitch of the slim fingers under her tawny cheek that caused

Natzie to lift her eyes in search of those of her hero and her

protector. Instantly her own gaze, startled, was turned straight to

the door. Then in another second she had sprung to her feet, and with

fury in her face and attitude confronted the intruders. As she did so

the sudden movement detached some object that hung within the breast

of her loose-fitting sack--something bright and gleaming that

clattered to the floor, falling close to the feet of the drowsing

attendant, while another--a thin, circular case of soft leather,

half-rolled, half-bounded toward the unwelcome visitors at the door.



Todd, roused to instant action at sight of the post commander, bent

quickly and nabbed the first. The girl herself darted after the

second, whereat the attendant, misjudging her motive, dreading danger

to his betters or rebuke to himself, sprang upon her as she stooped,

and dropping his first prize, dared to seize the Apache girl with both

hands at the throat. There was a warning cry from the bed, a flash of

steel through one slanting ray of sunshine, a shriek from the lips of

Janet Wren, and with a stifled moan the luckless soldier sank in his

tracks, while Natzie, the chieftain's daughter, a dripping blade in

her uplifted hand, a veritable picture of fury, stood in savage

triumph over him, her flashing eyes fixed upon the amazed commander,

as though daring him, too, to lay hostile hands upon her.