The Meeting By The Waters

: An Apache Princess

Under the willows at the edge of the pool a young girl sat

daydreaming, though the day was nearly done. All in the valley was

wrapped in shadow, though the cliffs and turrets across the stream

were resplendent in a radiance of slanting sunshine. Not a cloud

tempered the fierce glare of the arching heavens or softened the sharp

outline of neighboring peak or distant mountain chain. Not a whisper

of breeze stirred the dr oping foliage along the sandy shores or

ruffled the liquid mirror surface. Not a sound, save drowsy hum of

beetle or soft murmur of rippling waters, among the pebbly shallows

below, broke the vast silence of the scene. The snow cap, gleaming at

the northern horizon, lay one hundred miles away and looked but an

easy one-day march. The black upheavals of the Matitzal, barring the

southward valley, stood sullen and frowning along the Verde, jealous

of the westward range that threw their rugged gorges into early shade.

Above and below the still and placid pool and but a few miles distant,

the pine-fringed, rocky hillsides came shouldering close to the

stream, but fell away, forming a deep, semicircular basin toward the

west, at the hub of which stood bolt-upright a tall, snowy flagstaff,

its shred of bunting hanging limp and lifeless from the peak, and in

the dull, dirt-colored buildings of adobe, ranged in rigid lines about

the dull brown, flat-topped mesa, a thousand yards up stream above

the pool, drowsed a little band of martial exiles, stationed here to

keep the peace 'twixt scattered settlers and swarthy, swarming

Apaches. The fort was their soldier home; the solitary girl a

soldier's daughter.



She could hardly have been eighteen. Her long, slim figure, in its

clinging riding habit, betrayed, despite roundness and supple grace, a

certain immaturity. Her hands and feet were long and slender. Her

sun-tanned cheek and neck were soft and rounded. Her mouth was

delicately chiseled and the lips were pink as the heart of a

Bridesmaid rose, but, being firmly closed, told no tale of the teeth

within, without a peep at which one knew not whether the beauty of the

sweet young face was really made or marred. Eyes, eyebrows, lashes,

and a wealth of tumbling tresses of rich golden brown were all superb,

but who could tell what might be the picture when she opened those

pretty, curving lips to speak or smile? Speak she did not, even to the

greyhounds stretched sprawling in the warm sands at her feet. Smile

she could not, for the young heart was sore troubled.



Back in the thick of the willows she had left her pony, blinking

lazily and switching his long tail to rid his flanks of humming

insects, but never mustering energy enough to stamp a hoof or strain

a thread of his horsehair riata. Both the long, lean, sprawling

hounds lolled their red, dripping tongues and panted in the sullen

heat. Even the girl herself, nervous at first and switching with her

dainty whip at the crumbling sands and pacing restlessly to and fro,

had yielded gradually to the drooping influences of the hour and,

seated on a rock, had buried her chin in the palm of her hand, and,

with eyes no longer vagrant and searching, had drifted away into

maiden dreamland. Full thirty minutes had she been there waiting for

something, or somebody, and it, or he, had not appeared.



Yet somebody else was there and close at hand. The shadow of the

westward heights had gradually risen to the crest of the rocky cliffs

across the stream. A soft, prolonged call of distant trumpet summoned

homeward, for the coming night, the scattered herds and herd guards of

the post, and, rising with a sigh of disappointment, the girl turned

toward her now impatient pony when her ear caught the sound of a

smothered hand-clap, and, whirling about in swift hope and surprise,

her face once more darkened at sight of an Indian girl, Apache

unquestionably, crouching in the leafy covert of the opposite willows

and pointing silently down stream. For a moment, without love or fear

in the eyes of either, the white girl and the brown gazed at each

other across the intervening water mirror and spoke no word. Then,

slowly, the former approached the brink, looked in the direction

indicated by the little dingy index and saw nothing to warrant the

recall. Moreover, she was annoyed to think that all this time,

perhaps, the Indian girl had been lurking in that sheltering grove and

stealthily watching her. Once more she turned away, this time with a

toss of her head that sent the russet-brown tresses tumbling about her

slim back and shoulders, and at once the hand-clap was repeated, low,

but imperative, and Tonto, the biggest of the two big hounds, uplifted

one ear and growled a challenge.



"What do you want?" questioned the white girl, across the estranging

waters.



For answer the brown girl placed her left forefinger on her lips, and

again distinctly pointed to a little clump of willows a dozen rods

below, but on the westward side.



"Do you mean--someone's coming?" queried the first.



"Sh-sh-sh!" answered the second softly, then pointed again, and

pointed eagerly.



The soldier's daughter glanced about her, uncertainly, a moment, then

slowly, cautiously made her way along the sandy brink in the direction

indicated, gathering the folds of her long skirt in her gauntleted

hand and stepping lightly in her slender moccasins. A moment or two,

and she had reached the edge of a dense little copse and peered

cautiously within. The Indian girl was right. Somebody lay there,

apparently asleep, and the fair young intruder recoiled in obvious

confusion, if not dismay. For a moment she stood with fluttering heart

and parting lips that now permitted reassuring glimpse of pearly

white teeth. For a moment she seemed on the verge of panicky retreat,

but little by little regained courage and self-poise. What was there

to fear in a sleeping soldier anyhow? She knew who it was at a glance.

She could, if she would, whisper his name. Indeed, she had been

whispering it many a time, day and night, these last two weeks

until--until certain things about him had come to her ears that made

her shrink in spite of herself from this handsome, petted young

soldier, this Adonis of her father's troop, Neil Blakely, lieutenant

of cavalry.



"The Bugologist," they called him in cardroom circles at the "store,"

where men were fiercely intolerant of other pursuits than poker, for

which pastime Mr. Blakely had no use whatever--no more use than had

its votaries for him. He was a dreamy sort of fellow, with big blue

eyes and a fair skin that were in themselves sufficient to stir the

rancor of born frontiersmen, and they of Arizona in the days of old

were an exaggeration of the type in general circulation on the Plains.

He was something of a dandy in dress, another thing they loathed;

something of a purist in speech, which was affectation unpardonable;

something of a dissenter as to drink, appreciative of "Cucumungo" and

claret, but distrustful of whisky--another thing to call down scorn

illimitable from the elect of the mining camps and packing "outfits."

But all these disqualifications might have been overlooked had the

lieutenant displayed even a faint preference for poker. "The Lord

loveth a cheerful giver--or loser" was the creed of the cardroom

circle at the store, but beyond a casual or smiling peep at the game

from the safe distance of the doorway, Mr. Blakely had vouchsafed no

interest in affairs of that character. To the profane disgust of Bill

Hyde, chief packer, and the malevolent, if veiled, criticism of

certain "sporty" fellow soldiers, Blakely preferred to spend his

leisure hours riding up and down the valley, with a butterfly net over

his shoulders and a japanned tin box slung at his back, searching for

specimens that were scarce as the Scriptures among his commentators.



Even on this hot October afternoon he had started on his entomological

work, but, finding little encouragement and resting a while in the

shade, he had dozed away on a sandy couch, his head on his arms, his

broad-brimmed hat over his face, his shapely legs outstretched in

lazy, luxurious enjoyment, his tall and slender form, arrayed in cool

white blouse and trousers, really a goodly thing to behold. This day,

too, he must have come afoot, but his net and box lay there beside

him, and his hunt had been without profit, for both were apparently

empty. Possibly he had devoted but little time to netting insects.

Possibly he had thought to encounter bigger game. If so his zest in

the sport must have been but languid, since he had so soon yielded to

the drowsy influences of the day. There was resentment in the heart of

the girl as this occurred to her, even though it would have angered

her the more had anyone suggested she had come in hope of seeing or

speaking with him.



And yet, down in the bottom of her heart, she knew that just such a

hope had held her there even to the hour of recall. She knew that,

since opportunities for meeting him within the garrison were limited,

she had deliberately chosen to ride alone, and farther than she had

ever ridden alone before, in hope of meeting him without. She knew

that in the pursuit of his winged prey he never sought the open mesa

or the ravines and gorges of the foothills. Only along the stream were

they--and he--to be found. Only along the stream, therefore, had she

this day ridden and, failing to see aught of him, had dismounted to

think in quiet by the pool, so she told herself, but incidentally to

wait and watch for him; and now she had found him, neither watching

nor waiting, but in placid unconcern and slumber.



One reason why they met so seldom in garrison was that her father did

not like him in the least. The captain was a veteran soldier,

self-taught and widely honored, risen from the ranks. The lieutenant

was a man of gentle breeding and of college education, a soldier by

choice, or caprice, yet quite able at any time to quit the service and

live a life of ease, for he had, they said, abundant means of his own.

He had been first lieutenant of that troop at least five years, not

five months of which had he served on duty with it. First one general,

then another, had needed him as aide-de-camp, and when, on his own

application, he had been relieved from staff duty to enable him to

accompany his regiment to this then distant and inhospitable land, he

had little more than reached Camp Sandy when he was sent by the

department commander to investigate some irregularity at the Apache

reservation up the valley, and then, all unsoliciting, he had been

placed in charge pending the coming of a new agent to replace the

impeached one going home under guard, and the captain said things

about his subaltern's always seeking "fancy duty" that were natural,

yet unjust--things that reached Mr. Blakely in exaggerated form, and

that angered him against his senior to the extent of open rupture.

Then Blakely took the mountain fever at the agency, thereby still

further delaying his return to troop duty, and then began another

complication, for the contract doctor, though skillful in his

treatment, was less assiduous in nursing than were the wife of the

newly arrived agent and her young companion Lola, daughter of the

agency interpreter and his Apache-Yuma wife.



When well enough to attempt light duty again, the lieutenant had

rejoined at Sandy, and, almost the first face to greet him on his

arrival was one he had never seen before and never forgot

thereafter--the sweet, laughing, winsome face of Angela Wren, his

captain's only child.



The regiment had marched into Arizona overland, few of the wives and

daughters with it. Angela, motherless since her seventh year, was at

school in the distant East, together with the daughters of the colonel

then commanding the regiment. They were older; were "finishing" that

summer, and had amazed that distinguished officer by demanding to be

allowed to join him with their mother. When they left the school

Angela could stand it no longer. She both telegraphed and wrote,

begging piteously to be permitted to accompany them on the long

journey by way of San Francisco, and so it had finally been settled.

The colonel's household were now at regimental headquarters up at

Prescott, and Angela was quite happy at Camp Sandy. She had been there

barely four weeks when Neil Blakely, pale, fragile-looking, and still

far from strong, went to report for duty at his captain's quarters and

was met at the threshold by his captain's daughter.



Expecting a girl friend, Kate Sanders, from "down the row," she had

rushed to welcome her, and well-nigh precipitated herself upon a

stranger in the natty undress uniform of the cavalry. Her instant

blush was something beautiful to see. Blakely said the proper things

to restore tranquillity; smilingly asked for her father, his captain;

and, while waiting for that warrior to finish shaving and come down to

receive him, was entertained by Miss Wren in the little army parlor.

Looking into her wondrous eyes and happy, blushing face, he forgot

that there was rancor between his troop commander and himself, until

the captain's stiff, unbending greeting reminded him. Thoughtless

people at the post, however, were laughing over the situation a week

thereafter. Neil Blakely, a squire of dames in San Francisco and other

cities when serving on staff duty, a society "swell" and clubman, had

obviously become deeply interested in this blithe young army girl,

without a cent to her name--with nothing but her beauty, native grace,

and sweet, sunshiny nature to commend her. And everyone hitherto had

said Neil Blakely would never marry in the army.



And there was one woman at Sandy who saw the symptoms with jealous and

jaundiced eyes--Clarice, wife of the major then commanding the little

"four-company" garrison. Other women took much to heart the fact that

Major Plume had cordially invited Blakely, on his return from the

agency, to be their guest until he could get settled in his own

quarters. The Plumes had rooms to spare--and no children. The major was

twelve years older than his wife, but women said it often looked the

other way. Mrs. Plume had aged very rapidly after his sojourn on

recruiting duty in St. Louis. Frontier commissariat and cooking played

hob with her digestion, said the major. Frontier winds and water dealt

havoc to her complexion, said the women. But both complexion and

digestion seemed to "take a brace," as irreverent youth expressed it,

when Neil Blakely came to Sandy and the major's roof. True, he stayed

but six and thirty hours and then moved into his own domicile--quarters

No. 7--after moving out a most reluctant junior. Major Plume and Mrs.

Plume had expected him, they were so kind as to say, to choose a vacant

half set, excellent for bachelor purposes, under the roof that sheltered

Captain Wren, Captain Wren's maiden sister and housekeeper, and Angela,

the captain's daughter. This set adjoined the major's big central house,

its south windows looking into the major's north gallery. "It would be

so neighborly and nice," said Mrs. Plume. Instead, however, Mr. Blakely

stood upon his prerogative as a senior subaltern and "ranked out" Mr.

and Mrs. Bridger and baby, and these otherwise gentle folk, evicted and

aggrieved, knowing naught of Blakely from previous association, and

seeing no reason why he should wish to be at the far end of the row

instead of the middle, with his captain, where he properly belonged,

deemed themselves the objects of wanton and capricious treatment at his

hands, and resented it according to their opportunities. Bridger, being

a soldier and subordinate, had to take it out in soliloquy and

swear-words, but his impetuous little helpmate--being a woman, a wife

and mother, set both wits and tongue to work, and heaven help the man

when woman has both to turn upon him! In refusing the room and windows

that looked full-face into those of Mrs. Plume, Blakely had nettled her.

In selecting the quarters occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Bridger he had

slightly inconvenienced and sorely vexed the latter. With no

incumbrances whatever, with fine professional record, with personal

traits and reputation to make him enviable, with comparative wealth and,

as a rule, superlative health, Blakely started on his career as a

subaltern at Sandy with three serious handicaps,--the disfavor of his

captain, who knew and loved him little,--the prejudice of Mrs. Bridger,

who knew and loved him not at all,--and the jealous pique of Mrs. Plume,

who had known and loved him, possibly, too well.



There was little duty doing at Sandy at the time whereof we write. Men

rose at dawn and sent the horses forth to graze all day in the

foothills under heavy guard. It was too hot for drills, with the

mercury sizzling at the hundred mark. Indian prisoners did the

"police" work about the post; and men and women dozed and wilted in

the shade until the late afternoon recall. Then Sandy woke up and

energetically stabled, drilled, paraded under arms at sunset, mounted

guard immediately thereafter, dined in spotless white; then rode,

drove, flirted, danced, gossiped, made mirth, melody, or monotonous

plaint till nearly midnight; then slept until the dawn of another day.



Indians there were in the wilds of the Mogollon to the southeast, and,

sometimes at rare intervals straying from the big reservation up the

valley, they scared the scattered settlers of the Agua Fria and the

Hassayampa; but Sandy rarely knew of them except as prisoners. Not a

hostile shot had been fired in the surrounding mountains for at least

six months, so nobody felt the least alarm, and many only languid

interest, when the white-coated officers reported the result of sunset

roll-call and inspection, and, saluting Major Plume, the captain of

"C" Troop announced in tones he meant should be heard along the row:

"Mr. Blakely, sir, is absent!"