The Worst Man In The Troop

: Starlight Ranch

Just why that young Irishman should have been so balefully branded was

more than the first lieutenant of the troop could understand. To be

sure, the lieutenant's opportunities for observation had been limited.

He had spent some years on detached service in the East, and had joined

his comrades in Arizona but a fortnight ago, and here he was already

becoming rapidly initiated in the science of scouting through

mountain- ilds against the wariest and most treacherous of foemen,--the

Apaches of our Southwestern territory.



Coming, as he had done, direct from a station and duties where

full-dress uniform, lavish expenditure for kid gloves, bouquets, and

Lubin's extracts were matters of daily fact, it must be admitted that

the sensations he experienced on seeing his detachment equipped for the

scout were those of mild consternation. That much latitude as to

individual dress and equipment was permitted he had previously been

informed; that "full dress," and white shirts, collars, and the like

would be left at home, he had sense enough to know; but that every

officer and man in the command would be allowed to discard any and all

portions of the regulation uniform and appear rigged out in just such

motley guise as his poetic or practical fancy might suggest, had never

been pointed out to him; and that he, commanding his troop while a

captain commanded the little battalion, could by any military

possibility take his place in front of his men without his sabre, had

never for an instant occurred to him. As a consequence, when he bolted

into the mess-room shortly after daybreak on a bright June morning with

that imposing but at most times useless item of cavalry equipment

clanking at his heels, the lieutenant gazed with some astonishment upon

the attire of his brother-officers there assembled, but found himself

the butt of much good-natured and not over-witty "chaff," directed

partially at the extreme newness and neatness of his dark-blue flannel

scouting-shirt and high-top boots, but more especially at the glittering

sabre swinging from his waist-belt.



"Billings," said Captain Buxton, with much solemnity, "while you have

probably learned through the columns of a horror-stricken Eastern press

that we scalp, alive or dead, all unfortunates who fall into our

clutches, I assure you that even for that purpose the cavalry sabre has,

in Arizona at least, outlived its usefulness. It is too long and clumsy,

you see. What you really want for the purpose is something like

this,"--and he whipped out of its sheath a rusty but keen-bladed Mexican

cuchillo,--"something you can wield with a deft turn of the wrist, you

know. The sabre is apt to tear and mutilate the flesh, especially when

you use both hands." And Captain Buxton winked at the other subaltern

and felt that he had said a good thing.



But Mr. Billings was a man of considerable good nature and ready

adaptability to the society or circumstances by which he might be

surrounded. "Chaff" was a very cheap order of wit, and the serenity of

his disposition enabled him to shake off its effect as readily as water

is scattered from the plumage of the duck.



"So you don't wear the sabre on a scout? So much the better. I have my

revolvers and a Sharp's carbine, but am destitute of anything in the

knife line." And with that Mr. Billings betook himself to the duty of

despatching the breakfast that was already spread before him in an array

tempting enough to a frontier appetite, but little designed to attract a

bon vivant of civilization. Bacon, frijoles, and creamless coffee

speedily become ambrosia and nectar under the influence of mountain-air

and mountain-exercise; but Mr. Billings had as yet done no climbing. A

"buck-board" ride had been his means of transportation to the

garrison,--a lonely four-company post in a far-away valley in

Northeastern Arizona,--and in the three or four days of intense heat

that had succeeded his arrival exercise of any kind had been out of the

question. It was with no especial regret, therefore, that he heard the

summons of the captain, "Hurry up, man; we must be off in ten minutes."

And in less than ten minutes the lieutenant was on his horse and

superintending the formation of his troop.



If Mr. Billings was astonished at the garb of his brother-officers at

breakfast, he was simply aghast when he glanced along the line of

Company "A" (as his command was at that time officially designated) and

the first sergeant rode out to report his men present or accounted for.

The first sergeant himself was got up in an old gray-flannel shirt, open

at and disclosing a broad, brown throat and neck; his head was crowned

with what had once been a white felt sombrero, now tanned by desert

sun, wind, and dirt into a dingy mud-color; his powerful legs were

encased in worn deer-skin breeches tucked into low-topped, broad-soled,

well-greased boots; his waist was girt with a rude "thimble-belt," in

the loops of which were thrust scores of copper cartridges for carbine

and pistol; his carbine, and those of all the command, swung in a

leather loop athwart the pommel of the saddle; revolvers in all manner

of cases hung at the hip, the regulation holster, in most instances,

being conspicuous by its absence. Indeed, throughout the entire command

the remarkable fact was to be noted that a company of regular cavalry,

taking the field against hostile Indians, had discarded pretty much

every item of dress or equipment prescribed or furnished by the

authorities of the United States, and had supplied themselves with an

outfit utterly ununiform, unpicturesque, undeniably slouchy, but not

less undeniably appropriate and serviceable. Not a forage-cap was to be

seen, not a "campaign-hat" of the style then prescribed by a board of

officers that might have known something of hats, but never could have

had an idea on the subject of campaigns. Fancy that black enormity of

weighty felt, with flapping brim well-nigh a foot in width, absorbing

the fiery heat of an Arizona sun, and concentrating the burning rays

upon the cranium of its unhappy wearer! No such head-gear would our

troopers suffer in the days when General Crook led them through the

canyons and deserts of that inhospitable Territory. Regardless of

appearances or style himself, seeking only comfort in his dress, the

chief speedily found means to indicate that, in Apache-campaigning at

least, it was to be a case of "inter arma silent leges" in dead

earnest; for, freely translated, the old saw read, "No red-tape when

Indian-fighting."



Of much of this Lieutenant Billings was only partially informed, and so,

as has been said, he was aghast when he marked the utter absence of

uniform and the decidedly variegated appearance of his troop. Deerskin,

buckskin, canvas, and flannels, leggings, moccasins, and the like,

constituted the bill of dress, and old soft felt hats, originally white,

the head-gear. If spurs were worn at all, they were of the Mexican

variety, easy to kick off, but sure to stay on when wanted. Only two men

wore carbine sling-belts, and Mr. Billings was almost ready to hunt up

his captain and inquire if by any possibility the men could be

attempting to "put up a joke on him," when the captain himself appeared,

looking little if any more like the ideal soldier than his men, and the

perfectly satisfied expression on his face as he rode easily around,

examining closely the horses of the command, paying especial attention

to their feet and the shoes thereof, convinced the lieutenant that all

was as it was expected to be, if not as it should be, and he swallowed

his surprise and held his peace. Another moment, and Captain Wayne's

troop came filing past in column of twos, looking, if anything, rougher

than his own.



"You follow right after Wayne," said Captain Buxton; and with no further

formality Mr. Billings, in a perfunctory sort of way, wheeled his men to

the right by fours, broke into column of twos, and closed up on the

leading troop.



Buxton was in high glee on this particular morning in June. He had done

very little Indian scouting, had been but moderately successful in what

he had undertaken, and now, as luck would have it, the necessity arose

for sending something more formidable than a mere detachment down into

the Tonto Basin, in search of a powerful band of Apaches who had broken

loose from the reservation and were taking refuge in the foot-hills of

the Black Mesa or among the wilds of the Sierra Ancha. As senior captain

of the two, Buxton became commander of the entire force,--two

well-filled troops of regular cavalry, some thirty Indian allies as

scouts, and a goodly-sized train of pack-mules, with its full complement

of packers, cargadors, and blacksmiths. He fully anticipated a lively

fight, possibly a series of them, and a triumphant return to his post,

where hereafter he would be looked up to and quoted as an expert and

authority on Apache-fighting. He knew just where the hostiles lay, and

was going straight to the point to flatten them out forthwith; and so

the little command moved off under admirable auspices and in the best of

spirits.



It was a four-days' hard march to the locality where Captain Buxton

counted on finding his victims; and when on the fourth day, rather tired

and not particularly enthusiastic, the command bivouacked along the

banks of a mountain-torrent, a safe distance from the supposed location

of the Indian stronghold, he sent forward his Apache Mojave allies to

make a stealthy reconnoissance, feeling confident that soon after

nightfall they would return with the intelligence that the enemy were

lazily resting in their "rancheria," all unsuspicious of his approach,

and that at daybreak he would pounce upon and annihilate them.



Soon after nightfall the scouts did return, but their intelligence was

not so gratifying: a small--a very small--band of renegades had been

encamped in that vicinity some weeks before, but not a "hostile" or sign

of a hostile was to be found. Captain Buxton hardly slept that night,

from disappointment and mortification, and when he went the following

day to investigate for himself he found that he had been on a false

scent from the start, and this made him crabbed. A week's hunt through

the mountains resulted in no better luck, and now, having had only

fifteen days' rations at the outset, he was most reluctantly and

savagely marching homeward to report his failure.



But Mr. Billings had enjoyed the entire trip. Sleeping in the open air

without other shelter than their blankets afforded, scouting by day in

single file over miles of mere game-trails, up hill and down dale

through the wildest and most dolefully-picturesque scenery he "at least"

had ever beheld, under frowning cliffs and beetling crags, through dense

forests of pine and juniper, through mountain-torrents swollen with the

melting snows of the crests so far above them, through canyons, deep,

dark, and gloomy, searching ever for traces of the foe they were ordered

to find and fight forthwith, Mr. Billings and his men, having no

responsibility upon their shoulders, were happy and healthy as possible,

and consequently in small sympathy with their irate leader.



Every afternoon when they halted beside some one of the hundreds of

mountain-brooks that came tumbling down from the gorges of the Black

Mesa, the men were required to look carefully at the horses' backs and

feet, for mountain Arizona is terrible on shoes, equine or human. This

had to be done before the herds were turned out to graze with their

guard around them; and often some of the men would get a wisp of straw

or a suitable wipe of some kind, and thoroughly rub down their steeds.

Strolling about among them, as he always did at this time, our

lieutenant had noticed a slim but trimly-built young Irishman whose care

of and devotion to his horse it did him good to see. No matter how long

the march, how severe the fatigue, that horse was always looked after,

his grazing-ground pre-empted by a deftly-thrown picket-pin and lariat

which secured to him all the real estate that could be surveyed within

the circle of which the pin was the centre and the lariat the

radius-vector.



Between horse and master the closest comradeship seemed to exist; the

trooper had a way of softly singing or talking to his friend as he

rubbed him down, and Mr. Billings was struck with the expression and

taste with which the little soldier--for he was only five feet

five--would render "Molly Bawn" and "Kitty Tyrrell." Except when thus

singing or exchanging confidences with his steed, he was strangely

silent and reserved; he ate his rations among the other men, yet rarely

spoke with them, and he would ride all day through country marvellous

for wild beauty and be the only man in the command who did not allow

himself to give vent to some expression of astonishment or delight.



"What is that man's name?" asked Mr. Billings of the first sergeant one

evening.



"O'Grady, sir," replied the sergeant, with his soldierly salute; and a

little later, as Captain Buxton was fretfully complaining to his

subaltern of the ill fortune that seemed to overshadow his best efforts,

the latter, thinking to cheer him and to divert his attention from his

trouble, referred to the troop:



"Why, captain, I don't think I ever saw a finer set of men than you

have--anywhere. Now, there's a little fellow who strikes me as being a

perfect light-cavalry soldier." And the lieutenant indicated his young

Irishman.



"You don't mean O'Grady?" asked the captain in surprise.



"Yes, sir,--the very one."



"Why, he's the worst man in the troop."



For a moment Mr. Billings knew not what to say. His captain had spoken

with absolute harshness and dislike in his tone of the one soldier of

all others who seemed to be the most quiet, attentive, and alert of the

troop. He had noticed, too, that the sergeants and the men generally, in

speaking to O'Grady, were wont to fall into a kindlier tone than usual,

and, though they sometimes squabbled among themselves over the choice of

patches of grass for their horses, O'Grady's claim was never questioned,

much less "jumped." Respect for his superior's rank would not permit the

lieutenant to argue the matter; but, desiring to know more about the

case, he spoke again:



"I am very sorry to hear it. His care of his horse and his quiet ways

impressed me so favorably."



"Oh, yes, d--n him!" broke in Captain Buxton. "Horses and whiskey are

the only things on earth he cares for. As to quiet ways, there isn't a

worse devil at large than O'Grady with a few drinks in him. When I came

back from two years' recruiting detail he was a sergeant in the troop. I

never knew him before, but I soon found he was addicted to drink, and

after a while had to 'break' him; and one night when he was raising hell

in the quarters, and I ordered him into the dark cell, he turned on me

like a tiger. By Jove! if it hadn't been for some of the men he would

have killed me,--or I him. He was tried by court-martial, but most of

the detail was made up of infantrymen and staff-officers from Crook's

head-quarters, and, by ----! they didn't seem to think it any sin for a

soldier to threaten to cut his captain's heart out, and Crook himself

gave me a sort of a rap in his remarks on the case, and--well, they just

let O'Grady off scot-free between them, gave him some little fine, and

did more harm than good. He's just as surly and insolent now when I

speak to him as he was that night when drunk. Here, I'll show you." And

with that Captain Buxton started off towards the herd, Mr. Billings

obediently following, but feeling vaguely ill at ease. He had never met

Captain Buxton before, but letters from his comrades had prepared him

for experiences not altogether pleasant. A good soldier in some

respects, Captain Buxton bore the reputation of having an almost

ungovernable temper, of being at times brutally violent in his language

and conduct towards his men, and, worse yet, of bearing ill-concealed

malice, and "nursing his wrath to keep it warm" against such of his

enlisted men as had ever ventured to appeal for justice. The captain

stopped on reaching the outskirts of the quietly-grazing herd.



"Corporal," said he to the non-commissioned officer in charge, "isn't

that O'Grady's horse off there to the left?"



"Yes, sir."



"Go and tell O'Grady to come here."



The corporal saluted and went off on his errand.



"Now, Mr. Billings," said the captain, "I have repeatedly given orders

that my horses must be side-lined when we are in the hostiles' country.

Just come here to the left." And he walked over towards a handsome,

sturdy little California horse of a bright bay color. "Here, you see, is

O'Grady's horse, and not a side-line: that's his way of obeying orders.

More than that, he is never content to have his horse in among the

others, but must always get away outside, just where he is most apt to

be run off by any Indian sharp and quick enough to dare it. Now, here

comes O'Grady. Watch him, if you want to see him in his true light."



Standing beside his superior, Mr. Billings looked towards the

approaching trooper, who, with a quick, springy step, advanced to within

a few yards of them, then stopped short and, erect and in silence,

raised his hand in salute, and with perfectly respectful demeanor looked

straight at his captain.



In a voice at once harsh and distinctly audible over the entire bivouac,

with frowning brow and angry eyes, Buxton demanded,--



"O'Grady, where are your side-lines?"



"Over with my blankets, sir."



"Over with your blankets, are they? Why in ----, sir, are they not here

on your horse, where they ought to be?" And the captain's voice waxed

harsher and louder, and his manner more threatening.



"I understood the captain's orders to be that they need not go on till

sunset," replied the soldier, calmly and respectfully, "and I don't like

to put them on that sore place, sir, until the last moment."



"Don't like to? No sir, I know d--d well you don't like to obey this or

any other order I ever gave, and wherever you find a loop-hole through

which to crawl, and you think you can sneak off unpunished, by ----,

sir, I suppose you will go on disobeying orders. Shut up, sir! not a

d--d word!" for tears of mortification were starting to O'Grady's eyes,

and with flushing face and trembling lip the soldier stood helplessly

before his troop-commander, and was striving to say a word in further

explanation.



"Go and get your side-lines at once and bring them here; go at once,

sir," shouted the captain; and with a lump in his throat the trooper

saluted, faced about, and walked away.



"He's milder-mannered than usual, d--n him!" said the captain, turning

towards his subaltern, who had stood a silent and pained witness of the

scene. "He knows he is in the wrong and has no excuse; but he'll break

out yet. Come! step out, you O'Grady!" he yelled after the

rapidly-walking soldier. "Double time, sir. I can't wait here all

night." And Mr. Billings noted that silence had fallen on the bivouac so

full of soldier-chaff and laughter but a moment before, and that the men

of both troops were intently watching the scene already so painful to

him.



Obediently O'Grady took up the "dog-trot" required of him, got his

side-lines, and, running back, knelt beside his horse, and with

trembling hands adjusted them, during which performance Captain Buxton

stood over him, and, in a tone that grew more and more that of a bully

as he lashed himself up into a rage, continued his lecture to the man.



The latter finally rose, and, with huge beads of perspiration starting

out on his forehead, faced his captain.



"May I say a word, sir?" he asked.



"You may now; but be d--d careful how you say it," was the reply, with a

sneer that would have stung an abject slave into a longing for revenge,

and that grated on Mr. Billings's nerves in a way that made him clinch

his fists and involuntarily grit his teeth. Could it be that O'Grady

detected it? One quick, wistful, half-appealing glance flashed from the

Irishman's eyes towards the subaltern, and then, with evident effort at

composure, but with a voice that trembled with the pent-up sense of

wrong and injustice, O'Grady spoke:



"Indeed, sir, I had no thought of neglecting orders. I always care for

my horse; but it wasn't sunset when the captain came out----"



"Not sunset!" broke in Buxton, with an outburst of profanity. "Not

sunset! why, it's well-nigh dark now, sir, and every man in the troop

had side-lined his horse half an hour ago. D--n your insolence, sir!

your excuse is worse than your conduct. Mr. Billings, see to it, sir,

that this man walks and leads his horse in rear of the troop all the way

back to the post. I'll see, by ----! whether he can be taught to obey

orders." And with that the captain turned and strode away.



The lieutenant stood for an instant stunned,--simply stunned.

Involuntarily he made a step towards O'Grady; their eyes met; but the

restraint of discipline was upon both. In that brief meeting of their

glances, however, the trooper read a message that was unmistakable.



"Lieutenant----" he said, but stopped abruptly, pointed aloft over the

trees to the eastward with his right hand, dashed it across his eyes,

and then, with hurried salute and a choking sort of gurgle in his

throat, he turned and went back to his comrades.



Mr. Billings gazed after the retreating form until it disappeared among

the trees by the brook-side; then he turned to see what was the meaning

of the soldier's pointing over towards the mesa to the east.



Down in the deep valley in which the little command had halted for the

night the pall of darkness had indeed begun to settle; the bivouac-fires

in the timber threw a lurid glare upon the groups gathering around them

for supper, and towards the west the rugged upheavals of the Mazatzal

range stood like a black barrier against the glorious hues of a bank of

summer cloud. All in the valley spoke of twilight and darkness: the

birds were still, the voices of the men subdued. So far as local

indications were concerned, it was--as Captain Buxton had

insisted--almost dark. But square over the gilded tree-tops to the east,

stretching for miles and miles to their right and left, blazed a

vertical wall of rock crested with scrub-oak and pine, every boulder,

every tree, glittering in the radiant light of the invisibly setting

sun. O'Grady had not disobeyed his orders.



Noting this, Mr. Billings proceeded to take a leisurely stroll through

the peaceful herd, carefully inspecting each horse as he passed. As a

result of his scrutiny, he found that, while most of the horses were

already encumbered with their annoying hobble, in "A" Troop alone there

were at least a dozen still unfettered, notably the mounts of the

non-commissioned officers and the older soldiers. Like O'Grady, they did

not wish to inflict the side-line upon their steeds until the last

moment. Unlike O'Grady, they had not been called to account for it.



When Mr. Billings was summoned to supper, and he rejoined his

brother-officers, it was remarked that he was more taciturn than usual.

After that repast had been appreciatively disposed of, and the little

group with lighted pipes prepared to spend an hour in chat and

contentment, it was observed that Mr. Billings did not take part in the

general talk, but that he soon rose, and, out of ear-shot of the

officers' camp-fire, paced restlessly up and down, with his head bent

forward, evidently plunged in thought.



By and by the half-dozen broke up and sought their blankets. Captain

Buxton, somewhat mollified by a good supper, was about rolling into his

"Navajo," when Mr. Billings stepped up:



"Captain, may I ask for information as to the side-line order? After you

left this evening, I found that there must be some misunderstanding

about it."



"How so?" said Buxton, shortly.



"In this, captain;" and Mr. Billings spoke very calmly and distinctly.

"The first sergeant, several other non-commissioned officers and

men,--more than a dozen, I should say,--did not side-line their horses

until half an hour after you spoke to O'Grady, and the first sergeant

assured me, when I called him to account for it, that your orders were

that it should be done at sunset."



"Well, by ----! it was after sunset--at least it was getting mighty

dark--when I sent for that black-guard O'Grady," said Buxton,

impetuously, "and there is no excuse for the rest of them."



"It was beginning to grow dark down in this deep valley, I know, sir;

but the tree-tops were in a broad glare of sunlight while we were at the

herd, and those cliffs for half an hour longer."



"Well, Mr. Billings, I don't propose to have any hair-splitting in the

management of my troop," said the captain, manifestly nettled. "It was

practically sunset to us when the light began to grow dim, and my men

know it well enough." And with that he rolled over and turned his back

to his subaltern.



Disregarding the broad hint to leave, Mr. Billings again spoke:



"Is it your wish, sir, that any punishment should be imposed on the men

who were equally in fault with O'Grady?"



Buxton muttered something unintelligible from under his blankets.



"I did not understand you, sir," said the lieutenant, very civilly.



Buxton savagely propped himself up on one elbow, and blurted out,--



"No, Mr. Billings! no! When I want a man punished I'll give the order

myself, sir."



"And is it still your wish, sir, that I make O'Grady walk the rest of

the way?"



For a moment Buxton hesitated; his better nature struggled to assert

itself and induce him to undo the injustice of his order; but the "cad"

in his disposition, the weakness of his character, prevailed. It would

never do to let his lieutenant get the upper hand of him, he argued, and

so the reply came, and came angrily.



"Yes, of course; he deserves it anyhow, by ----! and it'll do him good."



Without another word Mr. Billings turned on his heel and left him.



The command returned to garrison, shaved its stubbly beard of two weeks'

growth, and resumed its uniform and the routine duties of the post.

Three days only had it been back when Mr. Billings, marching on as

officer of the day, and receiving the prisoners from his predecessor,

was startled to hear the list of names wound up with "O'Grady," and when

that name was called there was no response.



The old officer of the day looked up inquiringly: "Where is O'Grady,

sergeant?"



"In the cell, sir, unable to come out."



"O'Grady was confined by Captain Buxton's order late last night," said

Captain Wayne, "and I fancy the poor fellow has been drinking heavily

this time."



A few minutes after, the reliefs being told off, the prisoners sent out

to work, and the officers of the day, new and old, having made their

reports to the commanding officer, Mr. Billings returned to the

guard-house, and, directing his sergeant to accompany him, proceeded to

make a deliberate inspection of the premises. The guard-room itself was

neat, clean, and dry; the garrison prison-room was well ventilated, and

tidy as such rooms ever can be made; the Indian prison-room, despite the

fact that it was empty and every shutter was thrown wide open to the

breeze, had that indefinable, suffocating odor which continued

aboriginal occupancy will give to any apartment; but it was the cells

Mr. Billings desired to see, and the sergeant led him to a row of

heavily-barred doors of rough unplaned timber, with a little grating in

each, and from one of these gratings there peered forth a pair of

feverishly-glittering eyes, and a face, not bloated and flushed, as with

recent and heavy potations, but white, haggard, twitching, and a husky

voice in piteous appeal addressed the sergeant:



"Oh, for God's sake, Billy, get me something, or it'll kill me!"



"Hush, O'Grady," said the sergeant: "here's the officer of the day."



Mr. Billings took one look at the wan face only dimly visible in that

prison-light, for the poor little man shrank back as he recognized the

form of his lieutenant:



"Open that door, sergeant."



With alacrity the order was obeyed, and the heavy door swung back upon

its hinges.



"O'Grady," said the officer of the day, in a tone gentle as that he

would have employed in speaking to a woman, "come out here to me. I'm

afraid you are sick."



Shaking, trembling, twitching in every limb, with wild, dilated eyes and

almost palsied step, O'Grady came out.



"Look to him a moment, sergeant," said Mr. Billings, and, bending low,

he stepped into the cell. The atmosphere was stifling, and in another

instant he backed out into the hall-way. "Sergeant, was it by the

commanding officer's order that O'Grady was put in there?"



"No, sir; Captain Buxton's."



"See that he is not returned there during my tour, unless the orders

come from Major Stannard. Bring O'Grady into the prison-room."



Here in the purer air and brighter light he looked carefully over the

poor fellow, as the latter stood before him quivering from head to foot

and hiding his face in his shaking hands. Then the lieutenant took him

gently by the arm and led him to a bunk:



"O'Grady, man, lie down here. I'm going to get something that will help

you. Tell me one thing: how long had you been drinking before you were

confined?"



"About forty-eight hours, sir, off and on."



"How long since you ate anything?"



"I don't know, sir; not for two days, I think."



"Well, try and lie still. I'm coming back to you in a very few minutes."



And with that Mr. Billings strode from the room, leaving O'Grady, dazed,

wonder-stricken, gazing stupidly after him.



The lieutenant went straight to his quarters, took a goodly-sized goblet

from the painted pine sideboard, and with practised hand proceeded to

mix therein a beverage in which granulated sugar, Angostura bitters, and

a few drops of lime-juice entered as minor ingredients, and the coldest

of spring-water and a brimming measure of whiskey as constituents of

greater quality and quantity. Filling with this mixture a small

leather-covered flask, and stowing it away within the breast-pocket of

his blouse, he returned to the guard-house, musing as he went, "'If this

be treason,' said Patrick Henry, 'make the most of it.' If this be

conduct prejudicial, etc., say I, do your d--dest. That man would be in

the horrors of jim-jams in half an hour more if it were not for this."

And so saying to himself, he entered the prison-room, called to the

sergeant to bring him some cold water, and then approached O'Grady, who

rose unsteadily and strove to stand attention, but the effort was too

much, and again he covered his face with his arms, and threw himself in

utter misery at the foot of the bunk.



Mr. Billings drew the flask from his pocket, and, touching O'Grady's

shoulder, caused him to raise his head:



"Drink this, my lad. I would not give it to you at another time, but you

need it now."



Eagerly it was seized, eagerly drained, and then, after he had swallowed

a long draught of the water, O'Grady slowly rose to his feet, looking,

with eyes rapidly softening and losing their wild glare, upon the young

officer who stood before him. Once or twice he passed his hands across

his forehead, as though to sweep away the cobwebs that pressed upon his

brain, but for a moment he did not essay a word. Little by little the

color crept back to his cheek; and, noting this, Mr. Billings smiled

very quietly, and said, "Now, O'Grady, lie down; you will be able to

sleep now until the men come in at noon; then you shall have another

drink, and you'll be able to eat what I send you. If you cannot sleep,

call the sergeant of the guard; or if you want anything, I'll come to

you."



Then, with tears starting to his eyes, the soldier found words: "I thank

the lieutenant. If I live a thousand years, sir, this will never be

forgotten,--never, sir! I'd have gone crazy without your help, sir."



Mr. Billings held out his hand, and, taking that of his prisoner, gave

it a cordial grip: "That's all right, O'Grady. Try to sleep now, and

we'll pull you through. Good-by, for the present." And, with a heart

lighter, somehow, than it had been of late, the lieutenant left.



At noon that day, when the prisoners came in from labor and the

officer's of the day inspected their general condition before permitting

them to go to their dinner, the sergeant of the guard informed him that

O'Grady had slept quietly almost all the morning, but was then awake and

feeling very much better, though still weak and nervous.



"Do you think he can walk over to my quarters?" asked Mr. Billings.



"He will try it, sir, or anything the lieutenant wants him to try."



"Then send him over in about ten minutes."



Home once more, Mr. Billings started a tiny blaze in his oil-stove, and

soon had a kettle of water boiling merrily. Sharp to time a member of

the guard tapped at the door, and, on being bidden "Come in," entered,

ushering in O'Grady; but meantime, by the aid of a little pot of

meat-juice and some cayenne pepper, a glass of hot soup or beef-tea had

been prepared, and, with some dainty slices of potted chicken and the

accompaniments of a cup of fragrant tea and some ship-biscuit, was in

readiness on a little table in the back room.



Telling the sentinel to remain in the shade on the piazza, the

lieutenant proceeded first to make O'Grady sit down in a big wicker

arm-chair, for the man in his broken condition was well-nigh exhausted

by his walk across the glaring parade in the heat of an Arizona noonday

sun. Then he mixed and administered the counterpart of the beverage he

had given his prisoner-patient in the morning, only in point of potency

it was an evident falling off, but sufficient for the purpose, and in a

few minutes O'Grady was able to swallow his breakfast with evident

relish, meekly and unhesitatingly obeying every suggestion of his

superior.



His breakfast finished, O'Grady was then conducted into a cool, darkened

apartment, a back room in the lieutenant's quarters.



"Now, pull off your boots and outer clothing, man, spread yourself on

that bed, and go to sleep, if you can. If you can't, and you want to

read, there are books and papers on that shelf; pin up the blanket on

the window, and you'll have light enough. You shall not be disturbed,

and I know you won't attempt to leave."



"Indeed, sir, I won't," began O'Grady, eagerly; but the lieutenant had

vanished, closing the door after him, and a minute later the soldier had

thrown himself upon the cool, white bed, and was crying like a tired

child.



Three or four weeks after this incident, to the small regret of his

troop and the politely-veiled indifference of the commissioned element

of the garrison, Captain Buxton concluded to avail himself of a

long-deferred "leave," and turned over his company property to Mr.

Billings in a condition that rendered it necessary for him to do a thing

that "ground" him, so to speak: he had to ask several favors of his

lieutenant, between whom and himself there had been no cordiality since

the episode of the bivouac, and an open rupture since Mr. Billings's

somewhat eventful tour as officer of the day, which has just been

described.



It appeared that O'Grady had been absent from no duty (there were no

drills in that scorching June weather), but that, yielding to the advice

of his comrades, who knew that he had eaten nothing for two days and was

drinking steadily into a condition that would speedily bring punishment

upon him, he had asked permission to be sent to the hospital, where,

while he could get no liquor, there would be no danger attendant upon

his sudden stop of all stimulant. The first sergeant carried his request

with the sick-book to Captain Buxton, O'Grady meantime managing to take

two or three more pulls at the bottle, and Buxton, instead of sending

him to the hospital, sent for him, inspected him, and did what he had no

earthly authority to do, directed the sergeant of the guard to confine

him at once in the dark cell.



"It will be no punishment as he is now," said Buxton to himself, "but it

will be hell when he wakes."



And so it had been; and far worse it probably would have been but for

Mr. Billings's merciful interference.



Expecting to find his victim in a condition bordering upon the abject

and ready to beg for mercy at any sacrifice of pluck or pride, Buxton

had gone to the guard-house soon after retreat and told the sergeant

that he desired to see O'Grady, if the man was fit to come out.



What was his surprise when the soldier stepped forth in his trimmest

undress uniform, erect and steady, and stood unflinchingly before

him!--a day's rest and quiet, a warm bath, wholesome and palatable food,

careful nursing, and the kind treatment he had received having brought

him round with a sudden turn that he himself could hardly understand.



"How is this?" thundered Buxton. "I ordered you kept in the dark cell."



"The officer of the day ordered him released, sir," said the sergeant of

the guard.



And Buxton, choking with rage, stormed into the mess-room, where the

younger officers were at dinner, and, regardless of the time, place, or

surroundings, opened at once upon his subaltern:



"Mr. Billings, by whose authority did you release O'Grady from the dark

cell?"



Mr. Billings calmly applied his napkin to his moustache, and then as

calmly replied, "By my own, Captain Buxton."



"By ----! sir, you exceeded your authority."



"Not at all, captain; on the contrary, you exceeded yours."



At this Buxton flew into a rage that seemed to deprive him of all

control over his language. Oaths and imprecations poured from his lips;

he raved at Billings, despite the efforts of the officers to quiet him,

despite the adjutant's threat to report his language at once to the

commanding officer.



Mr. Billings paid no attention whatever to his accusations, but went on

eating his dinner with an appearance of serenity that only added fuel to

his captain's fire. Two or three officers rose and left the table in

disgust, and just how far the thing might have gone cannot be accurately

told, for in less than three minutes there came a quick, bounding step

on the piazza, the clank and rattle of a sabre, and the adjutant fairly

sprang back into the room:



"Captain Buxton, you will go at once to your quarters in close arrest,

by order of Major Stannard."



Buxton knew his colonel and that little fire-eater of an adjutant too

well to hesitate an instant. Muttering imprecations on everybody, he

went.



The next morning, O'Grady was released and returned to duty. Two days

later, after a long and private interview with his commanding officer,

Captain Buxton appeared with him at the officers' mess at dinner-time,

made a formal and complete apology to Lieutenant Billings for his

offensive language, and to the mess generally for his misconduct; and so

the affair blew over; and, soon after, Buxton left, and Mr. Billings

became commander of Troop "A."



And now, whatever might have been his reputation as to sobriety before,

Private O'Grady became a marked man for every soldierly virtue. Week

after week he was to be seen every fourth or fifth day, when his guard

tour came, reporting to the commanding officer for duty as "orderly,"

the nattiest, trimmest soldier on the detail.



"I always said," remarked Captain Wayne, "that Buxton alone was

responsible for that man's downfall; and this proves it. O'Grady has all

the instincts of a gentleman about him, and now that he has a gentleman

over him he is himself again."



One night, after retreat-parade, there was cheering and jubilee in the

quarters of Troop "A." Corporal Quinn had been discharged by expiration

of term of service, and Private O'Grady was decorated with his chevrons.

When October came, the company muster-roll showed that he had won back

his old grade; and the garrison knew no better soldier, no more

intelligent, temperate, trustworthy non-commissioned officer, than

Sergeant O'Grady. In some way or other the story of the treatment

resorted to by his amateur medical officer had leaked out. Whether

faulty in theory or not, it was crowned with the verdict of success in

practice; and, with the strong sense of humor which pervades all

organizations wherein the Celt is represented as a component part, Mr.

Billings had been lovingly dubbed "Doctor" by his men, and there was one

of their number who would have gone through fire and water for him.



One night some herdsmen from up the valley galloped wildly into the

post. The Apaches had swooped down, run off their cattle, killed one of

the cowboys, and scared off the rest. At daybreak the next morning

Lieutenant Billings, with Troop "A" and about a dozen Indian scouts, was

on the trail, with orders to pursue, recapture the cattle, and punish

the marauders.



To his disgust, Mr. Billings found that his allies were not of the

tribes who had served with him in previous expeditions. All the trusty

Apache Mojaves and Hualpais were off with other commands in distant

parts of the Territory. He had to take just what the agent could give

him at the reservation,--some Apache Yumas, who were total strangers to

him. Within forty-eight hours four had deserted and gone back; the

others proved worthless as trailers, doubtless intentionally, and had it

not been for the keen eye of Sergeant O'Grady it would have been

impossible to keep up the pursuit by night; but keep it up they did, and

just at sunset, one sharp autumn evening, away up in the mountains, the

advance caught sight of the cattle grazing along the shores of a placid

little lake, and, in less time than it takes to write it, Mr. Billings

and his command tore down upon the quarry, and, leaving a few men to

"round up" the herd, were soon engaged in a lively running fight with

the fleeing Apaches which lasted until dark, when the trumpet sounded

the recall, and, with horses somewhat blown, but no casualties of

importance, the command reassembled and marched back to the

grazing-ground by the lake. Here a hearty supper was served out, the

horses were rested, then given a good "feed" of barley, and at ten

o'clock Mr. Billings with his second lieutenant and some twenty men

pushed ahead in the direction taken by the Indians, leaving the rest of

the men under experienced non-commissioned officers to drive the cattle

back to the valley.



That night the conduct of the Apache Yuma scouts was incomprehensible.

Nothing would induce them to go ahead or out on the flanks; they cowered

about the rear of column, yet declared that the enemy could not be

hereabouts. At two in the morning Mr. Billings found himself well

through a pass in the mountains, high peaks rising to his right and

left, and a broad valley in front. Here he gave the order to unsaddle

and camp for the night.



At daybreak all were again on the alert: the search for the trail was

resumed. Again the Indians refused to go out without the troops; but the

men themselves found the tracks of Tonto moccasins along the bed of a

little stream purling through the canyon, and presently indications that

they had made the ascent of the mountain to the south. Leaving a guard

with his horses and pack-mules, the lieutenant ordered up his men, and

soon the little command was silently picking its way through rock and

boulder, scrub-oak and tangled juniper and pine. Rougher and steeper

grew the ascent; more and more the Indians cowered, huddling together in

rear of the soldiers. Twice Mr. Billings signalled a halt, and, with his

sergeants, fairly drove the scouts up to the front and ordered them to

hunt for signs. In vain they protested, "No sign,--no Tonto here," their

very looks belied them, and the young commander ordered the search to be

continued. In their eagerness the men soon leaped ahead of the wretched

allies, and the latter fell back in the same huddled group as before.



After half an hour of this sort of work, the party came suddenly upon a

point whence it was possible to see much of the face of the mountain

they were scaling. Cautioning his men to keep within the concealment

afforded by the thick timber, Mr. Billings and his comrade-lieutenant

crept forward and made a brief reconnoissance. It was evident at a

glance that the farther they went the steeper grew the ascent and the

more tangled the low shrubbery, for it was little better, until, near

the summit, trees and underbrush, and herbage of every description,

seemed to cease entirely, and a vertical cliff of jagged rocks stood

sentinel at the crest, and stretched east and west the entire length of

the face of the mountain.



"By Jove, Billings! if they are on top of that it will be a nasty place

to rout them out of," observed the junior.



"I'm going to find out where they are, anyhow," replied the other. "Now

those infernal Yumas have got to scout, whether they want to or not.

You stay here with the men, ready to come the instant I send or signal."



In vain the junior officer protested against being left behind; he was

directed to send a small party to see if there were an easier way up the

hill-side farther to the west, but to keep the main body there in

readiness to move whichever way they might be required. Then, with

Sergeant O'Grady and the reluctant Indians, Mr. Billings pushed up to

the left front, and was soon out of sight of his command. For fifteen

minutes he drove his scouts, dispersed in skirmish order, ahead of him,

but incessantly they sneaked behind rocks and trees out of his sight;

twice he caught them trying to drop back, and at last, losing all

patience, he sprang forward, saying, "Then come on, you whelps, if you

cannot lead," and he and the sergeant hurried ahead. Then the Yumas

huddled together again and slowly followed.



Fifteen minutes more, and Mr. Billings found himself standing on the

edge of a broad shelf of the mountain,--a shelf covered with huge

boulders of rock tumbled there by storm and tempest, riven by

lightning-stroke or the slow disintegration of nature from the bare,

glaring, precipitous ledge he had marked from below. East and west it

seemed to stretch, forbidding and inaccessible. Turning to the sergeant,

Mr. Billings directed him to make his way off to the right and see if

there were any possibility of finding a path to the summit; then looking

back down the side, and marking his Indians cowering under the trees

some fifty yards away, he signalled "come up," and was about moving

farther to his left to explore the shelf, when something went whizzing

past his head, and, embedding itself in a stunted oak behind him, shook

and quivered with the shock,--a Tonto arrow. Only an instant did he see

it, photographed as by electricity upon the retina, when with a sharp

stinging pang and whirring "whist" and thud a second arrow, better

aimed, tore through the flesh and muscles just at the outer corner of

his left eye, and glanced away down the hill. With one spring he gained

the edge of the shelf, and shouted to the scouts to come on. Even as he

did so, bang! bang! went the reports of two rifles among the rocks, and,

as with one accord, the Apache Yumas turned tail and rushed back down

the hill, leaving him alone in the midst of hidden foes. Stung by the

arrow, bleeding, but not seriously hurt, he crouched behind a rock, with

carbine at ready, eagerly looking for the first sign of an enemy. The

whiz of another arrow from the left drew his eyes thither, and quick as

a flash his weapon leaped to his shoulder, the rocks rang with its

report, and one of the two swarthy forms he saw among the boulders

tumbled over out of sight; but even as he threw back his piece to

reload, a rattling volley greeted him, the carbine dropped to the

ground, a strange, numbed sensation had seized his shoulder, and his

right arm, shattered by a rifle-bullet, hung dangling by the flesh,

while the blood gushed forth in a torrent.



Defenceless, he sprang back to the edge; there was nothing for it now

but to run until he could meet his men. Well he knew they would be

tearing up the mountain to the rescue. Could he hold out till then?

Behind him with shout and yells came the Apaches, arrow and bullet

whistling over his head; before him lay the steep descent,--jagged

rocks, thick, tangled bushes: it was a desperate chance; but he tried

it, leaping from rock to rock, holding his helpless arm in his left

hand; then his foot slipped: he plunged heavily forward; quickly the

nerves threw out their signal for support to the muscles of the

shattered member, but its work was done, its usefulness destroyed.

Missing its support, he plunged heavily forward, and went crashing down

among the rocks eight or ten feet below, cutting a jagged gash in his

forehead, while the blood rained down into his eyes and blinded him; but

he struggled up and on a few yards more; then another fall, and,

well-nigh senseless, utterly exhausted, he lay groping for his

revolver,--it had fallen from its case. Then--all was over.



Not yet; not yet. His ear catches the sound of a voice he knows well,--a

rich, ringing, Hibernian voice it is: "Lieutenant, lieutenant!

Where are ye?" and he has strength enough to call, "This way,

sergeant, this way," and in another moment O'Grady, with blended anguish

and gratitude in his face, is bending over him. "Oh, thank God you're not

kilt, sir!" (for when excited O'Grady would relapse into the brogue);

"but are ye much hurt?"



"Badly, sergeant, since I can't fight another round."



"Then put your arm round my neck, sir," and in a second the little

Patlander has him on his brawny back. But with only one arm by which to

steady himself, the other hanging loose, the torture is inexpressible,

for O'Grady is now bounding down the hill, leaping like a goat from rock

to rock, while the Apaches with savage yells come tearing after them.

Twice, pausing, O'Grady lays his lieutenant down in the shelter of some

large boulder, and, facing about, sends shot after shot up the hill,

checking the pursuit and driving the cowardly footpads to cover. Once he

gives vent to a genuine Kilkenny "hurroo" as a tall Apache drops his

rifle and plunges head foremost among the rocks with his hands

convulsively clasped to his breast. Then the sergeant once more picks up

his wounded comrade, despite pleas, orders, or imprecations, and rushes

on.



"I cannot stand it, O'Grady. Go and save yourself. You must do it. I

order you to do it." Every instant the shots and arrows whiz closer,

but the sergeant never winces, and at last, panting, breathless, having

carried his chief full three hundred yards down the rugged slope, he

gives out entirely, but with a gasp of delight points down among the

trees:



"Here come the boys, sir."



Another moment, and the soldiers are rushing up the rocks beside them,

their carbines ringing like merry music through the frosty air, and the

Apaches are scattering in every direction.



"Old man, are you much hurt?" is the whispered inquiry his

brother-officer can barely gasp for want of breath, and, reassured by

the faint grin on Mr. Billings's face, and a barely audible "Arm

busted,--that's all; pitch in and use them up," he pushes on with his

men.



In ten minutes the affair is ended. The Indians have been swept away

like chaff; the field and the wounded they have abandoned are in the

hands of the troopers; the young commander's life is saved; and then,

and for long after, the hero of the day is Buxton's bete noire, "the

worst man in the troop."