Where Is Angela?

: An Apache Princess

For a moment as they drew under shelter the stricken form of the

soldier, there was nothing the defense could do but dodge. Then,

leaving him at the edge of the pool, and kicking before them the one

cowed and cowering shirker of the little band, Blakely and the single

trooper still unhit, crept back to the rocky parapet, secured a

carbine each and knelt, staring up the opposite wall in search of the

foe. And not a sign
of Apache could they see.



Yet the very slant of the arrow as it pierced the young soldier, the

new angle at which the bullets bounded from the stony crest, the

lower, flatter flight of the barbed missiles that struck fire from the

flinty rampart, all told the same story. The Indians during the hours

of darkness, even while dreading to charge, had managed to crawl,

snake-like, to lower levels along the cliff and to creep closer up the

stream bed, and with stealthy, noiseless hands to rear little shelters

of stone, behind which they were now crouching invisible and secure.

With the illimitable patience of their savage training they had then

waited, minute after minute, hour after hour, until, lulled at last

into partial belief that their deadly foe had slipped away, some of

the defenders should be emboldened to venture into view, and then one

well-aimed volley at the signal from the leader's rifle, and the

vengeful shafts of those who had as yet only the native weapon, would

fall like lightning stroke upon the rash ones, and that would end it.

Catlike they had crouched and watched since early dawn. Catlike they

had played the old game of apparent weariness of the sport, of

forgetfulness of their prey and tricked their guileless victims into

hope and self-exposure, then swooped again, and the gallant lad whose

last offer and effort had been to set forth in desperate hope of

bringing relief to the suffering, had paid for his valor with his

life. One arrow at least had gone swift and true, one shaft that,

launched, perhaps, two seconds too soon for entire success, had barely

anticipated the leader's signal and spoiled the scheme of bagging all

the game. Blakely's dive to save his fallen comrade had just saved his

own head, for rock chips and spattering lead flew on every side,

scratching, but not seriously wounding him.



And then, when they "thought on vengeance" and the three brown muzzles

swept the opposite wall, there followed a moment of utter silence,

broken only by the faint gasping of the dying man. "Creep back to

Carmody, you," muttered Blakely to the trembling lad beside him. "You

are of no account here unless they try to charge. Give him water,

quick." Then to Stern, his one unhurt man, "You heard what he said

about distant firing. Did you hear it?"



"Not I, sir, but I believe they did--an' be damned to them!" And

Stern's eyes never left the opposite cliff, though his ears were

strained to catch the faintest sound from the lower canon. It was

there they last had seen the troop. It was from that direction help

should come. "Watch them, but don't waste a shot, man. I must speak to

Carmody," said Blakely, under his breath, as he backed on hands and

knees, a painful process when one is sore wounded. Trembling,

whimpering like whipped child, the poor, spiritless lad sent to the

aid of the stricken and heroic, crouched by the sergeant's side,

vainly striving to pour water from a clumsy canteen between the

sufferer's pallid lips. Carmody presently sucked eagerly at the

cooling water, and even in his hour of dissolution seemed far the

stronger, sturdier of the two--seemed to feel so infinite a pity for

his shaken comrade. Bleeding internally, as was evident, transfixed by

the cruel shaft they did not dare attempt to withdraw, even if the

barbed steel would permit, and drooping fainter with each swift

moment, he was still conscious, still brave and uncomplaining. His

dimmed and mournful eyes looked up in mute appeal to his young

commander. He knew that he was going fast, and that whatever rescue

might come to these, his surviving fellow-soldiers, there would be

none for him; and yet in his supreme moment he seemed to read the

question on Blakely's lips, and his words, feeble and broken, were

framed to answer.



"Couldn't--you hear 'em, lieutenant?" he gasped. "I can't

be--mistaken. I know--the old--Springfield sure! I heard 'em way

off--south--a dozen shots," and then a spasm of agony choked him, and

he turned, writhing, to hide the anguish on his face. Blakely grasped

the dying soldier's hand, already cold and limp and nerveless, and

then his own voice seemed, too, to break and falter.



"Don't try to talk, Carmody; don't try! Of course you are right. It

must be some of our people. They'll reach us soon. Then we'll have the

doctor and can help you. Those saddle-bags!" he said, turning sharply

to the whimpering creature kneeling by them, and the lad drew hand

across his streaming eyes and passed the worn leather pouches. From

one of them Blakely drew forth a flask, poured some brandy into its

cup and held it to the soldier's lips. Carmody swallowed almost

eagerly. He seemed to crave a little longer lease of life. There was

something tugging at his heartstrings, and presently he turned slowly,

painfully again. "Lieutenant," he gasped, "I'm not scared to die--this

way anyhow. There's no one to care--but the boys--but there's one

thing"--and now the stimulant seemed to reach the failing heart and

give him faint, fluttering strength--"there's one thing I ought--I

ought to tell. You've been solid with the boys--you're square, and I'm

not--I haven't always been. Lieutenant--I was on guard--the night of

the fire--and Elise, you know--the French girl--she--she's got most

all I saved--most all I--won, but she was trickin' me--all the time,

lieutenant--me and Downs that's gone--and others. She didn't care.

You--you aint the only one I--I--"



"Lieutenant!" came in excited whisper, the voice of Stern, and there

at his post in front of the cave he knelt, signaling urgently.

"Lieutenant, quick!"



"One minute, Carmody! I've got to go. Tell me a little later." But

with dying strength Carmody clung to his hand.



"I must tell you, lieutenant--now. It wasn't Downs's fault. She--she

made--"



"Lieutenant, quick! for God's sake! They're coming!" cried the voice

of the German soldier at the wall, and wrenching his wrist from the

clasp of the dying man, Blakely sprang recklessly to his feet and to

the mouth of the cave just as Stern's carbine broke the stillness with

resounding roar. Half a dozen rifles barked their instant echo among

the rocks. From up the hillside rose a yell of savage hate and another

of warning. Then from behind their curtaining rocks half a dozen dusky

forms, their dirty white breechclouts streaming behind them, sprang

suddenly into view and darted, with goatlike ease and agility,

zigzagging up the eastward wall. It was a foolish thing to do, but

Blakely followed with a wasted shot, aimed one handed from the

shoulder, before he could regain command of his judgment. In thirty

seconds the cliff was as bare of Apaches as but the moment before it

had been dotted. Something, in the moment when their savage plans and

triumph seemed secure, had happened to alarm the entire party. With

warning shouts and signals they were scurrying out of the deep ravine,

scattering, apparently, northward. But even as they fled to higher

ground there was order and method in their retreat. While several of

their number clambered up the steep, an equal number lurked in their

covert, and Blakely's single shot was answered instantly by half a

dozen, the bullets striking and splashing on the rocks, the arrows

bounding or glancing furiously. Stern ducked within, out of the storm.

Blakely, flattening like hunted squirrel close to the parapet, flung

down his empty carbine and strove to reach another, lying loaded at

the southward loophole, and at the outstretched hand there whizzed an

arrow from aloft whose guiding feather fairly seared the skin, so

close came the barbed messenger. Then up the height rang out a shrill

cry, some word of command in a voice that had a familiar tang to it,

and that was almost instantly obeyed, for, under cover of sharp,

well-aimed fire from aloft, from the shelter of projecting rock or

stranded bowlder, again there leaped into sight a few scattered,

sinewy forms that rushed in bewildering zigzag up the steep, until

safe beyond their supports, when they, too, vanished, and again the

cliff stood barren of Apache foemen as the level of the garrison

parade. It was science in savage warfare against which the drill book

of the cavalry taught no method whatsoever. Another minute and even

the shots had ceased. One glimpse more had Blakely of dingy, trailing

breechclouts, fluttering in the breeze now stirring the fringing pines

and cedars, and all that was left of the late besiegers came

clattering down the rocks in the shape of an Indian shield. Stern

would have scrambled out to nab it, but was ordered down. "Back, you

idiot, or they'll have you next!" And then they heard the feeble

voice of Wren, pleading for water and demanding to be lifted to the

light. The uproar of the final volley had roused him from an almost

deathlike stupor, and he lay staring, uncomprehending, at Carmody,

whose glazing eyes were closed, whose broken words had ceased. The

poor fellow was drifting away into the shadows with his story still

untold.



"Watch here, Stern, but keep under cover," cried Blakely. "I'll see to

the captain. Listen for any shot or sound, but hold your fire," and

then he turned to his barely conscious senior and spoke to him as he

would to a helpless child. Again he poured a little brandy in his cup.

Again he held it to ashen lips and presently saw the faint flutter of

reviving strength. "Lie still just a moment or two, Wren," he murmured

soothingly. "Lie still. Somebody's coming. The troop is not far off.

You'll soon have help and home and--Angela"--even then his tongue

faltered at her name. And Wren heard and with eager eyes questioned

imploringly. The quivering lips repeated huskily the name of the child

he loved. "Angela--where?"



"Home--safe--where you shall be soon, old fellow, only--brace up now.

I must speak one moment with Carmody," and to Carmody eagerly he

turned. "You were speaking of Elise and the fire--of Downs, sergeant

----" His words were slow and clear and distinct, for the soldier had

drifted far away and must be recalled. "Tell me again. What was it?"



But only faint, swift gasping answered him. Carmody either heard not,

or, hearing, was already past all possibility of reply. "Speak to me,

Carmody. Tell me what I can do for you?" he repeated. "What word to

Elise?" He thought the name might rouse him, and it did. A feeble hand

was uplifted, just an inch or two. The eyelids slowly fluttered, and

the dim, almost lifeless eyes looked pathetically up into those of the

young commander. There was a moment of almost breathless silence,

broken only by a faint moan from Wren's tortured lips and the childish

whimpering of that other--the half-crazed, terror-stricken soldier.



"Elise," came the whisper, barely audible, as Carmody strove to lift his

head, "she--promised"--but the head sank back on Blakely's knee. Stern

was shouting at the stone gate--shouting and springing to his feet and

swinging his old scouting hat and gazing wildly down the canon. "For

God's sake hush, man!" cried the lieutenant. "I must hear Carmody." But

Stern was past further shouting now. Sinking on his knees, he was

sobbing aloud. Scrambling out into the daylight of the opening, but

still shrinking within its shelter, the half-crazed, half-broken soldier

stood stretching forth his arms and calling wild words down the echoing

gorge, where sounds of shouting, lusty-lunged, and a ringing order or

two, and then the clamor of carbine shots, told of the coming of rescue

and new life and hope, and food and friends, and still Blakely knelt and

circled that dying head with the one arm left him, and pleaded and

besought--even commanded. But never again would word or order stir the

soldier's willing pulse. The sergeant and his story had drifted

together beyond the veil, and Blakely, slowly rising, found the lighted

entrance swimming dizzily about him, first level and then up-ended;

found himself sinking, whither he neither knew nor cared; found the

canon filling with many voices, the sound of hurrying feet and then of

many rushing waters, and then--how was it that all was dark without the

cave, and lighted--lantern-lighted--here within? They had had no

lantern, no candle. Here were both, and here was a familiar face--old

Heartburn's--bending reassuringly over Wren, and someone was ----. Why,

where was Carmody? Gone! And but a moment ago that dying head was there

on his knee, and then it was daylight, too, and now--why, it must be

after nightfall, else why these lanterns? And then old Heartburn came

bending over him in turn, and then came a rejoiceful word:



"Hello, Bugs! Well, it is high time you woke up! Here, take a swig

of this!"



Blakely drank and sat up presently, dazed, and Heartburn went on with

his cheery talk. "One of you men out there call Captain Stout. Tell

him Mr. Blakely's up and asking for him," and, feeling presently a

glow of warmth coursing in his veins, the Bugologist roused to a

sitting posture and began to mumble questions. And then a burly shadow

appeared at the entrance, black against the ruddy firelight in the

canon without, where other forms began to appear. Down on his knee

came Stout to clasp his one available hand and even clap him on the

back and send unwelcome jar through his fevered, swollen arm. "Good

boy, Bugs! You're coming round famously. We'll start you back to Sandy

in the morning, you and Wren, for nursing, petting, and all that sort

of thing. They are lashing the saplings now for your litters, and

we've sent for Graham, too, and he'll meet you on the the way, while

we shove on after Shield's people."



"Shield--Raven Shield?" queried Blakely, still half dazed. "Shield was

killed--at Sandy," and yet there was the memory of the voice he knew

and heard in this very canon.



"Shield, yes; and now his brother heads them. Didn't he send his card

down to you, after the donicks, and be damned to him? You foregathered

with both of them at the agency. Oh, they're all alike, Bugs, once

they're started on the warpath. Now we must get you out into the open

for a while. The air's better."



And so, an hour later, his arm carefully dressed and bandaged,

comforted by needed food and fragrant tea and the news that Wren was

reviving under the doctor's ministrations, and would surely mend and

recover, Blakely lay propped by the fire and heard the story of

Stout's rush through the wilderness to their succor. Never waiting for

the dawn, after a few hours' rest at Beaver Spring, the sturdy

doughboys had eagerly followed their skilled and trusted leader all

the hours from eleven, stumbling, but never halting even for rest or

rations, and at last had found the trail four miles below in the

depths of the canon. There some scattering shots had met them, arrow

and rifle both, from up the heights, and an effort was made to delay

their progress. Wearied and footsore though were his men, they had

driven the scurrying foe from rock to rock and then, in a lull that

followed, had heard the distant sound of firing that told them whither

to follow on. Only one man, Stern, was able to give them coherent word

or welcome when at last they came, for Chalmers and Carmody lay dead,

Wren in a stupor, Blakely in a deathlike swoon, and "that poor chap

yonder" loony and hysterical as a crazy man. Thank God they had not,

as they had first intended, waited for the break of day.



Another dawn and Stout and most of his men had pushed on after the

Apaches and in quest of the troop at Sunset Pass. By short stages the

soldiers left in charge were to move the wounded homeward. By noon

these latter were halted under the willows by a little stream. The

guards were busy filling canteens and watering pack mules, when the

single sentry threw his rifle to the position of "ready" and the gun

lock clicked loud. Over the stony ridge to the west, full a thousand

yards away, came a little band of riders in single file, four men in

all. Wren was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Blakely, feverish and

excited, was wide awake. Mercifully the former never heard the first

question asked by the leading rider--Arnold, the ranchman--as he came

jogging into the noonday bivouac. Stone, sergeant commanding, had run

forward to meet and acquaint him with the condition of the rescued

men. "Got there in time then, thank God!" he cried, as wearily he

flung himself out of saddle and glanced quickly about him. There lay

Wren, senseless and still between the lashed ribs of his litter. There

lay Blakely, smiling feebly and striving to hold forth a wasted hand,

but Arnold saw it not. Swiftly his eyes flitted from face to face,

from man to man, then searched the little knot of mules, sidelined and

nibbling at the stunted herbage in the glen. "I don't see Punch," he

faltered. "Wh-where's Miss Angela?"



More

;