Whose Letters?

: An Apache Princess

There is something about a night alarm of fire at a military post that

borders on the thrilling. In the days whereof we write the buildings

were not the substantial creations of brick and stone to be seen

to-day, and those of the scattered "camps" and stations in that arid,

sun-scorched land of Arizona were tinder boxes of the flimsiest and

most inflammable kind.



It could hardly have been a minute from th
warning shot and yell of

No. 5--repeated right and left by other sentries and echoed by No. 1

at the guard-house--before bugle and trumpet were blaring their fierce

alarm, and the hoarse roar of the drum was rousing the inmates of the

infantry barracks. Out they came, tumbling pell-mell into the

accustomed ranks, confronted by the sight of Blakely's quarters one

broad sheet of flame. With incredible speed the blaze had burst forth

from the front room on the lower floor; leaped from window to window,

from ledge to ledge; fastened instantly on overhanging roof, and the

shingled screen of the veranda; had darted up the dry wooden stairway,

devouring banister, railing, and snapping pine floor, and then,

billowing forth from every crack, crevice, and casement of the upper

floor streamed hissing and crackling on the blackness that precedes

the dawn, a magnificent glare that put to shame the feeble signal

fires lately gleaming in the mountains. Luckily there was no

wind--there never was a wind at Sandy--and the flames leaped straight

for the zenith, lashing their way into the huge black pillar of smoke

cloud sailing aloft to the stars.



Under their sergeants, running in disciplined order, one company had

sped for the water wagon and were now slowly trundling that unwieldy

vehicle, pushing, pulling, straining at the wheels, from its night

berth close to the corrals. Rushing like mad, in no order at all, the

men of the other company came tearing across the open parade, and were

faced and halted far out in front of officers' row by Blakely himself,

barefooted and clad only in his pyjamas, but all alive with vim and

energy.



"Back, men! back for your blankets!" he cried. "Bring ladders and

buckets! Back with you, lively!" They seemed to catch his meaning at

the instant. His soldier home with everything it contained was doomed.

Nothing could save it. But there stood the next quarters,--Truman's

and Westervelt's double set,--and in the intense heat that must

speedily develop, it might well be that the dry, resinous woodwork

that framed the adobe would blaze forth on its own account and spread

a conflagration down the line. Already Mrs. Truman, with Norah and the

children, was being hurried down to the doctor's, while Truman

himself, with the aid of two or three neighboring "strikers," had

stripped the beds of their single blanket and, bucketing these with

water, was slashing at the veranda roof and cornice along the

northward side.



Somebody came with a short ladder, and in another moment three or four

adventurous spirits, led by Blakely and Truman, were scrambling about

the veranda roof, their hands and faces glowing in the gathering heat,

spreading blankets over the shingling and cornice. In five minutes all

that was left of Blakely's little homestead was gone up in smoke and

fierce, furious heat and flame, but the daring and well-directed

effort of the garrison had saved the rest of the line. In ten minutes

nothing but a heap of glowing beams and embers, within four crumbling

walls of adobe, remained of the "beetle shop." Bugs, butterflies,

books, chests, desk, trunks, furniture, papers, and such martial

paraphernalia as a subaltern might require in that desert land, had

been reduced to ashes before their owner's eyes. He had not saved so

much as a shoe. His watch, lying on the table by his bedside, a silk

handkerchief, and a little scrap of a note, written in girlish hand

and carried temporarily in the breast pocket, were the only items he

had managed to bring with him into the open air. He was still gasping,

gagging, half-strangling, when Captain Cutler accosted him to know if

he could give the faintest explanation of the starting of so strange

and perilous a fire, and Blakely, remembering the stealthy footsteps

and that locked or bolted door, could not but say he believed it

incendiary, yet could think of no possible motive.



It was daybreak as the little group of spectators, women and children

of the garrison, began to break up and return to their homes, all

talking excitedly, all intolerant of the experiences of others, and

centered solely in the narrative of their own. Leaving a dozen men

with buckets, readily filled from the acequia which turned the old

water wheel just across the post of No. 4, and sending the big water

wagon down to the stream for another liquid load, the infantry went

back to their barracks and early coffee. The drenched blankets, one by

one, were stripped from the gable end of Truman's quarters, every

square inch of the paint thereon being now a patch of tiny blisters,

and there, as the dawn broadened and the pallid light took on again a

tinge of rose, the officers gathered about Blakely in his scorched and

soaked pyjamas, extending both condolence and congratulation.



"The question is, Blakely," remarked Captain Westervelt dryly, "will

you go to Frisco to refit now, or wait till Congress reimburses?"

whereat the scientist was observed to smile somewhat ruefully. "The

question is, Bugs," burst in young Doty irrepressibly, "will you wear

this rig, or Apache full dress, when you ride after Wren? The runners

start at six," whereat even the rueful smile was observed to vanish,

and without answer Blakely turned away, stepping gingerly into the

heated sand with his bare white feet.



"Don't bother about dousing anything else, sergeant," said he

presently, to the soldier supervising the work of the bucket squad.

"The iron box should be under what's left of my desk--about there,"

and he indicated a charred and steaming heap, visible through a gap in

the doubly baked adobe that had once been the side window. "Lug that

out as soon as you can cool things off. I'll probably be back by that

time." Then, turning again to the group of officers, and ignoring

Doty--Blakely addressed himself to the senior.



"Captain Cutler," said he, "I can fit myself out at the troop quarters

with everything I need for the field, at least, and wire to San

Francisco for what I shall need when we return. I shall be ready to go

with Ahorah at six."



There was a moment of silence. Embarrassment showed plainly in almost

every face. When Cutler spoke it was with obvious effort. Everybody

realized that Blakely, despite severe personal losses, had been the

directing head in checking the progress of the flames. Truman had

borne admirable part, but Blakely was at once leader and actor. He

deserved well of his commander. He was still far from strong. He was

weak and weary. His hands and face were scorched and in places

blistered, yet, turning his back on the ruins of his treasures, he

desired to go at once to join his comrades in the presence of the

enemy. He had missed every previous opportunity of sharing perils and

battle with them. He could afford such loss as that no longer, in view

of what he knew had been said. He had every right, so thought they

all, to go, yet Cutler hesitated. When at last he spoke it was to

temporize.



"You're in no condition for field work, Mr. Blakely," said he. "The

doctor has so assured me, and just now things are taking such shape

I--need you here."



"You will permit me to appeal by wire, sir?" queried Blakely, standing

attention in his bedraggled night garb, and forcing himself to a

semblance of respect that he was far from feeling.



"I--I will consult Dr. Graham and let you know," was the captain's

awkward reply.



Two hours later Neil Blakely, in a motley dress made up of collections

from the troop and trader's stores--a combination costume of blue

flannel shirt, bandanna kerchief, cavalry trousers with machine-made

saddle piece, Tonto moccasins and leggings, fringed gauntlets and a

broad-brimmed white felt hat, strode into the messroom in quest of

eggs and coffee. Doty had been there and vanished. Sick call was

sounding and Graham was stalking across the parade in the direction of

the hospital, too far away to be reached by human voice, unless

uplifted to the pitch of attracting the whole garrison. The telegraph

operator had just clicked off the last of half a dozen messages

scrawled by the lieutenant--orders on San Francisco furnishers for the

new outfit demanded by the occasion, etc., but Captain Cutler was

still mured within his own quarters, declining to see Mr. Blakely

until ready to come to the office. Ahorah and his swarthy partner were

already gone, "started even before six," said the acting sergeant

major, and Blakely was fuming with impatience and sense of something

much amiss. Doty was obviously dodging him, there could be no doubt

of that, for the youngster was between two fires, the post commander's

positive orders on one hand and Blakely's urgent pleadings on the

other.



Over at "C" Troop's quarters was the lieutenant's saddle, ready packed

with blanket, greatcoat, and bulging saddle-bags. Over in "C" Troop's

stables was Deltchay--the lieutenant's bronco charger, ready fed and

groomed, wondering why he was kept in when the other horses were out

at graze. With the saddle kit were the troop carbine and revolver,

Blakely's personal arms being now but stockless tubes of seared and

blistered steel. Back of "C" Troop's quarters lolled a half-breed

Mexican packer, with a brace of mules, one girt with saddle, the other

in shrouding aparejo--diamond-hitched, both borrowed from the post

trader with whom Blakely's note of hand was good as a government four

per cent.--all ready to follow the lieutenant to the field whither

right and duty called him. There, too, was Nixon, the new "striker,"

new clad as was his master, and full panoplied for the field, yet

bemoaning the loss of soldier treasures whose value was never fully

realized until they were irrevocably gone. Six o'clock, six-thirty,

six-forty-five and even seven sped by and still there came no summons

to join the soldier master. There had come instead, when Nixon urged

that he be permitted to lead forth both his own troop horse and

Deltchay, the brief, but significant reply: "Shut yer gab, Nixon.

There's no horse goes till the captain says so!"



At seven o'clock, at last, the post commander came forth from his

doorway; saw across the glaring level of the parade the form of Mr.

Blakely impatiently pacing the veranda at the adjutant's office, and,

instead of going thither, as was his wont, Captain Cutler turned the

other way and strode swiftly to the hospital, where Graham met him at

the bedside of Trooper patient Patrick Mullins. "How is he?" queried

Cutler.



"Sleeping--thank God--and not to be wakened," was the Scotchman's

answer. "He had a bad time of it during the fire."



"What am I to tell Blakely?" demanded Cutler, seeking strength for his

faltering hand. "You're bound to help me now, Graham."



"Let him go and you may make it worse," said the doctor, with a

clamp of his grizzled jaws. "Hold him here and you're sure to."



"Can't you, as post surgeon, tell him he isn't fit to ride?"



"Not when he rides the first half of the night and puts out a nasty

fire the last. Can't you, as post commander, tell him you forbid his

going till you hear from Byrne and investigate the fire?" If Graham

had no patience with a frail woman, he had nothing but contempt for a

weak man. "If he's bound to be up and doing something, though," he

added, "send him out with a squad of men and orders to hunt for

Downs."



Cutler had never even thought of it. Downs was still missing. No one

had seen him. His haunts had been searched to no purpose. His horse

was still with the herd. One man, the sergeant of the guard, the

previous day, had marked the brief farewell between the missing man

and the parting maid--had seen the woman's gloved hand stealthily put

forth and the little folded packet passed to the soldier's ready palm.

What that paper contained no man ventured to conjecture. Cutler and

Graham, notified by Sergeant Kenna of what he had seen, puzzled over

it in vain. Norah Shaughnessy could perhaps unravel it, thought the

doctor, but he did not say.



Cutler came forth from the shaded depths of the broad hallway to face

the dazzling glare of the morning sunshine, and the pale, stern,

reproachful features of the homeless lieutenant, who simply raised his

hand in salute and said: "I've been ready two hours, sir, and the

runners are long gone."



"Too long and too far for you to catch them now," said Cutler,

catching at another straw. "And there is far more important matter

here. Mr. Blakely, I want that man Downs followed, found, and brought

back to this post, and you're the only man to do it. Take a dozen

troopers, if necessary, and set about it, sir, at once."



A soldier was at the moment hurrying past the front of the hospital, a

grimy-looking packet in his hand. Hearing the voice of Captain Cutler,

he turned, saw Lieutenant Blakely standing there at attention, saw

that, as the captain finished, Blakely still remained a moment as

though about to speak--saw that he seemed a trifle dazed or stunned.

Cutler marked it, too. "This is imperative and immediate, Mr.

Blakely," said he, not unkindly. "Pull yourself together if you are

fit to go at all, and lose no more time." With that he started away.

Graham had come to the doorway, but Blakely never seemed to see him.

Instead he suddenly roused and, turning sharp, sprang down the wooden

steps as though to overtake the captain, when the soldier, saluting,

held forth the dingy packet.



"It was warped out of all shape, sir," said he. "The blacksmith pried

out the lid wid a crowbar. The books are singed and soaked and the

packages charred--all but this."



It fell apart as it passed from hand to hand, and a lot of letters,

smoke-stained, scorched at the edges, and some of them soaking wet,

also two or three carte de visite photographs, were scattered on the

sand. Both men bobbed in haste to gather them up, and Graham came

hurriedly down to help. As Blakely straightened again he swayed and

staggered slightly, and the doctor grasped him by the arm, a sudden

clutch that perhaps shook loose some of the recovered papers from the

long, slim fingers. At all events, a few went suddenly back to earth,

and, as Cutler turned, wondering what was amiss, he saw Blakely, with

almost ashen face, supported by the doctor's sturdy arm to a seat on

the edge of the piazza; saw, as he quickly retraced his steps, a sweet

and smiling woman's face looking up at him out of the trampled sands,

and, even as he stooped to recover the pretty photograph, though it

looked far younger, fairer, and more winsome than ever he had seen it,

Cutler knew the face at once. It was that of Clarice, wife of Major

Plume. Whose, then, were those scattered letters?



More

;