Woman-walk-in-the-night

: An Apache Princess

The dawn of another cloudless day was breaking and the dim lights at

the guard-house and the hospital burned red and bleary across the

sandy level of the parade. The company cooks were already at their

ranges, and a musician of the guard had been sent to rouse his fellows

in the barracks, for the old-style reveille still held good at many a

post in Arizona, before the drum and fife were almost entirely

abandoned in fav r of the harsher bugle, by the infantry of our

scattered little army. Plume loved tradition. At West Point, where he

had often visited in younger days, and at all the "old-time"

garrisons, the bang of the morning gun and the simultaneous crash of

the drums were the military means devised to stir the soldier from his

sleep. Then, his brief ablutions were conducted to the accompaniment

of the martial strains of the field musicians, alternating the sweet

airs of Moore and Burns, the lyrics of Ireland and Auld Reekie, with

quicksteps from popular Yankee melodies of the day, winding up with a

grand flourish at the foot of the flagstaff, to whose summit the flag

had started at the first alarum; then a rush into rattling "double

quick" that summoned the laggards to scurry into the silently forming

ranks, and finally, with one emphatic rataplan, the morning concert

abruptly closed and the gruff voices of the first sergeants, in

swift-running monotone, were heard calling the roll of their shadowy

companies, and, thoroughly roused, the garrison "broke ranks" for the

long routine of the day.



We have changed all that, and not for the better. A solitary trumpeter

steps forth from the guard-house or adjutant's office and, at the

appointed time, drones a long, dispiriting strain known to the drill

books as "Assembly of the Trumpeters," and to the army at large as

"First Call." Unassisted by other effort, it would rouse nobody, but

from far and near the myriad dogs of the post--"mongrel, hound, and

cur of low degree"--lift up their canine voices in some indefinable

sympathy and stir the winds of the morning with their mournful yowls.

Then, when all the garrison gets up cursing and all necessity for

rousing is ended, the official reveille begins, sounded by the

combined trumpeters, and so, uncheered by concord of sweet sounds, the

soldier begins his day.



The two infantry companies at Sandy, at the time whereof we tell, were of

an honored old regiment that had fought with Worth at Monterey--one whose

scamps of drum boys and fifers had got their teachings from predecessors

whose nimble fingers had trilled the tunes of old under the walls of the

Bishop's Palace and in the resounding Halls of the Montezumas. Plume and

Cutler loved their joyous, rhythmical strains, and would gladly have kept

the cavalry clarions for purely cavalry calls; but reveille and

guard-mounting were the only ones where this was practicable, and an odd

thing had become noticeable. Apache Indians sometimes stopped their ears,

and always looked impolite, when the brazen trumpets sounded close at hand;

whereas they would squat on the sun-kissed sands and listen in stolid,

unmurmuring bliss to every note of the fife and drum. Members of the guard

were always sure of sympathetic spectators during the one regular

ceremony--guard-mounting--held just after sunset, for the Apache prisoners

at the guard-house begged to be allowed to remain without the prison room

until a little after the "retreat" visit of the officer of the day, and,

roosting along the guard-house porch, to gaze silently forth at the little

band of soldiery in the center of the parade, and there to listen as

silently to the music of the fife and drum. The moment it was all over they

would rise without waiting for directions, and shuffle stolidly back to

their hot wooden walls. They had had the one intellectual treat of the day.

The savage breast was soothed for the time being, and Plume had come to the

conclusion that, aside from the fact that his Indian prisoners were better

fed than when on their native heath, the Indian prison pen at Sandy was not

the place of penance the department commander had intended. Accessions

became so frequent; discharges so very few.



Then there was another symptom: Sentries on the north and east front,

Nos. 4 and 5, had been a bit startled at first at seeing, soon after

dawn, shadowy forms rising slowly from the black depths of the valley,

hovering uncertainly along the edge of the mesa until they could

make out the lone figure of the morning watcher, then slowly,

cautiously, and with gestures of amity and suppliance, drawing

gradually nearer. Sturdy Germans and mercurial Celts were, at the

start, disposed to "shoo" away these specters as being hostile, or at

least incongruous. But officers and men were soon made to see it was

to hear the morning music these children of the desert flocked so

early. The agency lay but twenty miles distant. The reservation lines

came no nearer; but the fame of the invader's big maple tom-tom (we

wore still the deep, resonant drum of Bunker Hill and Waterloo, of

Jemappes, Saratoga, and Chapultepec, not the modern rattle pan

borrowed from Prussia), and the trill of his magical pipe had spread

abroad throughout Apache land to the end that no higher reward for

good behavior could be given by the agent to his swarthy charges than

the begged-for papel permitting them, in lumps of twenty, to trudge

through the evening shades to the outskirts of the soldier castle on

the mesa, there to wait the long night through until the soft

tinting of the eastward heavens and the twitter of the birdlings in

the willows along the stream, gave them courage to begin their timid

approach.



And this breathless October morning was no exception. The sentry on

the northward line, No. 4, had recognized and passed the post surgeon

soon after four o'clock, hastening to hospital in response to a

summons from an anxious nurse. Mullins seemed far too feverish. No. 4

as well as No. 5 had noted how long the previous evening Shannon and

his men kept raking and searching about the mesa where Mullins was

stabbed in the early morning, and they were in no mood to allow

strangers to near them unchallenged. The first shadowy forms to show

at the edge had dropped back abashed at the harsh reception accorded

them. Four's infantry rifle and Five's cavalry carbine had been

leveled at the very first to appear, and stern voices had said things

the Apache could neither translate nor misunderstand. The would-be

audience of the morning concert ducked and waited. With more light the

sentry might be more kind. The evening previous six new prisoners had

been sent down under strong guard by the agent, swelling the list at

Sandy to thirty-seven and causing Plume to set his teeth--and an extra

sentry. Now, as the dawn grew broader and the light clear and strong,

Four and Five were surprised, if not startled, to see that not twenty,

but probably forty Apaches, with a sprinkling of squaws, were hovering

all along the mesa, mutely watching for the signaled permission to

come in. Five, at least, considered the symptom one of sufficient

gravity to warrant report to higher authority, and full ten minutes

before the time for reveille to begin, his voice went echoing over the

arid parade in a long-draw, yet imperative "Corporal of the Gua-a-rd,

No. 5!"



Whereat there were symptoms of panic among the dingy white-shirted,

dingy white-turbaned watchers along the edge, and a man in snowy white

fatigue coat, pacing restlessly up and down in rear, this time, of the

major's quarters, whirled suddenly about and strode out on the

mesa, gazing northward in the direction of the sound. It was Plume

himself, and Plume had had a sleepless night.



At tattoo, by his own act and direction, the major had still further

strained the situation. The discovery of Blakely's watch, buried

loosely in the sands barely ten feet from where the sentry fell, had

seemed to him a matter of such significance that, as Graham maintained

an expression of professional gravity and hazarded no explanation, the

major sent for the three captains still on duty, Cutler, Sanders, and

Westervelt, and sought their views. One after another each picked up

and closely examined the watch, within and without, as though

expectant of finding somewhere concealed about its mechanism full

explanation of its mysterious goings and comings. Then in turn, with

like gravity, each declared he had no theory to offer, unless, said

Sanders, Mr. Blakely was utterly mistaken in supposing he had been

robbed at the pool. Mr. Blakely had the watch somewhere about him when

he dismounted, and then joggled it into the sands, where it soon was

trampled under foot. Sanders admitted that Blakely was a man not often

mistaken, and that the loss reported to the post trader of the flat

notebook was probably correct. But no one could be got to see, much

less to say, that Wren was in the slightest degree connected with the

temporary disappearance of the watch. Yet by this time Plume had some

such theory of his own.



Sometime during the previous night, along toward morning, he had

sleepily asked his wife, who was softly moving about the room, to

give him a little water. The "monkey" stood usually on the window

sill, its cool and dewy surface close to his hand; but he remembered

later that she did not then approach the window--did not immediately

bring him the glass. He had retired very late, yet was hardly

surprised to find her wide awake and more than usually nervous. She

explained by saying Elise had been quite ill, was still suffering, and

might need her services again. She could not think, she said, of

sending for Dr. Graham after all he had had to vex him. It must have

been quite a long while after, so soundly had Plume slept, when she

bent over him and said something was amiss and Mr. Doty was at the

front door waiting for him to come down. He felt oddly numb and heavy

and stupid as he hastily dressed, but Doty's tidings, that Mullins had

been stabbed on post, pulled him together, as it were, and, merely

running back to his room for his canvas shoes, he was speedily at the

scene. Mrs. Plume, when briefly told what had happened, had covered

her face with her hands and buried face and all in the pillow,

shuddering. At breakfast-time Plume himself had taken her tea and

toast, both mistress and maid being still on the invalid list, and,

bending affectionately over her, he had suggested her taking this very

light refreshment and then a nap. Graham, he said, should come and

prescribe for Elise. But madame was feverishly anxious. "What will be

the outcome? What will happen to--Captain Wren?" she asked.



Plume would not say just what, but he would certainly have to stand

court-martial, said he. Mrs. Plume shuddered more. What good would

that do? How much better it would be to suppress everything than set

such awful scandal afloat. The matter was now in the hands of the

department commander, said Plume, and would have to take its course.

Then, in some way, from her saying how ill the captain was looking,

Plume gathered the impression that she had seen him since his arrest,

and asked the question point-blank. Yes, she admitted,--from the

window,--while she was helping Elise. Where was he? What was he doing?

Plume had asked, all interest now, for that must have been very late,

in fact, well toward morning. "Oh, nothing especial, just looking at

his watch," she thought, "he probably couldn't sleep." Yes, she was

sure he was looking at his watch.



Then, as luck would have it, late in the day, when the mail came down

from Prescott, there was a little package for Captain Wren, expressed,

and Doty signed the receipt and sent it by the orderly. "What was it?"

asked Plume. "His watch, sir," was the brief answer. "He sent it up

last month for repairs." And Mrs. Plume at nine that night, knowing

nothing of this, yet surprised at her husband's pertinacity, stuck to

her story. She was sure Wren was consulting or winding or doing

something with a watch, and, sorely perplexed and marveling much at

the reticence of his company commanders, who seemed to know something

they would not speak of, Wren sent for Doty. He had decided on another

interview with Wren.



Meanwhile "the Bugologist" had been lying patiently in his cot,

saying little or nothing, in obedience to the doctor's orders, but

thinking who knows what. Duane and Doty occasionally tiptoed in to

glance inquiry at the fanning attendant, and then tiptoed out. Mullins

had been growing worse and was a very sick man. Downs, the wretch, was

painfully, ruefully, remorsefully sobered over at the post of the

guard, and of Graham's feminine patients the one most in need,

perhaps, of his ministration was giving the least trouble. While Aunt

Janet paced restlessly about the lower floor, stopping occasionally to

listen at the portal of her brother, Angela Wren lay silent and only

sometimes sighing, with faithful Kate Sanders reading in low tone by

the bedside.



The captains had gone back to their quarters, conferring in subdued

voices. Plume, with his unhappy young adjutant, was seated on the

veranda, striving to frame his message to Wren, when the crack of a

whip, the crunching of hoofs and wheels, sounded at the north end of

the row, and down at swift trot came a spanking, four-mule team and

Concord wagon. It meant but one thing, the arrival of the general's

staff inspector straight from Prescott.



It was the very thing Plume had urged by telegraph, yet the very fact

that Colonel Byrne was here went to prove that the chief was far from

satisfied that the major's diagnosis was the right one. With soldierly

alacrity, however, Plume sprang forward to welcome the coming

dignitary, giving his hand to assist him from the dark interior into

the light. Then he drew back in some chagrin. The voice of Colonel

Byrne was heard, jovial and reassuring, but the face and form first to

appear were those of Mr. Wayne Daly, the new Indian agent at the

Apache reservation. Coming by the winding way of Cherry Creek, the

colonel must have found means to wire ahead, then to pick up this

civil functionary some distance up the valley, and to have some

conference with him before ever reaching the major's bailiwick. This

was not good, said Plume. All the same, he led them into his cozy army

parlor, bade his Chinese servant get abundant supper forthwith, and,

while the two were shown to the spare room to remove the dust of miles

of travel, once more returned to the front piazza and his adjutant.



"Captain Wren, sir," said the young officer at once, "begs to be

allowed to see Colonel Byrne this evening. He states that his reasons

are urgent."



"Captain Wren shall have every opportunity to see Colonel Byrne in due

season," was the answer. "It is not to be expected that Colonel Byrne

will see him until after he has seen the post commander. Then it will

probably be too late," and that austere reply, intended to reach the

ears of the applicant, steeled the Scotchman's heart against his

commander and made him merciless.



The "conference of the powers" was indeed protracted until long after

10.30, yet, to Plume's surprise, the colonel at its close said he

believed he would go, if Plume had no objection, and see Wren in

person and at once. "You see, Plume, the general thinks highly of the

old Scot. He has known him ever since First Bull Run and, in fact, I

am instructed to hear what Wren may have to say. I hope you will not

misinterpret the motive."



"Oh, not at all--not at all!" answered the major, obviously ill

pleased, however, and already nettled that, against all precedent,

certain of the Apache prisoners had been ordered turned out as late as

10 P. M. for interview with the agent. It would leave him alone, too,

for as much as half an hour, and the very air seemed surcharged with

intrigue against the might, majesty, power, and dominion of the post

commander. Byrne, a soldier of the old school, might do his best to

convince the major that in no wise was the confidence of the general

commanding abated, but every symptom spoke of something to the

contrary. "I should like, too, to see Dr. Graham to-night," said the

official inquisitor ere he quitted the piazza to go to Wren's next

door. "He will be here to meet you on your return," said Plume, with

just a bit of stateliness, of ruffled dignity in manner, and turned

once more within the hallway to summon his smiling Chinaman.



Something rustling at the head of the stairs caused him to look up

quickly. Something dim and white was hovering, drooping, over the

balustrade, and, springing aloft, he found his wife in a half-fainting

condition, Elise, the invalid, sputtering vehemently in French and

making vigorous effort to pull her away. Plume had left her at 8.30,

apparently sleeping at last under the influence of Graham's medicine.

Yet here she was again. He lifted her in his arms and laid her upon

the broad, white bed. "Clarice, my child," he said, "you must be

quiet. You must not leave your bed. I am sending for Graham and he

will come to us at once."



"I will not see him! He shall not see me!" she burst in wildly.

"The man maddens me with his--his insolence."



"Clarice!"



"Oh, I mean it! He and his brother Scot, between them--they would

infuriate a--saint," and she was writhing in nervous contortions.



"But, Clarice, how?"



"But, monsieur, no!" interposed Elise, bending over, glass in hand.

"Madame will but sip of this--Madame will be tranquil." And the major

felt himself thrust aside. "Madame must not talk to-night. It is too

much."



But madame would talk. Madame would know where Colonel Byrne was gone,

whether he was to be permitted to see Captain Wren and Dr. Graham, and

that wretch Downs. Surely the commanding officer must have some

rights. Surely it was no time for investigation--this hour of the

night. Five minutes earlier Plume was of the same way of thinking. Now

he believed his wife delirious.



"See to her a moment, Elise," said he, breaking loose from the clasp

of the long, bejeweled fingers, and, scurrying down the stairs, he

came face to face with Dr. Graham.



"I was coming for you," said he, at sight of the rugged, somber face.

"Mrs. Plume--"



"I heard--at least I comprehend," answered Graham, with uplifted hand.

"The lady is in a highly nervous state, and my presence does not tend

to soothe her. The remedies I left will take effect in time. Leave her

to that waiting woman; she best understands her."



"But she's almost raving, man. I never knew a woman to behave like

that."



"Ye're not long married, major," answered Graham. "Come into the air a

bit," and, taking his commander's arm, the surgeon swept him up the

starlit row, then over toward the guard-house, and kept him half an

hour watching the strange interview between Mr. Daly, the agent, and

half a dozen gaunt, glittering-eyed Apaches, from whom he was striving

to get some admission or information, with Arahawa, "Washington

Charley," as interpreter. One after another the six had shaken their

frowsy heads. They admitted nothing--knew nothing.



"What do you make of it all?" queried Plume.



"Something's wrang at the reservation," answered Graham. "There mostly

is. Daly thinks there's running to and fro between the Tontos in the

Sierra Ancha country and his wards above here. He thinks there's more

out than there should be--and more a-going. What'd you find, Daly?" he

added, as the agent joined them, mechanically wiping his brow.

Moisture there was none. It evaporated fast as the pores exuded.



"They know well enough, damn them!" said the new official. "But they

think I can be stood off. I'll nail 'em yet--to-morrow," he added.

"But could you send a scout at once to the Tonto basin?" and Daly

turned eagerly to the post commander.



Plume reflected. Whom could he send? Men there were in plenty,

dry-rotting at the post for lack of something to limber their joints;

but officers to lead? There was the rub! Thirty troopers, twenty

Apache Mohave guides, a pack train and one or, at most, two officers

made up the usual complement of such expeditions. Men, mounts, scouts,

mules and packers, all, were there at his behest; but, with Wren in

arrest, Sanders and Lynn back but a week from a long prod through the

Black Mesa country far as Fort Apache, Blakely invalided and Duane a

boy second lieutenant, his choice of cavalry officers was limited. It

never occurred to him to look beyond.



"What's the immediate need of a scout?" said he.



"To break up the traffic that's going on--and the rancherias they must

have somewhere down there. If we don't, I'll not answer for another

month." Daly might be new to the neighborhood, but not to the

business.



"I'll confer with Colonel Byrne," answered Plume guardedly. And Byrne

was waiting for them, a tall, dark shadow in the black depths of the

piazza. Graham would have edged away and gone to his own den, but

Plume held to him. There was something he needed to say, yet could not

until the agent had retired. Daly saw,--perhaps he had already imbibed

something of the situation,--and was not slow to seek his room. Plume

took the little kerosene lamp; hospitably led the way; made the

customary tender of a "night-cap," and polite regrets he had no ice

to offer therewith; left his unwonted guest with courteous good-night

and cast an eye aloft as he came through the hall. All there was dark

and still, though he doubted much that Graham's sedatives had yet

prevailed. He had left the two men opposite the doorway. He found them

at the south end of the piazza, their heads together. They

straightened up to perfunctory talk about the Medical Director, his

drastic methods and inflammable ways; but the mirth was forced, the

humor far too dry. Then silence fell. Then Plume invaded it:



"How'd you find Wren--mentally?" he presently asked. He felt that an

opening of some kind was necessary.



"Sound," was the colonel's answer, slow and sententious. "Of course he

is much--concerned."



"About--his case? Ah, will you smoke, colonel?"



"About Blakely. I believe not, Plume; it's late."



Plume struck a light on the sole of his natty boot. "One would suppose

he would feel very natural anxiety as to the predicament in which he

has placed himself," he ventured.



"Wren worries much over Blakely's injuries, which accident made far

more serious than he would have inflicted, major, even had he had the

grounds for violence that he thought he had. Blakely was not the only

sufferer, and is not the only cause, of his deep contrition. Wren

tells me that he was even harsher to Angela. But that is all a family

matter." The colonel was speaking slowly, thoughtfully.



"But--these later affairs--that Wren couldn't explain--or wouldn't."

Plume's voice and color both were rising.



"Couldn't is the just word, major, and couldn't especially--to you,"

was the significant reply.



Plume rose from his chair and stood a moment, trembling not a little

and his fingers twitching. "You mean--" he huskily began.



"I mean this, my friend," said Byrne gently, as he, too, arose, "and I

have asked Graham, another friend, to be here--that Wren would not

defend himself to you by even mentioning--others, and might not have

revealed the truth even to me had he been the only one cognizant of

it. But, Plume, others saw what he saw, and what is now known to

many people on the post. Others than Wren were abroad that night. One

other was being carefully, tenderly brought home--led home--to your

roof. You did not know--Mrs. Plume was a somnambulist?"



In the dead silence that ensued the colonel put forth a pitying hand

as though to stay and support the younger soldier, the post commander.

Plume stood, swaying a bit, and staring. Presently he strove to speak,

but choked in the effort.



"It's the only proper explanation," said Graham, and between them they

led the major within doors.



And this is how it happened that he, instead of Wren, was pacing

miserably up and down in the gathering dawn, when the sentry startled

all waking Sandy with his cry for the corporal. This is how, far ahead

of the corporal, the post commander reached the alarmed soldier, with

demand to know the cause; and, even by the time he came, the cause had

vanished from sight.



"Apaches, sir, by the dozen,--all along the edge of the mesa,"

stammered No. 5. He could have convinced the corporal without fear or

thought of ridicule, but his voice lacked confidence when he stood

challenged by his commanding officer. Plume heard with instant

suspicion. He was in no shape for judicial action.



"Apaches!" This in high disdain. "Trash, man! Because one sentry has a

scuffle with some night prowler is the next to lose his nerve? You're

scared by shadows, Hunt. That's what's the matter with you!"



It "brought to" a veteran trooper with a round turn. Hunt had served

his fourth enlistment, had "worn out four blankets" in the regiment,

and was not to be accused of scare.



"Let the major see for himself, then," he answered sturdily. "Come in

here, you!" he called aloud. "Come, the whole gang of ye. The

concert's beginning!" Then, slowly along the eastward edge there began

to creep into view black polls bound with dirty white, black crops

untrammeled by any binding. Then, swift from the west, came running

footfalls, the corporal with a willing comrade or two, wondering was

Five in further danger. There, silent and regretful, stood the post

commander, counting in surprise the score of scarecrow forms now

plainly visible, sitting, standing, or squatting along the mesa

edge. Northernmost in view, nearly opposite Blakely's quarters, were

two, detached from the general assembly, yet clinging close

together--two slender figures, gowned, and it was at these the agent

Daly was staring, as he, too, came running to the spot.



"Major Plume," cried he, panting, "I want those girls arrested, at

once!"