An Apache Princess: A Tale of the Indian Frontier Read online

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  THE FIGHT IN THE CANON]

  AN APACHE PRINCESS

  _A Tale of the Indian Frontier_

  BY

  GENERAL CHARLES KING

  AUTHOR OF "A DAUGHTER OF THE SIOUX," "THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER," "FORT FRAYNE," "AN ARMY WIFE," ETC., ETC.

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY

  FREDERIC REMINGTON

  _and_

  EDWIN WILLARD DEMING

  NEW YORK THE HOBART COMPANY 1903

  COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY THE HOBART COMPANY.

  * * * * *

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  THE MEETING BY THE WATERS,

  CHAPTER II

  SCOT VERSUS SAXON,

  CHAPTER III

  MOCCASIN TRACKS,

  CHAPTER IV

  A STRICKEN SENTRY,

  CHAPTER V

  THE CAPTAIN'S DEFIANCE,

  CHAPTER VI

  A FIND IN THE SANDS,

  CHAPTER VII

  "WOMAN-WALK-IN-THE-NIGHT,"

  CHAPTER VIII

  "APACHE KNIVES DIG DEEP,"

  CHAPTER IX

  A CARPET KNIGHT, INDEED,

  CHAPTER X

  "WOMAN-WALK-IN-THE NIGHT" AGAIN,

  CHAPTER XI

  A STOP--BY WIRE,

  CHAPTER XII

  FIRE!

  CHAPTER XIII

  WHOSE LETTERS?

  CHAPTER XIV

  AUNT JANET BRAVED,

  CHAPTER XV

  A CALL FOR HELP,

  CHAPTER XVI

  A RETURN TO COMMAND,

  CHAPTER XVII

  A STRANGE COMING,

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A STRANGER GOING,

  CHAPTER XIX

  BESIEGED,

  CHAPTER XX

  WHERE IS ANGELA?

  CHAPTER XXI

  OUR VANISHED PRINCESS,

  CHAPTER XXII

  SUSPENSE,

  CHAPTER XXIII

  AN APACHE QUEEN,

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE MEETING AT SANDY,

  CHAPTER XXV

  RESCUE REQUITED,

  CHAPTER XXVI

  "WOMAN-WALK-NO-MORE,"

  CHAPTER XXVII

  THE PARTING BY THE WATERS,

  _L'ENVOI_

  * * * * *

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  FRONTISPIECE

  "NOW HALTING, DROPPING ON ONE KNEE TO FIRE,"

  "BLAKELY LED 'EM ACROSS NO. 4'S POST,"

  THE FIGHT IN THE CANON,

  "INDIAN SIGNALS BEYOND POSSIBILITY OF A DOUBT,"

  "THEN SLOWLY, THEY SAW HER RAISE HER RIGHT HAND,STILL CAUTIOUSLY HOLDING THE LITTLE MIRROR,"

  "THEY HUSTLED HER PONY INTO A RAVINE,"

  "NATZIE WRENCHED HER HAND FROM THAT OF BLAKELY,AND WITH THE SPRING OF A TIGRESS BOUNDED AWAY,"

  * * * * *

  AN APACHE PRINCESS

  CHAPTER I

  THE MEETING BY THE WATERS

  Under the willows at the edge of the pool a young girl satdaydreaming, though the day was nearly done. All in the valley waswrapped in shadow, though the cliffs and turrets across the streamwere resplendent in a radiance of slanting sunshine. Not a cloudtempered the fierce glare of the arching heavens or softened the sharpoutline of neighboring peak or distant mountain chain. Not a whisperof breeze stirred the drooping foliage along the sandy shores orruffled the liquid mirror surface. Not a sound, save drowsy hum ofbeetle or soft murmur of rippling waters, among the pebbly shallowsbelow, broke the vast silence of the scene. The snow cap, gleaming atthe northern horizon, lay one hundred miles away and looked but aneasy one-day march. The black upheavals of the Matitzal, barring thesouthward valley, stood sullen and frowning along the Verde, jealousof the westward range that threw their rugged gorges into early shade.Above and below the still and placid pool and but a few miles distant,the pine-fringed, rocky hillsides came shouldering close to thestream, but fell away, forming a deep, semicircular basin toward thewest, at the hub of which stood bolt-upright a tall, snowy flagstaff,its shred of bunting hanging limp and lifeless from the peak, and inthe dull, dirt-colored buildings of adobe, ranged in rigid lines aboutthe dull brown, flat-topped _mesa_, a thousand yards up stream abovethe pool, drowsed a little band of martial exiles, stationed here tokeep the peace 'twixt scattered settlers and swarthy, swarmingApaches. The fort was their soldier home; the solitary girl asoldier's daughter.

  She could hardly have been eighteen. Her long, slim figure, in itsclinging riding habit, betrayed, despite roundness and supple grace, acertain immaturity. Her hands and feet were long and slender. Hersun-tanned cheek and neck were soft and rounded. Her mouth wasdelicately chiseled and the lips were pink as the heart of aBridesmaid rose, but, being firmly closed, told no tale of the teethwithin, without a peep at which one knew not whether the beauty of thesweet young face was really made or marred. Eyes, eyebrows, lashes,and a wealth of tumbling tresses of rich golden brown were all superb,but who could tell what might be the picture when she opened thosepretty, curving lips to speak or smile? Speak she did not, even to thegreyhounds stretched sprawling in the warm sands at her feet. Smileshe could not, for the young heart was sore troubled.

  Back in the thick of the willows she had left her pony, blinkinglazily and switching his long tail to rid his flanks of humminginsects, but never mustering energy enough to stamp a hoof or straina thread of his horsehair _riata_. Both the long, lean, sprawlinghounds lolled their red, dripping tongues and panted in the sullenheat. Even the girl herself, nervous at first and switching with herdainty whip at the crumbling sands and pacing restlessly to and fro,had yielded gradually to the drooping influences of the hour and,seated on a rock, had buried her chin in the palm of her hand, and,with eyes no longer vagrant and searching, had drifted away intomaiden dreamland. Full thirty minutes had she been there waiting forsomething, or somebody, and it, or he, had not appeared.

  Yet somebody else was there and close at hand. The shadow of thewestward heights had gradually risen to the crest of the rocky cliffsacross the stream. A soft, prolonged call of distant trumpet summonedhomeward, for the coming night, the scattered herds and herd guards ofthe post, and, rising with a sigh of disappointment, the girl turnedtoward her now impatient pony when her ear caught the sound of asmothered hand-clap, and, whirling about in swift hope and surprise,her face once more darkened at sight of an Indian girl, Apacheunquestionably, crouching in the leafy covert of the opposite willowsand pointing silently down stream. For a moment, without love or fearin the eyes of either, the white girl and the brown gazed at eachother across the intervening water mirror and spoke no word. Then,slowly, the former approached the brink, looked in the directionindicated by the little dingy index and saw nothing to warrant therecall. Moreover, she was annoyed to think that all this time,perhaps, the Indian girl had been lurking in that sheltering grove andstealthily watching her. Once more she turned away, this time with atoss of her head that sent the russet-brown tresses tumbling about herslim back and shoulders, and at once the hand-clap was repeated, low,but imperative, and Tonto, t
he biggest of the two big hounds, upliftedone ear and growled a challenge.

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

  For answer the brown girl placed her left forefinger on her lips, andagain distinctly pointed to a little clump of willows a dozen rodsbelow, but on the westward side.

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

  "Sh-sh-sh!" answered the second softly, then pointed again, andpointed eagerly.

  The soldier's daughter glanced about her, uncertainly, a moment, thenslowly, cautiously made her way along the sandy brink in the directionindicated, gathering the folds of her long skirt in her gauntletedhand and stepping lightly in her slender moccasins. A moment or two,and she had reached the edge of a dense little copse and peeredcautiously within. The Indian girl was right. Somebody lay there,apparently asleep, and the fair young intruder recoiled in obviousconfusion, if not dismay. For a moment she stood with fluttering heartand parting lips that now permitted reassuring glimpse of pearlywhite teeth. For a moment she seemed on the verge of panicky retreat,but little by little regained courage and self-poise. What was thereto fear in a sleeping soldier anyhow? She knew who it was at a glance.She could, if she would, whisper his name. Indeed, she had beenwhispering it many a time, day and night, these last two weeksuntil--until certain things about him had come to her ears that madeher shrink in spite of herself from this handsome, petted youngsoldier, this Adonis of her father's troop, Neil Blakely, lieutenantof cavalry.

  "The Bugologist," they called him in cardroom circles at the "store,"where men were fiercely intolerant of other pursuits than poker, forwhich pastime Mr. Blakely had no use whatever--no more use than hadits votaries for him. He was a dreamy sort of fellow, with big blueeyes and a fair skin that were in themselves sufficient to stir therancor of born frontiersmen, and they of Arizona in the days of oldwere an exaggeration of the type in general circulation on the Plains.He was something of a dandy in dress, another thing they loathed;something of a purist in speech, which was affectation unpardonable;something of a dissenter as to drink, appreciative of "Cucumungo" andclaret, but distrustful of whisky--another thing to call down scornillimitable from the elect of the mining camps and packing "outfits."But all these disqualifications might have been overlooked had thelieutenant displayed even a faint preference for poker. "The Lordloveth a cheerful giver--or loser" was the creed of the cardroomcircle at the store, but beyond a casual or smiling peep at the gamefrom the safe distance of the doorway, Mr. Blakely had vouchsafed nointerest in affairs of that character. To the profane disgust of BillHyde, chief packer, and the malevolent, if veiled, criticism ofcertain "sporty" fellow soldiers, Blakely preferred to spend hisleisure hours riding up and down the valley, with a butterfly net overhis shoulders and a japanned tin box slung at his back, searching forspecimens that were scarce as the Scriptures among his commentators.

  Even on this hot October afternoon he had started on his entomologicalwork, but, finding little encouragement and resting a while in theshade, he had dozed away on a sandy couch, his head on his arms, hisbroad-brimmed hat over his face, his shapely legs outstretched inlazy, luxurious enjoyment, his tall and slender form, arrayed in coolwhite blouse and trousers, really a goodly thing to behold. This day,too, he must have come afoot, but his net and box lay there besidehim, and his hunt had been without profit, for both were apparentlyempty. Possibly he had devoted but little time to netting insects.Possibly he had thought to encounter bigger game. If so his zest inthe sport must have been but languid, since he had so soon yielded tothe drowsy influences of the day. There was resentment in the heart ofthe girl as this occurred to her, even though it would have angeredher the more had anyone suggested she had come in hope of seeing orspeaking with him.

  And yet, down in the bottom of her heart, she knew that just such ahope had held her there even to the hour of recall. She knew that,since opportunities for meeting him within the garrison were limited,she had deliberately chosen to ride alone, and farther than she hadever ridden alone before, in hope of meeting him without. She knewthat in the pursuit of his winged prey he never sought the open _mesa_or the ravines and gorges of the foothills. Only along the stream werethey--and he--to be found. Only along the stream, therefore, had shethis day ridden and, failing to see aught of him, had dismounted tothink in quiet by the pool, so she told herself, but incidentally towait and watch for him; and now she had found him, neither watchingnor waiting, but in placid unconcern and slumber.

  One reason why they met so seldom in garrison was that her father didnot like him in the least. The captain was a veteran soldier,self-taught and widely honored, risen from the ranks. The lieutenantwas a man of gentle breeding and of college education, a soldier bychoice, or caprice, yet quite able at any time to quit the service andlive a life of ease, for he had, they said, abundant means of his own.He had been first lieutenant of that troop at least five years, notfive months of which had he served on duty with it. First one general,then another, had needed him as aide-de-camp, and when, on his ownapplication, he had been relieved from staff duty to enable him toaccompany his regiment to this then distant and inhospitable land, hehad little more than reached Camp Sandy when he was sent by thedepartment commander to investigate some irregularity at the Apachereservation up the valley, and then, all unsoliciting, he had beenplaced in charge pending the coming of a new agent to replace theimpeached one going home under guard, and the captain said thingsabout his subaltern's always seeking "fancy duty" that were natural,yet unjust--things that reached Mr. Blakely in exaggerated form, andthat angered him against his senior to the extent of open rupture.Then Blakely took the mountain fever at the agency, thereby stillfurther delaying his return to troop duty, and then began anothercomplication, for the contract doctor, though skillful in histreatment, was less assiduous in nursing than were the wife of thenewly arrived agent and her young companion Lola, daughter of theagency interpreter and his Apache-Yuma wife.

  When well enough to attempt light duty again, the lieutenant hadrejoined at Sandy, and, almost the first face to greet him on hisarrival was one he had never seen before and never forgotthereafter--the sweet, laughing, winsome face of Angela Wren, hiscaptain's only child.

  The regiment had marched into Arizona overland, few of the wives anddaughters with it. Angela, motherless since her seventh year, was atschool in the distant East, together with the daughters of the colonelthen commanding the regiment. They were older; were "finishing" thatsummer, and had amazed that distinguished officer by demanding to beallowed to join him with their mother. When they left the schoolAngela could stand it no longer. She both telegraphed and wrote,begging piteously to be permitted to accompany them on the longjourney by way of San Francisco, and so it had finally been settled.The colonel's household were now at regimental headquarters up atPrescott, and Angela was quite happy at Camp Sandy. She had been therebarely four weeks when Neil Blakely, pale, fragile-looking, and stillfar from strong, went to report for duty at his captain's quarters andwas met at the threshold by his captain's daughter.

  Expecting a girl friend, Kate Sanders, from "down the row," she hadrushed to welcome her, and well-nigh precipitated herself upon astranger in the natty undress uniform of the cavalry. Her instantblush was something beautiful to see. Blakely said the proper thingsto restore tranquillity; smilingly asked for her father, his captain;and, while waiting for that warrior to finish shaving and come down toreceive him, was entertained by Miss Wren in the little army parlor.Looking into her wondrous eyes and happy, blushing face, he forgotthat there was rancor between his troop commander and himself, untilthe captain's stiff, unbending greeting reminded him. Thoughtlesspeople at the post, however, were laughing over the situation a weekthereafter. Neil Blakely, a squire of dames in San Francisco and othercities when serving on staff duty, a society "swell" and clubman, hadobviously become deeply interested in this blithe young army girl,without a cent to her name--with nothing but her beauty, native grace,and sweet, sunshin
y nature to commend her. And everyone hitherto hadsaid Neil Blakely would never marry in the army.

  And there was one woman at Sandy who saw the symptoms with jealous andjaundiced eyes--Clarice, wife of the major then commanding the little"four-company" garrison. Other women took much to heart the fact thatMajor Plume had cordially invited Blakely, on his return from theagency, to be their guest until he could get settled in his ownquarters. The Plumes had rooms to spare--and no children. The major wastwelve years older than his wife, but women said it often looked theother way. Mrs. Plume had aged very rapidly after his sojourn onrecruiting duty in St. Louis. Frontier commissariat and cooking playedhob with her digestion, said the major. Frontier winds and water dealthavoc to her complexion, said the women. But both complexion anddigestion seemed to "take a brace," as irreverent youth expressed it,when Neil Blakely came to Sandy and the major's roof. True, he stayedbut six and thirty hours and then moved into his own domicile--quartersNo. 7--after moving out a most reluctant junior. Major Plume and Mrs.Plume had expected him, they were so kind as to say, to choose a vacanthalf set, excellent for bachelor purposes, under the roof that shelteredCaptain Wren, Captain Wren's maiden sister and housekeeper, and Angela,the captain's daughter. This set adjoined the major's big central house,its south windows looking into the major's north gallery. "It would beso neighborly and nice," said Mrs. Plume. Instead, however, Mr. Blakelystood upon his prerogative as a senior subaltern and "ranked out" Mr.and Mrs. Bridger and baby, and these otherwise gentle folk, evicted andaggrieved, knowing naught of Blakely from previous association, andseeing no reason why he should wish to be at the far end of the rowinstead of the middle, with his captain, where he properly belonged,deemed themselves the objects of wanton and capricious treatment at hishands, and resented it according to their opportunities. Bridger, beinga soldier and subordinate, had to take it out in soliloquy andswear-words, but his impetuous little helpmate--being a woman, a wifeand mother, set both wits and tongue to work, and heaven help the manwhen woman has both to turn upon him! In refusing the room and windowsthat looked full-face into those of Mrs. Plume, Blakely had nettled her.In selecting the quarters occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Bridger he hadslightly inconvenienced and sorely vexed the latter. With noincumbrances whatever, with fine professional record, with personaltraits and reputation to make him enviable, with comparative wealth and,as a rule, superlative health, Blakely started on his career as asubaltern at Sandy with three serious handicaps,--the disfavor of hiscaptain, who knew and loved him little,--the prejudice of Mrs. Bridger,who knew and loved him not at all,--and the jealous pique of Mrs. Plume,who had known and loved him, possibly, too well.

  There was little duty doing at Sandy at the time whereof we write. Menrose at dawn and sent the horses forth to graze all day in thefoothills under heavy guard. It was too hot for drills, with themercury sizzling at the hundred mark. Indian prisoners did the"police" work about the post; and men and women dozed and wilted inthe shade until the late afternoon recall. Then Sandy woke up andenergetically stabled, drilled, paraded under arms at sunset, mountedguard immediately thereafter, dined in spotless white; then rode,drove, flirted, danced, gossiped, made mirth, melody, or monotonousplaint till nearly midnight; then slept until the dawn of another day.

  Indians there were in the wilds of the Mogollon to the southeast, and,sometimes at rare intervals straying from the big reservation up thevalley, they scared the scattered settlers of the Agua Fria and theHassayampa; but Sandy rarely knew of them except as prisoners. Not ahostile shot had been fired in the surrounding mountains for at leastsix months, so nobody felt the least alarm, and many only languidinterest, when the white-coated officers reported the result of sunsetroll-call and inspection, and, saluting Major Plume, the captain of"C" Troop announced in tones he meant should be heard along the row:"Mr. Blakely, sir, is absent!"