CHAPTER I.

“Sergeant-Major!”

“Sir-r-r!” and the rasp and rattle of a hastily-moved chair preceded but an instant the appearance of a soldierly form in the doorway.

“That Prescott mail’s late again to-day?”

“Yes, sir; been late every time last three trips.”

The sergeant-major clips his words as close as his cropped hair and uses no superfluities. Having said so much he waits, mutely “standing attention,” for his superior’s next remark. The latter is dreamily contemplating a pair of rather shapely feet perched on the desk in front of him, and tapping the boot-toes thereof with a long ruler. Finally he queries,—

“Think that man Finnegan’s been drinking again?”

“Looks like it, sir; but can’t say. Horse shows hard riding every night when he gets in; but you can see him for six miles up the valley, and he comes at an easy lope all the way from the Point.”

The adjutant slowly lets down his long legs, quits his chair, takes from its case a signal-service binocular and saunters to the open doorway leading to the parade. His subordinate remains a moment, in his invariable attitude, at the door of the inner office, then, finding himself addressed no further, steps back quickly as he came.

Leaning against the post of the narrow piazza in front, the adjutant blinked his eyes in unwilling deference to the blazing sunlight and gazed out towards the north.

Before him, straight away, lay a level barren of gravelly earth, brown and desolate: no sprig of grass, no sign of shrub or tree; the parade of Camp Sandy, in the year of our Lord 187-, was as bald as the head of the commanding officer. Midway between the office and the glistening white line of picket-fence that spanned the northern limit of the garrison a lance-like staff shot upward into the burning vault of heaven, and from its summit hung motionless the heavy folds of blue and scarlet and white, the symbol of Yankee supremacy in the midst of surrounding desolation. It hung aloft as though paralyzed with wonderment at its unlovely companionship,—

“It hung in the heat like some bright dead bird, And the air was so still you could hear the tramp Of the pacing sentry all over the camp.”

Bounding this arid surface on right and left were two long lines of adobe buildings. Those on the eastern side, with their broad piazzas and mansard-roofs, indicating in greater pretence the homes of the officers of the command; those on the left, low, one-storied, and colorless as the dun hue of the parade itself, the quarters of the men.

Beyond the former, a thousand yards away, rose a turreted palisade of conglomerate shale and yielding sandy earth that shut out wall-like all view to the east. At its foot rolled the shallow stream from which the post derived its sole supply of water. It never seemed to rain at Camp Sandy, though torrents might be descending in the mountains that shut it in. To the west, beyond the line of barracks, lay, in the same colorless clods of adobe, the cavalry stables,—the quartermaster’s “corrals,”—and beyond them tumbled heaps of foot-hill rolling higher and higher until, in the near distance, they rose a thousand feet above the plateau and joined the long ridge of mountain-chain that stretched down, claw-like, from the grand range of the California Sierra. Northward the eye roamed over a valley hemmed in towards the setting sun by dark, pine-covered mountains, while on the other side, vivid, dazzling, scintillating in the blazing rays, lay the barren yet brilliant cliffs of the Red Rock country. The winding fringe of cottonwood in the valley depths—a lively green contrasted with the sombre hue of all nature near it—marked the course of the stream, and far, far to the north, plumb under the spot where the pole-star glowed at night, a snow-capped peak glistened and shimmered through the heated air, the one gleam of blessed coolness vouchsafed in the entire picture.

Still holding his binocular in his listless hand, the adjutant lounged in the shade of the porch, and gazed drearily over the scene before him. Save the occasional lizard, darting about the sun-baked parade, no sign of life or motion greeted the eye. Along “officers’ row” every blind was tightly closed against the blazing west. One or two sleeping forms could be detected along the shade-line of the opposite “quarters”; but even at the guard-house the sentry had been drawn inside, and was pacing the narrow corridor in front of the barred windows, through which swarthy, hungry-eyed Apache faces were doubtless glaring out in miserable hatred of their captors.

It was a cheerless scene, and in face and form, expression and attitude, there could be detected on the part of the one visibly wakeful being a thorough appreciation of its dreariness. Tall, “six feet two in his stockings,” lithe and thin in flank, but with massive shoulders and powerful limbs, the adjutant’s form would have enraptured the life guardsmen of England. Clad in the coolest of white duck and flannel, every line of his frame was patent to the observer, and the head and face were fitting accompaniment. Eyes of darkest hazel, a straight, slender, broad-nostriled nose, a mouth firm and clear-cut under the curling moustache, chin and jaw square, resolute, and clean-shaven, forehead broad and white, in odd contrast to the bronze that spread over face and neck, hair that might have been dark and wavy in boyish days, but now close-cropped to the shapely head, the adjutant was well termed among his comrades a “splendid-looking fellow.” Yet at this moment the whole face was marred by its expression of utter weariness and discontent.

Turning sharply with a disgusted snap of the case, he looked at the thermometer hanging well back in the shade,—

“One hundred at 5 P.M.! Well! not so bad as yesterday, but hot enough for Tophet. What _in_ Tophet did we ever take this hole from Mexico for anyhow?” is the muttered comment that falls from his lips. “An ape or a Greaser is the only thing on two legs fit to live in this infernal Arizona, and yet, by gad, here’s old Pelham going to bring his wife and daughter out to join.”

Something in the absurdity of this last idea provoked a smile upon the face of Mr. John Truscott, adjutant of Uncle Sam’s —th regiment of cavalry, and while he did not give way to soliloquy his thoughts ran somewhat as follows:

“She’s the girl” (she being, of course, Miss Pelham, the daughter aforementioned) “the youngsters have all been raving about for the last two years. Just finished school in New York, but spent her last two summers at West Point, and had no end of adorers in the graduating class. I half fancy Glenham to be one of her victims. Almighty good thing for her and the old folks if he _is_, for the Fates have blessed him with infinite lucre, and those three boys of Pelham’s have drained him poor as—as, begad, as I am. Wonder what she’s like anyhow? You never can tell from what these young fledglings say. Good lord! how long it is since I’ve had a glimpse of a pretty face, or anything civilized!”

Mechanically, Mr. Truscott turned once more northward, and, adjusting the glass, took a long survey of the valley and the point where the road disappeared among the mountains. This time, with better success, his practised eye noted the faintly visible whiffs of dust, rising at intervals beyond the cottonwoods, yet four miles away.

A sudden clatter of hoofs came rapidly up the slope in rear of the office from the south, and a horse and rider plunged into space by his side.

“Mail in yet, Jack?” shouted a fresh cheery voice, and the sunburnt, bright-eyed young face of the horseman beamed down upon the adjutant.

“Nary,” is that official’s inelegant but terse reply. “Coming though, I think,” he adds, as he notes the shade of disappointment creeping over the features of his interrogator. “Where have you been?” he asks. “You must find riding hot work such a day as this?”

“Can’t help it,” replies the junior, swinging lightly to the ground. “Old Catnip says those herds have got to be visited by the officer of the day at least once before stable-call, and I made it late as I could. You look bored to death, Jack.”

Now, just why every officer in that garrison should invariably address Mr. Truscott as “Jack” is one of those mysteries which has puzzled metaphysicians. Some profound thinker has recorded as the result of his observations that a man hailed by his fellow-men by his Christian name may be beloved, but is always “blind to his own interests.” The two fit into one another after a fashion, for it usually happens that the man “blind to his own interests” is apt to be the most unselfish and considerate fellow imaginable, and as such is apt to be popular, and, in army circles, to have “troops of friends” until, in his blindness, he stumbles into a scrape, when it is curious to mark how quickly the “Jack” gives place to the distant surname, and the friends dwindle to few. Mr. Truscott _was_ popular, but it rose from no pronounced “blindness to his own interests.” He was generous, even lavish, in his way, but with all the fact of an acknowledged intellectual superiority over his comrades, and the record of being a splendid soldier and a “thorough-bred” gentleman, the best explanation of his popularity, perhaps, is to be found in the remarks of Captain Tanner on the subject. “I like Truscott,” said he, “because in the eight years I’ve known him he has never spoken ill of a man behind his back, and because he holds a woman’s name as sacred.” The knot of officers to whom this opinion was delivered contained no dissenter. Yet Mr. Truscott had his enemies. A certain uncompromising “hit-or-miss” way of doing his duty, and coming down hard on delinquents, had stirred the rancor of more than one of his brethren, who, negligent or ignorant themselves, had no patience with his sternly military system, and, having been rapped over the official knuckles by the commanding officer, they would gladly have seen the adjutant deposed from his influential position. Nor was it among his own sex that Mr. Truscott had acquaintances who were not all well-wishers. In the utter isolation of that distant station those ladies of the regiment who had followed their husbands in their exile (and perchance brought unmarried sisters with them) had, or fancied they had, little else to talk of than the affairs of the garrison and of their neighbors. Possibly that very trait which so aroused the enthusiasm of Captain Tanner, “that he held sacred a woman’s name, and could not be brought to speak ill of one,” was the very thing which rendered him unbearable to some three or four of their number. For how inexpressibly stupid in the eyes of one woman is the man who cannot be induced, for her entertainment, to criticise another!

Treating them one and all alike with a certain grave courtesy and gentle deference, he trod metaphorically upon the sweeping trains of both Mrs. Raymond and Mrs. Turner, and in the observance of a strict neutrality had at one time or other given offence to these rival belles of the garrison. “Why,” said Mrs. Raymond, “I merely hinted to him at the hop last week that Mrs. Curtis’s last dress from San Francisco must have been a frightful tax on her husband’s pay, and you know it was, and he drew himself into his shell in that awfully superior way of his and fairly snubbed me.” Now, Mr. Truscott was incapable of “snubbing” any woman. Grant-like, he fell back upon an inflexible silence when pressed for his opinion on matters of which he chose not to speak. But this passive rebuke was to women of Mrs. Raymond’s calibre as exasperating as an active “snub,” and in her feline way she resented it.

Neither she nor her sisters in garrison cared to declare open war against the best-looking man and one of the best partners in the command. Besides, Mr. Truscott had a way of showing very delicate attentions to the ladies of the regiment, though distributing all such with a strict impartiality; for whether from hunting, a trip to Prescott, or the rare luxury of a “leave” in San Francisco, he seldom returned without an acceptable remembrance for each and every one. Then, too, he had all the latest books and magazines. “He kept up his reading,” as the officers said, and his taste was indisputable. Younger officers went to him in their troubles and perplexities, sure of sympathy, and surer still of inviolable confidence; older officers, sorely against their will at times, consulted his opinions on matters wherein they should have been, but were not, thoroughly informed. But for his part, it was a circumstance of frequent remark that he never once was known to seek advice or sympathy, and never alluded to affairs of his own. Many and various were the theories advanced as to why Mr. Truscott, at the age of thirty, remained unmarried. Most of his brother-officers had taken unto themselves wives, and were as happy as is possible under such circumstances, but to all questions, however deftly put, bearing upon the matter, the adjutant replied with imperturbable gravity that he thought too much of the sex in the abstract to offer it anything so unworthy its acceptance.

There were matrons in the regiment who looked upon him as a most eligible catch for a younger sister, and who had imported such sisters in days when the —th was stationed in climes more accessible for the avowed purpose of capturing the tall subaltern, but Jack appeared as serenely unconscious of their wiles as he did of the oft-thrown signal for flirtation from some of the giddy matrons themselves. Tradition had it that Mr. Truscott’s obduracy was due to a love-affair of long standing; that since the days of his graduation he had adored and been adored by a damsel far away in Massachusetts, and for a time it was known that delicate missives with a womanly superscription reached him from that quarter; but, some three years before, he had gone East on a long leave of absence, and when the regiment received orders for Arizona had suddenly reappeared in their midst, older, graver, and at times very absent-minded, but never since had he sought further opportunity of going to “the States,” and his secret, whatever it might be, was buried in his own bosom. Wherever there are women there are apt to be audacious flirts, and many a time had some practised coquette baited her hook in the vain hope of getting a rise from the adjutant of the —th. It would be a reflection on his sagacity to say that he did not see the fly, but he possessed the faculty of appearing so utterly obtuse as not to see it, and, whether real or assumed, his indifference was unmistakable. Nellie Blossom, the brightest, merriest, and withal the fairest girl known to military circles in the West,—the niece of one of the prominent officers of the department,—had actually been accused by the critical matrons of the garrisons of Prescott and Camp Sandy of having thrown herself at Jack Truscott’s head. But she had returned to San Francisco wiser if not sadder, and was last heard of flirting desperately with the artillerymen at Alcatraz and the Presidio, and when inquisitive Circes of Camp Sandy sought to probe Jack’s inner consciousness, they received for all answer an assurance that if he could admire any one as much as he did the ladies of the —th, that lady was Miss Blossom.

One day “Old Catnip,” as he was popularly termed, Colonel Pelham, as he was known officially, electrified the garrison of Camp Sandy by the information that Mrs. Pelham and his daughter Grace were coming out to join. Now, it is a peculiarity of the ladies of the army that the simple announcement of a fact is as stimulative of conjecture and reflection as was the fall of Isaac Newton’s apple. There wasn’t a woman in all Camp Sandy who did not immediately set to work to fathom the motives of Mrs. Pelham in thus suddenly starting for such an utterly out-of-the-way place as Arizona; and there was not a woman in all Camp Sandy who by noon on the following day had not decided that she was coming to capture Lieutenant Arthur Glenham and his handsome fortune. Grace was a girl of sixteen at school when the regiment was hurried to the Pacific coast, and Mrs. Pelham had decided to remain in New York until her daughter’s education was completed. Each summer she had gone with her to West Point, where Grace had been an acknowledged belle among the cadets, and where frank, whole-souled young Glenham had most unequivocally shown himself an adorer. It was said that he had gone so far as to offer himself to Grace, saying humbly that “he wasn’t much to look at, but at least he could offer the woman he loved a home and an ample fortune.” Grace never told it to a soul, nor had she encouraged the boy, but a sharp-sighted mamma had noted every symptom, and speedily won from Glenham himself a statement of his prospects financial, and had bidden him hope as regarded his prospects otherwise. Meantime, jolly old Pelham had established his headquarters at Sandy, and his red face and bald head could be seen for an hour each morning at the office, after which they were invisible until sundown, when he reappeared on the veranda of his quarters ready to chat with any one who came along, and was completely happy if three or four of his officers would consent to spend the evening and play whist with him.

Glenham’s classmates had exchanged some sly witticisms when the order assigning him to Pelham’s regiment was received, and it was said at Sandy that the colonel eyed the young gentleman very sharply when he reported for duty. “Mr. Truscott,” said he, “I think that young fellow has some good points about him. Suppose you take him in hand and draw him out.” So it happened that Glenham had been welcomed to the adjutant’s quarters, and, as there were by no means houses enough to give each subaltern a “set” to himself, he had there remained to this day.

It was Arthur Glenham himself who reined up at the adjutant’s office, and it was his cheery voice that accosted Truscott in eager inquiry for the mail.

The two officers were a striking contrast. Glenham was short in stature, broad of shoulder, stout of limb, with a face almost as broad in proportion as his body, with merry laughing blue eyes, a large mouth, expanded in the perpetual grin which his perfect teeth rendered excusable, a face and form, in fact, indicative of the utmost good nature, if not of the utmost intellect. And Glenham was more than good-natured. He possessed a trait rare as is an unconscious manner in those men to whose grandsires wealth was unknown. His bounty was lavish, yet no comrade was allowed to feel that he was the victim of a special favor. As a consequence, young Arthur was frequently imposed upon by the rank and file of the regiment, who were incessantly coming to know “Would the loot’nint lind me the loan of tin dollars till pay day?” and then, in emulation of Captain Costigan of convivial memory, going off to disburse the amount at the sutler’s store.

For a long time Truscott noted the frequent appearance of the worst class of men in the command at the back door of his quarters; they invariably inquired for Lieutenant Glenham, and always wanted to see him alone. Truscott said nothing, but had no difficulty in divining the object of these visits. One day, however, the colonel was more conflagratory in temper than was customary; “I’m willing to put up with the pay-day spree,” was the warrior’s remark, after some indirect profanity, “but here’s the guard-house cram-full of the old topers of the garrison this morning, and the sutler swears he hasn’t trusted them a cent’s worth. Now where in blazes did they get their money?”

Finding himself addressed, the adjutant replied that he “thought he could find out, and, furthermore, could put a stop to it in future.” Pelham stared hard at his subordinate for a moment, as though he half detected the fact of his entire knowledge of the source of supply. He longed to press the matter and extract further information, but in the calm gravity of Mr. Truscott’s manner he was vividly reminded of the experience of a former colonel of the regiment, and having been in the habit of declaring that it served the colonel right, he turned sharply on his heel and walked to his private desk. A moment more and his voice was heard, placid and low, “Very well, Truscott; you attend to it.”

The story of this previous experience was an old one in the regiment, indeed, had been told all over the Plains. Its former colonel was blessed with a wife, daughters, and as many unmarried feminine relations as Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., and ordinarily half a dozen of them were his guests in garrison. His adjutant, a consumptive relic of the war, had won his undying gratitude by taking a sister-in-law off his hands, but, as he was compelled to bury that adjutant with military honors some six months afterwards, and subsequently to provide for both the fatherless and the widow, the benefit was but temporary. Then he summoned Truscott to headquarters, and appointed him adjutant _vice_ the defunct brother-in-law. Truscott speedily showed consummate ability in the performance of his duties, but a correspondent lack of inclination for the delicate functions of his predecessor. Resisting all feminine wiles, he declined to spend his unoccupied hours in dancing attendance upon the sisters, cousins, and daughters, though always showing them scrupulous attention at the garrison hops; but there was one thing in which he utterly differed from the deceased, and in which he succeeded in winning the ill will of every woman in the colonel’s household, and, of course, before long that of the colonel himself. Nothing would induce him to talk to them of the affairs of any officer or lady in or out of the regiment, and no longer could they derive information from the man whose position enabled him to be “well posted.”

This was outrageous. “The idea that the adjutant of my husband’s regiment is going to ignore _my_ position is something I’ll not tolerate,” was the repeated remark of “_Madame la Colonelle_” to her cronies in the garrison. “You’ll see that he cannot hold it a week.” Naturally, in _less_ than a week, Mr. Truscott, from a dozen different sources, received what “his friends” chose to denominate “warnings,” but he went on about his duties as usual, for the colonel had many soldierly qualities that he firmly respected. It pained him greatly to note the daily increasing coldness and injustice of the commanding officer, but he said nothing.

One morning the storm broke. Something had gone wrong at the colonel’s. They were then stationed in Kansas, near a large railway town, and it was a source of much gossip that several of the young officers were frequent visitors during the midnight hours at places of varied entertainment in the vicinity, but none had been absent from any roll-call or duty. There are always one or two officers to tell the colonel of such affairs, and always ten or a dozen women to tell the colonel’s wife, which generally amounts to the same thing.

On this particular morning the colonel’s face was wrathful, and he opened fire on his adjutant at once with,—

“Mr. Truscott, what officers were absent from reveille this morning?”

Truscott promptly rose, stood like a statue before his colonel, and calmly replied, “None, sir.”

“Then you and they must have made almighty good time back from town. I am told you were playing poker at the Alhambra till after four this morning.”

“So far as I am concerned your informant is mistaken. I was not out of the garrison, sir.”

There were several officers sitting or standing about the room. Some slipped quietly out, unwilling to listen to a conversation already so painful. Others remained, with attentive ears.

“At all events you know who _were_ there, and I expect you, as my staff-officer, to inform me.”

“It so happens, colonel, that I do not know. I have not even heard.”

“Well, I know that you _do_ know who were playing cards in Captain Lapham’s quarters two nights ago, for you were seen coming from there at ten o’clock, and this was probably the same party.”

“I was Captain Lapham’s guest on that occasion, as were the others, colonel; and now I must say emphatically, but with all respect, that I never heard of such a thing as its being the duty of the adjutant to keep the commanding officer informed of the movements of the officers off duty, but as such seems to be your view, I beg to be relieved at once.”

“You are, sir, you are; and, had I listened to advice, you would have been long ago,” fairly roared the colonel. “Leave the office at once!” And, with the respect of every man in the regiment, Jack Truscott took himself back to his troop. Some time afterwards, over a year, promotions and retirements brought Colonel Pelham to the command of the —th, and about the first thing he did was to send for Truscott and reinstate him in the adjutancy.

From that day to this the colonel never regretted it, and it was with complete assurance that he left the matter of stopping the irregular supplies of the garrison to his staff-officer. Glenham’s open-handed liberality met with a sudden check, nobody knew why or how, for what passed between Truscott and himself was never mentioned, but a report rapidly gained credence in Camp Sandy that Mr. Glenham had lost a great deal of money in unfortunate investments. Soft-voiced sirens inquired of Mr. Truscott whether Glenham had said anything to him about his losses, and on Mr. Truscott’s replying gravely that he had not, and merely bowing with equal gravity to the supplementary remark, “You know, as his room-mate and most intimate friend, I thought he probably would have told you. Of course, it’s a matter I would never think of mentioning,” the soft-voiced siren had retired in defeat, and conveyed her verdict to some chosen intimate that Mr. Glenham must have been speculating heavily, she “had been talking with Mr. Truscott, but don’t for the world say I said so,” etc. Consequently, when Colonel Riggs, the bluff old inspector-general of the department, dropped in at Sandy on his way from a hunt, and with his usual happy facility of hitting the nail on the head accosted Glenham with, “Hello, youngster! I hear you’ve been speculating and lost most of your money,” the boy was indignant, and in denying the statement _in toto_ demanded the name of Colonel Riggs’s informant, so that in the course of the week there was an unpleasantness at Sandy, and Mrs. Turner lost one of her admirers. Between Truscott and Glenham there existed a firm friendship which nothing seemed to shake. The former was neither demonstrative nor outwardly warm in his manner to the younger man, but it was evident that he influenced him in everything,—his duties, his tastes, the employment of his time, and, though imperceptibly, in the selection of his friends and associates. On the other hand, Glenham, in his impetuous and enthusiastic way, was wont to talk of Truscott and his admiration for him by the hour. So when it was noised abroad that Miss Grace Pelham was soon to arrive, and all the story of Glenham’s devotion to her was renewed, it was with much amazement and more incredulity that the ladies of the garrison heard Mr. Truscott’s answer of “Nothing,” in response to their eager queries as to what Glenham had ever told him about her.