CHAPTER XVII.

Down in a deep valley close under the frowning cliffs of the Mogollon range a cavalry detachment has gone into bivouac. The setting sun flashes upon tree-top and rocky spur above, and throws into bold prominence the long expanse of rugged precipice that spans the view far as eye can reach. To right and left it stretches, a barrier grim and impassable, shutting off all view towards the east. Northward and southward are the foot-hills, lofty in themselves, but dwarfed by the great height of the palisaded crest in front. All are densely wooded, covered with short, stunted but hardy pine, juniper, and scrub-oak, while down in the deep interlying valleys and narrow cañons tall cottonwoods rear their heads. It is in a grove of these that the men have unsaddled, and now, as twilight settles upon the scene, and the herd-guards are doubled around the grazing steeds and pack-mules, the glow of the camp-fire is visible down under the stream-bank, whence its light cannot be detected beyond the narrow limits of the bivouac. The ruddy glare falls upon the faces of three or four busy soldiers, the cooks _pro tempore_ of the command, but almost to a man the other troopers are gathered about two dusty, weary-looking non-commissioned officers who have just dismounted and are now unsaddling their jaded horses. The merry, reckless chaff is stilled; a marked silence has fallen upon all; the men converse in quiet tones. Even the horses have an air of mysterious caution about them, and the Indian allies, crouching or squatting under the trees, are gazing fixedly, but without a word to one another, upon the group of soldiery. Even while questioning the new-comers and listening eagerly to their replies, some of the troopers keep constantly in view a party of five men standing aloof engaged in earnest conversation. One of them, the tallest, is unbuckling belt and spur as he stands leaning against a broad cottonwood. He lifts his broad-brimmed scouting-hat and passes his hand across his white forehead with an air of evident fatigue, but continues his quiet talk to the others. It is Jack Truscott, and around him are Tanner, Ray, Dana, and the doctor. Since two o’clock in the morning he has been in pursuit, through mountain-pass, through dark and gloomy cañon, through wilds only well known to the infesting Apaches, through lairs where every moment he might expect to hear their vengeful yell and the crack of rifle or whiz of arrow; but even as he promised and predicted, before the setting of another sun he has accomplished his mission, and the despatches are now in Tanner’s hands. He has read them, and, pondering over their contents, is still eagerly listening to Truscott’s talk.

“Could you tell how many there were?” he asked.

“No,” said Truscott. “But it was evident that they had been there to fill their _ollas_, and it must be that their main body is somewhere among the high peaks, within a mile or two of the water.”

“What a blessed piece of luck! We passed up the valley on the other side, and might never have seen it. Who knows what time the moon will be up?”

“Eight thirty,” answered Ray.

“Then we want supper for all hands first thing. Jack, you must be hungry as a wolf. Ray, Dana, let your men fill their canteens and take along a couple of days’ bacon and hard-tack. See that every man has fifty rounds carbine cartridges and enough for his revolver. We start afoot at moonrise. There will be time for some of them to get a nap. Doctor, two of the men will carry what you want.” And with that Captain Tanner proceeded to stow his despatches in his scouting note-book, and briefly to note in pencil the events of the day. In ten minutes the entire bivouac, officers and men, were eagerly disposing of a substantial supper with the zest only mountain appetites and the vivid uncertainty as to when or where the next might be obtainable can impart.

Then as pipes were filled and lighted, Tanner, Truscott, and Ray, stretched at ease upon their blankets, fell into further discussion.

“What time did Mills and Lewis get in?” asked Tanner, referring to the two soldiers who had been sent back with despatches the day before.

“It must have been soon after ten,” said Truscott. “I found Mrs. Tanner still up and dressed, and she got the papers at once.”

“I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble, Jack. It must have been some hours’ work. Why, man alive, you cannot have had a wink of sleep for thirty-six hours or more. I never thought of it.”

“Never mind that,” said Truscott, laughingly. “It was good luck. If your note had not come I would have been asleep when this despatch reached Sandy, and the colonel would have sent somebody else. Then too if it had not come I would have followed on your trail, or whoever came would have done so, instead of taking the short cut by Hardscrabble and Jaycox Pass, and so would have missed these signs entirely.”

“All the same you need rest. Of course, now that you are here, you’ll want to go with us on the night-hunt; but you can sleep till nine or ten and follow. Sergeant Kane can go with the Apache-Mohaves and show the signs. We’ll follow the old tactics, of course,—attack at daybreak.”

“All right,” said Truscott, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe; and rolling over, burying his face in his arms, he was soon sound asleep.

Tanner and Ray smoked in silence a while, busied in their reflections. Dana, a few yards away, was writing what appeared to be a letter. The doctor was busy about his pannier, getting ready lint, bandages, and the ominous-looking supplies of his department. Some distance farther the men were chatting in low tones under the trees, kicking off their cavalry boots and spurs and pulling on Indian moccasins as more suitable for the work before them, and overhauling their arms and ammunition-belts. Out in the glade the herds were restfully grazing, while here and there on the outskirts could be heard the subdued voices of the guards as they rebuked some straggling quadruped, while the muffled tinkle of the bells on the necks of the lead-horses of each company’s pack-train, and the occasional snap of burning twig or stamp of hoof, were the only sounds that a hundred yards away would have betrayed the presence of the command.

“Truscott ought to be fairly used up, Ray,” said Tanner, finally. “I’ve a great mind to steal off and leave him sleeping here with the camp-guard to take charge of him.”

“You would not get far away before he would be striding after you,” said Ray, with a grin. “But what kept him up all last night? I did not understand.”

“Why, that was my doing, confound it!” answered Tanner. “I had promised to send copies of certain important papers to San Francisco, and was ordered off in a hurry, and—well, it escaped my attention, for it was particularly hard to leave my wife just at this time. So when the doctor sent Lewis back sick, I wrote to Jack and asked him to get them off by first mail for me. I supposed that he would have them copied by a clerk; but the mail went this morning, and in order to get them off he and Mrs. Tanner had to sit up till after midnight and make the copies. It isn’t the first time he has had to look after my affairs for me. I fancy Jack knows more about my business matters than any agent I ever had; and, glad as I am to see him, I wish he hadn’t come away from Sandy just now.”

Ray looked up inquiringly.

“You didn’t know it, I suppose, Ray, but the night we marched away, almost the very hour, was the night five years ago we lost our little Bertie. It is a wretched anniversary to my poor wife, and always upsets her. She never has any intimates or particularly warm friends among the ladies somehow, and Truscott has been about the only real comrade we’ve ever had. She thinks all the world of him, for he nursed Bertie through one severe attack while I was away, and he was the only soul to sympathize with her the night we marched. It hurts me to think how lonely these days must be to her and poor little Rosalie.” And the bronzed, bearded face turned away from the firelight.

Ray rose impulsively. “Why in thunder hadn’t I thought of this, Tanner? I wish all the more now that—— Why! why didn’t Jack tell Pelham? Oh, of course you forbade him, but all the same I would have let him know. Never mind, old man, we’ll give these reds a trouncing to-morrow and then hurry back for Christmas, and give Rosalie an out-and-out merry one.”

“God grant it!” said Tanner, gravely. And Ray wondering at the earnestness, the solemnity of his tone, fell to thinking of their conversation. It had made a deep impression upon his light, careless nature, and he long remembered every word. Well was it that he did so!

At last, looking eagerly aloft among the tree-tops, Tanner notes the faint, shimmering, silvery touch of moonlight. All at the base of the Mogollon is still deep shadow. He rises from the blankets in which he has rolled himself and looks around. At his feet, sleeping like children, are Truscott and Ray. Under a neighboring cottonwood lies Dana, but not asleep. It is too new an experience to him, and the proximity of the doctor’s kit of murderous-looking implements is not conducive to placid reflections. All along under the trees, close to the rushing brook, the men are noiselessly grouped, most of them soundly sleeping, though a few move restlessly about. To the left front, securely hobbled and under vigilant guard, the eight-score animals—horses and mules—are scattered over the glade. Here and there is the faint glow of smouldering cook- or watch-fire, and over all peace and silence.

Little by little the silver shield rises higher and peers down over the rocky wall into the depths of the valley. Then Tanner signals to his watchful sergeant, and in low, brief tones the word is given,—

“Tumble up, men.”

No stirring trumpet, no martial reveille, no formal roll-call or assembly, nothing, in fine, that speaks of the pomp and circumstance of war. Rolling out of their blankets and hastily strapping them into bundles, the troopers, with the ease of long practice, stow their small belongings in shape for immediate transportation on mule-back, turn them over to the packers for safekeeping, and in ten minutes the little command is ready. A strong guard under experienced non-commissioned officers remains most reluctantly in charge of the herds and packs; but some eighty men, nearly all veteran Indian-fighters, are grouped about the watch-fire waiting orders. Looking among them, no wonder Mr. Ray mutters to Captain Tanner, “Well, we’re banditti all over again to-night,” for hardly a vestige of regulation uniform appears in the entire array. Old slouch white hats, shirts of buckskin, canvas, or woollen, trousers of similar material, an occasional pair of boots, but a predominance of serviceable Tonto moccasins, in which the men glide about noiselessly as spirits; not a uniform coat or cap in the whole command. Even the officers, in their blue flannel shirts and broad-brimmed hats, are as picturesquely unencumbered by any paraphernalia of rank as their men.

“Send Sergeant Winser here with the scouts,” is the low-toned order that falls from the captain’s lips, as he and Mr. Truscott stand, watch in hand, under the tall cottonwood at the edge of the glade; and, obedient to the summons, a tall, splendidly-built soldier with bronzed face, clear-cut features, and dark, thoughtful eyes, steps forward, and, quietly saluting, stands in silence before his commander. Following him come a dozen Apache scouts, their coarse, matted hair, bead-like, glittering eyes, and snaky movements giving them, despite their temporary and enforced allegiance, an indefinable something that makes the beholder wary and distrustful. These fellows, though, have been proved in many a trying scout and skirmish through the mountains, and their strange Apache names have long since been dropped for the shorter, less romantic, but far more pronounceable titles given by their soldier comrades. Toyáh has become Pop-corn, Kithaymi, Hopkin (after a discharged soldier to whom he had become strongly attached); Tomawárecha is “Whiskey,” though he knows not the taste of the article, and a villainous-looking young scamp of a savage, with the appalling name of Ulnyiákahorah, is dubbed Jocko for short. And here, too, is Araháwa,—Washington Charley,—and he takes his place by the sergeant’s side as interpreter, should interpreting be necessary.

Briefly Tanner gives his instructions.

“Lieutenant Truscott will lead you and the scouts, sergeant. He found signs six miles down the valley, and we will follow the trail wherever it goes. Ready, Jack?” he asks. Truscott nods, throws his carbine over his shoulder, and without a word strides off down the brook-side. Sergeant Winser beckons to his Apaches, and away they go at his heels. Then Tanner turns to his troopers. “All ready, sergeant?”

“All ready, sir.”

“See to it, men, that your canteens don’t rattle. Keep in the shade as much as possible. Come on.” And with Ray, Dana, and the doctor close behind him, the captain follows on the trail of the scouts, and after them, in no tactical order whatever, but in perfect silence and readiness, the men of the two troops trudge briskly along. For a while the trail is so narrow and winding that they move in single file, but little by little the valley opens out, broader glades appear, the trees grow sparse, except close along in the bed of the stream, and soon they are able to spread out to the right and left and to see about them. To the right the foot-hills roll off northward in wave-like undulations. To the left, only a short distance from the valley down which they are rapidly marching, high, jagged precipitous cliffs and “buttes” rise against the southern sky, all dark and forbidding.

For over an hour they plunge along, and the pace is beginning to tell upon some of the heavy-weights towards the rear; but Truscott and his Apaches at the front know well that there is no time to be lost in getting on the trail of the Tontos. They must be followed to their lair before daybreak. If it be far from the valley whither they had come for their supply of water, then every hour will be needed. If near, then there will be plenty of time to rest after they get there. At last, towards eleven o’clock, some time after leaving the banks of the stream, and while pushing ahead among the foot-hills of the tall cliffs to the south, the rearmost men find themselves closing upon the leaders, and now the command is feeling its way.

Among a lot of stunted trees, on a “bench” some few hundred feet above the level of the valley, Tanner has halted his men to take breath. Out in front, gliding from rock to rock, or flitting about among the trees, are the tireless Apaches. The tall forms of Truscott and Winser can be seen among them, apparently directing their movements. Every now and then a muffled clap of hand or a muttered call brings half a dozen of the wild-looking creatures to the side of some one of their number, who points in silence to broken twig, freshly-turned stone, or the print of moccasin on tuft of grass or ant-heap, then all move on again.

Before them lies a dark ravine. To the left front towers a ragged slope that seems to reach to the skies. Across the ravine to the right there rises another, and right between these, into the gorge itself, the scouts are noiselessly, stealthily creeping. Tanner motions his men to keep back under the trees, and taking Ray with him, crouches forward to where Truscott is kneeling among the rocks.

“In there, do you think?” he whispers.

Truscott shakes his head and points upward.

“They are much higher than this, I take it, and farther in; but the trail seems to lead this way.”

Under the rocks the darkness is intense, and only slow progress is made; but every now and then patches of moonlight are found, and these are eagerly scrutinized. Two of the Indians, Kithaymi and Wawámecha, seem to hunt in couples. Side by side they crawl along, pointing eagerly with their long, bony fingers at objects that are fraught with deep meaning to them, but that would never attract the attention of a white man. At last an opening appears in the rocks to the left of the deep ravine in which they are working. A broad sheet of moonlight streams across the front, and Washington Charley, his eyes gleaming with excitement, his white teeth flashing through his lips, points aloft.

“Got ’em,—plenty Tonto,” he whispers to Tanner.

“How far up?”

“No sabe,—mebbe so top,” is the answer.

“Go ahead anyhow. Ray, bring up the men.”

And now the climb begins in earnest. Noiselessly the scouts swarm up over rock and boulder, peering cautiously ahead all the time, creeping on all-fours to every ridge or projecting point, and warily studying the objects beyond before venturing farther. Close behind the foremost Indians Truscott and the sergeant slowly follow. Back some distance down the jagged slope comes Tanner with the command, noiselessly as white men can. In the darkness some one’s foot slips, a stone goes rolling downward, and the metallic clink of a canteen is heard, whereat one or two profane remarks are growled about among the men, and Tanner orders halt in a whisper. “Take off your canteens, men,” is the next word, and they are noiselessly deposited under the trees, only the doctor and his attendant being allowed to retain theirs. Then on they go again. Twice Ray has to turn and caution his men to take it easy. All are eager to get to the front. All know that somewhere, probably at the very top of the rugged mountain they are climbing, a band of Apaches are hidden, for only on the summits of these isolated buttes have they of late dared to build their rancherias, so untiring has been the search for them, so sudden the attack. Presently they come to ledges of rock so steep that only by using both hands and helping one another can they clamber up. Carbines and rifles are passed from man to man, and slowly, warily the ascent is continued, and still, far aloft, the summit stands before them. They have been climbing fully an hour in this way when the word halt is passed, or those in advance hold up a warning hand. Tanner and Ray again creep forward.

“What is it, Jack?”

“Can’t tell. There’s a deep hollow round that point. Charley said wait.”

Tanner looks at his watch. “Nearly one,” he mutters, “and we’re not at the top yet. Did you ever see such a country?”

Well might he ask! Clinging along the side of this huge spur from the main range, his men could look for miles and miles over a sea of tumbled rock and ravine, of jagged precipices and stony heights, of barren wastes or pine-crested slopes. Softened as it was by the silvery touch of the moon, there yet was in the entire scene the very abomination of desolation. Below them yawned a black gorge whose depths no eye could penetrate; before them an almost impracticable ascent of rock and tangled underbrush; around them nothing that was not savage and inhospitable. Already the keen night air began to cut in to the very marrow, and the men huddled together for warmth. “What stops us?” is the muttered query.

Back come Charley and Toyáh. They are wild with excitement now, and breathlessly the former makes his report. Broken as is his English, his hearers readily understand him. They have found the hostiles, and it is a big rancheria. “Mebbe so two hundred Tonto. No can tell,” says Charley. “Come, captain; come see.” And noiselessly as before the three officers creep forward beyond the scouts, following the lead of the agile young chief, who, nearly as naked as on the day he was born, knows neither hunger, thirst, nor cold in the face of such a glorious prospect as lies before him. His savage soul thirsts for war, and here is his opportunity.

Some two hundred yards they half climb, half creep, and at last arrive at a ridge or point, over and around which they are bidden to look, but not to expose head or hand, and to preserve intense silence. Peering, they see a shallow depression in the mountain. It lies between the rocky ridge on which they are crouching and a corresponding ridge some six hundred yards beyond. It is well filled with pines and stunted oaks, is walled in on the east by an almost precipitous cliff, while to the west the mountain-side slopes abruptly down into the depths of that unfathomable gorge. Save the glistening tree-tops and occasional outcropping of boulder, all is darkness. Yet Charley has said that there lay the rancheria; that in that hollow were probably over a hundred hostile Apaches. How does he know?

Truscott points beneath them. “Look!” he says.

The mountain breeze is beginning to sigh through the pines and to stir the dead leaves among the crevices of the rocks. As a little gust flutters the branches below them, from a dozen different points, deep down in this mountain fastness, little showers of sparks fly forth, and are as quickly lost to sight. They spring from the smouldering embers of tiny fires, invisible except from above, and this it is that now betrays the position of the hostiles, who, sleeping in fancied security, have not a sentinel to oppose to the coming foe.

For five minutes Tanner and his two comrades study the situation in silence. Some of the fires are away off to the left under the cliff, others to the right nearer the ravine, more directly in front, and around them all they know the Apaches to be huddling. It _is_ a large rancheria, very probably Eskiminzin’s, the very one they are after.

Now come the dispositions for attack. It is too dark for effective work down in that hollow, even with the moonlight to aid. Then too a bank of clouds has risen from the west and rolled up towards the zenith. The moon that has been of such assistance on the trail will soon be totally hidden, and in the darkness that must ensue all the advantage will be on the side of the natives. Tanner decides to wait until dawn. Meantime, his men must be cared for. None have overcoats or blankets: to light fires would be too hazardous. Orders are sent back to remain where they are in such shelter as they can find among the rocks, while he, with the Indian scouts and his officers, explores the ground around the rancheria. An hour’s patient, noiseless search results in the discovery that only from their side, the north, and for a short space on the west can the rancheria be approached. The main entrance or “trail” to it is evidently from the south, and they have come to it by the back way. And now the moon has disappeared and all is total darkness. It is impossible to send a detachment farther up the mountain to get around in rear of the position of the Tontos. The darkness prohibits that, and even in daylight, three hours at least would be consumed before they could expect to reach the desired point. Eagerly, tirelessly therefore, they watch their prey. The hours drag along, but there is no relaxation in their vigilance. At last, towards half-past four o’clock, Tanner directs Sergeant Winser to take his scouts down to the right, to feel their way along the edge of the ravine and get as far forward towards the rancheria as possible. Ray calls up and stations his men a few feet apart all along among the rocks from the ravine to the centre, while Tanner’s own company under Lieutenant Dana are disposed along the ridge almost as far as the base of the cliff to the left. Very slowly and cautiously has this been accomplished. Hardly a sound has been made that could be heard more than a few yards away, and now, as a grayish pallor spreads over the heavens above, and the tree-tops rustle in a wind that grows chiller every minute, Tanner’s little command, copying the tactics taught by long experience among the Indians themselves, lies crouching in readiness for its spring. Near the centre of the line and in front of all is the captain himself, kneeling beside a huge boulder; with him, prone upon the ground, lies Truscott; behind them crouch one of Tanner’s sergeants and “the Kid.” Every man has his orders,—silence, not a move, not a shot until the captain gives the word, then one volley and a rush in. The nearest fire opposite Tanner’s position seems about three hundred yards away, perhaps not quite so far. Little by little a wan light is stealing over the scene, and the men can begin to distinguish one another’s features; but in the hollow no forms are visible. Tanner looks impatiently at his watch again.

“Quarter-past five,” he mutters, “and dark as Erebus down there yet.”

Truscott makes no reply. His eyes are fixed on the glow of one particular fire near the middle of the hollow. He puts out his hand and lays it on Tanner’s arm, pointing with the other.

Something shadowy and dim is moving down there about that fire. Twice it has passed between them and the blaze. Five minutes more and the blaze leaps upward, as though freshly fed, and the snap and crackle of burning twigs is heard. Distinctly now two human forms can be seen, and along all the watching line there runs a thrill. Some men cautiously bring their carbines to full-cock and ready; others, shivering ’twixt cold and excitement, look eagerly towards their silent captain but stir not.

And now it is growing so light that objects beyond the rancheria are distinctly visible, and along the outskirts of the Indian bivouac before them the men can detect the outlines of rude shelters. Once again Truscott touches Tanner’s arm and points to the right front. Between the trees in the hollow and the edge of the deep ravine a level shelf or bench, covered with broken rocks, is now to be seen, and close to the edge of the trees stands the figure of an Indian. For a moment he is motionless, then, gun in hand, he comes lightly stepping along the bench straight to the point of the ridge, straight to where Ray is crouching with his men.

“Quick, sergeant! slip down there and caution them not to fire,” whispers Tanner. “Get him alive, if possible.”

Then follows a moment of intense strain and excitement. Almost every man in the command can see that Indian coming. Every one knows that a few steps more will bring him right in among Ray’s people. Then what will be the result? On he comes, unconscious of danger, nearer, nearer to his foes. Now he is clambering up the rocks, now he is among the stunted trees. Bang!

“Fire!” rings the command. A crashing volley answers, a wild cheer echoes along the hill-side, and from their cover, scouts and troopers, officers and men, come rushing into the hollow, firing as they run. Of just what follows no one man can give accurate account. A few minutes of hot, blasting, raging work, of shrieks, shots, and uproar, of wild dismay among the startled Indians, of screaming squaws and children, of rallying-cries among the warriors, who spring to arms and open rapid but ill-aimed fire. In rush the soldiers among the “wickyups”; carbine and rifle, revolver and arrow, for two desperate minutes are dealing death in every direction. Even in their surprise the Indians fight savagely, like rats in a corner; but though their numbers are superior, they have no leadership, no organisation, no time to think, poor devils! In two minutes they are swept from their camp and are scattered in flight and terror along the mountain-side, abandoning everything.

For ten or fifteen minutes the noise of the pursuit continues, shouts and cries and scattering shots, but there is no such thing as catching these fleet-footed Apaches, and the soldiers, fatigued with their long climb, and stiff with cold, soon give it up and straggle back to the rancheria they have won. The scouts hang longer at the heels of the fleeing Indians, but by seven o’clock the entire command has reassembled amid the ruins of the Apache camp, and the fight is over.

Such being the general features, it is not easy to relate individual experiences. All was so sudden. The young Indian who had prematurely brought on the conflict by walking straight in among the men was the first prisoner, Ray and the men near him having scientifically pounced upon and wellnigh choked him to death before he knew where he was; but in the struggle somebody’s carbine was discharged, and as that meant an alarm to the whole Apache band, Tanner at once gave the order to fire, and with the supplementary shout of “Come on, men!” had rushed down the slope towards the rancheria, Truscott close beside him. On the right the scouts and some of Ray’s men had worked so far to the front as to be able to pour in a rapid crossfire, so that the resistance to the main attack was neither vigorous nor sustained; nevertheless, some few Indians had made good use of their arms, one old scoundrel never leaving his “wickyup,” but quietly squatting there, drove arrow after arrow at the leaders of the charging soldiers until a bullet laid him low, and one of these arrows has struck Jack Truscott full in the breast.

Returning from the pursuit somewhat “blown,” Mr. Ray encountered his first sergeant and one or two men kneeling by the prostrate form of a comrade.

“Who is it?” he asked, anxiously.

“Kerrigan, sir. Stone dead. Shot through the heart, I think.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Ray, gravely. “Have we lost many, do you know?”

“They say two of Captain Tanner’s fellers are killed, sir, and there’s three or four wounded. Loot’n’nt Truscott’s hit, sir,” said one of the men.

“Truscott!” exclaimed Ray, springing to his feet. “Where is he?”

“Over there among the wickyups, sir.” And, picking his way through smoke and smouldering ember, occasionally stumbling over the stiffening corpse of some half-naked savage, Ray presently came upon Truscott himself, quietly seated at the foot of a tree, looking a trifle pale, perhaps, but placid as ever, while one of the men was cautiously unlacing his hunting-shirt.

“What hit you, Jack?” said Ray, grasping his hand.

“Nothing but a blunt arrow, luckily. There lies the archer,” said Truscott, pointing to the body of a hideous old Indian lying under the rude shelter of branches and twigs that had been his temporary home.

[Illustration:

“‘Nothing but a blunt arrow, luckily. There lies the archer.’”

Page 308. ]

“You’ve bled a good deal, anyhow. Here, Hogan, let me do that.” And, kneeling before his friend, Ray with nimble fingers unfastened the heavy shirt and threw it open at the throat. “Why, Jack, you’re worse than a stuck pig, and bleeding yet. Hogan, get me some water, and tell the doctor to come here.”

“The doctor’s busy, Ray; you can patch it up easy enough. The thing only glanced on a rib, and hasn’t done any harm to speak of.” But even as he uttered the words Truscott’s head drooped wearily and his eyes half closed, a deeper pallor spread over face and brow. Ray threw his arm about his neck and drew the drooping head upon his shoulder. “You must be mighty faint, old man; lie still. We’ll have some water in a minute.”

With that he threw back Truscott’s shirt with his right hand and opened the torn undershirt. All was soaked with blood. Something lying wet and warm upon the broad chest stopped his hand, and Ray drew it forth,—a dainty, filmy, embroidered handkerchief, dripping with the warm current from Truscott’s veins, and in one corner, half crimsoned, half spotless white, was embroidered the simple name—“Grace.”

There was dead silence an instant. Then Tanner and Mr. Dana came running to them. Ray hurriedly thrust the handkerchief back into Truscott’s bosom and held out his bloody hand.

“Don’t worry. He is only weak from loss of blood.” And Jack, hearing their anxious voices, opened his eyes and looked up with a grin. Then the doctor came, and speedily the flow was stanched, the necessary bandages applied, and, revived by a nip of brandy from the doctor’s flask, the adjutant sat up, while, as Ray expressed it, “Tanner took account of stock.”

Fifteen Indians lay dead among the ruins of the rancheria, a few more lay among the rocks in the direction of their flight. Three squaws and some children were prisoners, and from them it was learned that the band was indeed that of Eskiminzin, that about one hundred and fifty, mostly warriors, were there encamped, and that Eskiminzin himself had escaped. On the other hand, though a severe punishment had been inflicted on the Indians, and they had lost their fastness and all their supplies and plunder, Tanner was distressed to find that two of his men were killed outright and several quite severely wounded. He had hoped by total surprise to have “jumped upon” the village before the Indians could really get to their arms, but that unlucky single shot had roused the rancheria, and in charging across the open slope into the Indian position he and the men with him had been much exposed. It was not altogether satisfactory, and Tanner’s plans were quickly decided. Truscott with a sufficient guard would convey the five wounded by easy marches back to Camp Sandy, while he, with the rest of the command, would push on in pursuit of Eskiminzin. Meantime, an Indian runner would go back with his report of the engagement.