CHAPTER III

Perched aloft in the very summit of a glorious mountain range, yet nestling in the shelter of pine-covered heights sweeping in circle around it, watered by the purest and coldest of running streams, and revelling in an atmosphere bracing and clear as only a Sierran atmosphere can be, the little town of Prescott and the outlying post of Fort Whipple owed to nature all their attractiveness. They were embowered in a veritable oasis, for, whether from east or west, north or south, miles of desert sand or sterile and volcanic rock had to be traversed before the eye of the traveller rested upon the glad sight of something like civilized homes. In the days of which we write San Francisco lay three weeks’ journey away, and more than a month, unless one took a bumping trip to the railway by “buckboard,” was occupied in the devious route to the Atlantic States. Rugged miners, savage Apaches, root-grubbing Digger Indians, swarthy Mexicans, and prowling coyotes were the inhabitants apparently indigenous to the soil, but to prey upon their necessities those pioneers of civilization, the shop-keeping Israelites, had established the inevitable “slop-shop,” and those precursors of settlement, the scum and froth borne ever upon the outermost wave of the great tide of emigration, the bar- and gambling-hell-keepers, had planted their vile booths around the plaza, and stood guard with self-cocking revolver over their stock in trade ere ever the outlines of that plaza were staked.

A governor in course of time had been duly expatriated to look after the interests of the United States in this hopelessly turbulent neighborhood, and for some years twice the realized revenue was spent in keeping up communication with his exiled excellency. Eventually, as a means of recruiting a population fast killing itself off, to the no great detriment of society in general, but the undoubted jeopardy of the commercial interests of those merchants who had shipped their goods thither in hopes of fabulous profit, a few lodes were duly “salted” by experienced hands of Californian education, the inflammatory announcement was made that Arizona was teeming with mineral wealth, and gold, silver, copper, and iron could be picked up by the bucketful. A swarm of eager adventurers pushed in to try their luck, and having invested their last shilling in the attempt, were compelled to stick there and swindle others into coming and doing likewise, and finally it was brought about that three regiments and a brigadier-general of the United States army had to be scattered broadcast over this barren land to whip into subjection the Apache hordes, who looked with not undeserved hatred upon the original white invaders, and one of these regiments was so composed of horses and men as to comply with the generally accepted requirements which in this country entitle it to the designation of cavalry.

Two years of sharp work and stubborn fighting in the mountains had won for the —th the peace they were now enjoying, but had effected many important changes on their muster-rolls. Some of their best and bravest had been sacrificed in the thankless task, and bright hopes, buoyant, loyal, gallant hearts, lay buried under the worthless soil with no other honors than their comrades’ parting volley, no other notice than the pithy explanation of the yearly register in its list of casualties, “Killed in affair with Indians,” every bit as complimentary and gratifying to mourning widow or stricken parent as though it read “in pothouse brawl.” What though the regiment could tell (when it chose to talk of those things) of deeds of heroism that rivalled the blazoned records of the great war or matched the later knightliness of Beresford at Ulundi? What though in hand-to-hand encounter young striplings from the Point had won their spurs or received their death-wound, and dying had, like Philip Sydney, spurned the cooling drink craved in their burning agony that an humbler comrade, needing it more than they who could but die, might drink and live? What though in the proud, yet untold record of their campaigns, thirst and starvation, bitter cold and scorching heat, lonely death in a distant land, the torture of carriage through miles of mountain wilderness that festering wounds might receive the care only to be looked for days’ journey away, all were borne uncomplainingly, unflinchingly for duty’s sake? What though not one defeat had marred the wreath of hard-won conquests, that never had officer or man like craven Cary turned his back upon wounded friend or advancing foe? What mattered it that their general, himself as reckless in exposure as their hardiest trooper, sought again and again the recognition their deeds demanded? An all-powerful if not all-wise Congress had decreed that Indian warfare was not war in the sense that permitted any honor or reward to be extended to its participants. As a Western and consequently friendly Representative once put it, a man might sit in an easy-chair through four years of a great rebellion, and without ever hearing the whistle of a bullet be “brevetted” all the way up from captain to major-general, but let him get shot into smithereens in hand-to-hand struggle with the Indians of our mountains and prairies, why, that wasn’t war said the Senate, and so the recommendations of the general and the nominations of the President went into the Congressional waste-basket, and except the copper-bronze medal worn by some few enlisted men,—an affair similar in appearance and presumably equal in intrinsic value to the old-fashioned cent,—the regiment had gone unrewarded.

But peaceful times seemed to have come. Band after band of hostile Apaches had surrendered and been gathered on the reservations. Scouting expeditions became infrequent, visits began to be exchanged between the detached posts, and at department headquarters balls and “hops” were of weekly occurrence. The arrival of ladies from the States brought about a revival in the latent interest in Eastern fashions, feminine conversations became less intelligible to masculine ears, and feminine garments as noted at the dancing-parties became scant as to skirt and entangling as to trains. Those heroines who had gone into Arizona with the —th had originally astonished the Mexican señoritas by the balloon-like expansions of dress-goods worn just below the small of the back, alluded to as _paniers_, and maintained in position by “bustles.” Now it seemed that a new order of things was to come into vogue, and Mrs. Wilkins, an exponent in fashions, whatever she might be in linguistics, had already won enviable distinction by appearing at Sandy in what she assured her friends to be the “very latest style of _pol_linay.” The other ladies readily forgave the brief ascendency thus acquired in consideration of the sly merriment occasioned by her unconscious slaughter of the proper name.

And so it happened that all was jollity in the Territory when Grace Pelham arrived at Prescott, and so it chanced that two nights after her arrival there were gathered from far and near, from Bowie, Lowell, Apache, and Grant, along the southern line of posts, from Yuma and Mohave, from all over Arizona little squads of officers and ladies, eager as children, after their long exile, to join in the festivities consequent upon the coming of her ladyship and the colonel’s daughter.

The day of the staff ball had come. Every instant of Grace’s waking hours had been occupied with receiving visits, driving, riding, and dining. The delegation from Sandy went _en masse_, at soon as the proper toilets could be effected after the rough and dusty drive, to pay its respects to madame and to loyally welcome the younger lady. Glenham, a radiant, intensified Glenham, was already there, and there the ladies and their lords left him when they retired to their temporary homes. “He’s simply dead in love with her,” said Mrs. Raymond to Mesdames Turner and Wilkins. “Yes,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “and her ladyship’s dead in love with his money,” and somehow or other Mrs. Pelham was duly informed of the remark before the setting of a second sun.

Glenham _was_ dead in love with her. From morning till night he hung about the girl; he it was who secured the first ride, the only one before the ball; he who was accepted as her escort thereto; he who accompanied her to the croquet ground or band concert, who alone of the subalterns was invited to the general’s house to sit by the side of the sweet, fair guest and dine with them _en famille_.

“It’s a put-up job,” said the slangy and sulky young fellows who were vainly striving to “cut in” and catch an unoccupied moment; but between them and the apparently unconscious object there ever interposed that placidly smiling, imperturbably watchful mother (“that confounded old tabby,” said Bay of Camp Cameron). It was all plain sailing for Glenham, all rock, shoal, and sand-bar for them.

“But where’s Truscott?” said Colonel Pelham, suddenly, the morning of the ball; and with a pang of self-reproach, Arthur Glenham for the first time remembered that his friend was left behind. “A telegram reached him just as we were starting,” he explained, “and he said it would be impossible for him to start until later. He made us come on without him, but I surely thought he would be here last night.”

“’Deed and you’re wrong there, Mr. Glenham,” broke in Mrs. Wilkins. “I can tell you the whole thing in a jiffy, colonel. With Captain Canker in command there was no chance of little Glenham’s getting away, and it’s just my belief that Mr. Truscott stayed back in his place. Ah, Miss Gracie,” she added, mischievously, “there’s one young man that don’t come to his knees even for you.” After which graceful piece of _badinage_ the lady confronted Lady Pelham, and the two dames squarely met one another’s glance, the war began right there.

In the silence that followed Glenham stood like one in a maze, the colonel turned sharply on his heel and left the room. Ray and Captain Tanner nearly collided with him in the hall, and came in upon the group wondering what old Catnip was damning that man Canker for this time.

Half an hour later Captain Canker, seated in the adjutant’s office at Camp Sandy, received a dispatch by telegraph in these words: “Department commander desires Lieutenant Truscott’s presence to-night, unless services urgently needed.” Canker ground his teeth, threw the paper to the adjutant, thrust his hands in his pockets, and strode to the door. There he turned and angrily spoke, “You can go, of course, but this is a damned piece of interference on somebody’s part.” Truscott glanced at the telegram and went on with his writing without a word.

Canker walked away half across the parade, then stopped, pondered a moment, and returned. “Mr. Truscott, I can’t spare any more teams or men. If you go you must ride, and you cannot take your orderly. I don’t intend to allow government horses to be ruined by fifty-mile gallops while I’m in command,” and with that he was off.

Truscott looked at the clock, sent a few lines to his servant, finished his work, and, as the noonday sun beat hotly down, with Sandy far behind, he crossed the first range and rode rapidly over into the gorge of Cherry Creek—alone.