CHAPTER V.

Twenty miles up the valley above Camp Sandy lay the agency of the Indian reservation, and for some time previous to the date on which our story opens a young cavalry officer of large experience among the Apaches had been doing the double duty of commanding the Indian scouts and acting as agent for the six or seven thousand aborigines then being fed and clothed at the expense of the government. Of course, there had been, previous to his time, an actual (_bonâ fide_ was almost written) Indian agent, one of the factors of that mysterious and complicated piece of cabinet-ware known as the Bureau, but, though this was before the halcyon days of Schurz, even the Department of the Interior could not close its eyes to the convincing proofs of the peculations which he had been so injudicious as to strive to keep entirely to himself, and so, having proved a doubly unprofitable servant, the Bureau was not unwilling to cast him out, whereupon he showed signs of insanity, was placed under medical care, and escorted back to his home in Massachusetts under the guidance and at the expense of Uncle Sam, the method of his madness subsequently manifesting itself in the realization that had he been discharged on the spot he would have been compelled to pay his own way. Then there was an interregnum. Even Indian agents could hardly afford the trip to Eastern Arizona, the journey to San Francisco and thence by sea or desert to the Colorado, and thence by “buckboard” to the mountains, costing more for self and family than one could possibly hope to save in a year without getting found out. “If it were not for those d—d army officers,” said one of these shrewd financiers, “a man might live like a gentleman even in Arizona.” But the commanding general had for years of his life been dealing with Indians, and his maxim was to fight like blazes when fighting had to be done, teach them to dread the power of the Great Father, but to promise and insure fair treatment when they surrendered. The general had promised these Apaches fair treatment, and was bound to see his promise carried into effect. This led to his keeping an eye on the agents, and that led to the agents hating him worse than one of their own inspectors, which, after all, is a mild way of putting it. Nearly all the Arizona agents about this time were doctors of something or other, and bore the title if for proficiency in no other art, science, or profession than that of “doctoring” returns, and when this particular doctor was taken crazy and home (where he took to lecturing on the wrongs of the red man, and to himself the contributions of the charitable), the general was empowered to name a _pro tempore_ agent, and sent Lieutenant Stryker of the —th. Stryker was well known to all the Apaches as a fearless young chief who had thrashed them many a time, and the one thing an Indian respects is bravery when combined with force. As a consequence there was peace and propriety on the reservation. Stryker kept rigid account of the warriors under his control; there was little or no straying away from the limits, the few settlers began to take courage and let out their stock to graze, new “ranches” began to spring up in the deep valleys, and all promised well until the arrival of another “ringster” from the East relieved Stryker of his duties, and the Indians of restraint. Still there had been no outbreak; the road between Prescott and the valley of the Sandy, though lying dangerously near the Apaches, was considered so safe that the mail-carrier rode to and fro without escort, and small hunting-parties scoured through the mountains without meeting a “hostile”; but for some weeks past unpleasant rumors had been in circulation, and for three or four days the agent had been sending down to Sandy sullen-looking specimens of the tribe, with the request that they be confined in the guard-house, among the murderers and worst characters of their brethren lodged therein. The guard reported that they were holding frequent pow-wows in the prison room, and that when out at work under the sentinels, occasional attempts had been made by them to steal knives, scrap-iron, and any odds and ends of metal that could be sharpened and used. Stryker had been sent to the southern part of the Territory, and none of the officers at Sandy knew anything of the new agent. The surgeon at the reservation, however, had twice been down to the post, and on both occasions had displayed keen anxiety as to the condition of affairs. He even asked Colonel Pelham to come up and take a look at things, saying that at the rate he was going on the agent would precipitate a mutiny in less than a fortnight,—he was arresting and ordering into confinement some of the best and most influential Indians on no pretext whatever, and what was worse, said the doctor, “he is making them believe it is by your order or that of the general.” Pelham had decided to lay the whole matter before the department commander in a written communication,—but the result was as yet unknown, as the general could not interfere with the proceedings of an officer of the Interior Department, and could only “forward” the statement with a strong indorsement, in which case it generally resulted in being pigeon-holed among the musty files of the Bureau, and the informant was the only one who got into trouble.

And so it happened that the solitary ride on which Jack Truscott had set forth proved an eventful one. Along towards two o’clock in the afternoon he had stopped to water his horse at a little spring well over towards the valley of the Agua Fria, loosening the girths and easing the saddle a while to rest his pet “Apache.” The horse was a noble specimen of his race, tall, sinewy, almost gaunt in build, but with powerful limbs, an eye full of fire and intelligence, and the tapering, sensitive ears of the purest breed. Truscott stood with his left arm thrown negligently over the withers, stroking the glossy mane, and softly patting the sturdy neck of his friend, all the while talking caressingly to him, while “Apache,” having indulged in a dozen long-drawn swallows, was now, with uplifted head and dripping muzzle, taking a leisurely survey of the scene preparatory to another dip. Satisfied apparently with the tranquillity of his surroundings, he was about to return to the sparkling water at his feet, when the leaves were stirred by a faint, rustling breeze, and suddenly he threw up his head and with dilated eye and nostril gazed fixedly into the thicket near him. Next he gave a start, snorted as though alarmed, and sprang back towards the road. Truscott’s quick hand was on the rein in an instant, while with his right he as quickly unslung the Henry rifle, that swung, Arizona fashion, athwart the pommel, still speaking gently, soothingly to his horse. “Steady, boy! steady, old man! you don’t scare as a rule; what do you see, sir?” and with his rifle at ready the adjutant backed slowly from the thicket, stepped to the near side of his horse, and then deftly reset and “cinched” his saddle. Still “Apache” quivered with strong excitement, and Truscott, keeping his eyes fixed on the quarter from which his alarm seemed to come, led back to the road; there he stopped to consider. “Apache” still stamped and snorted, a thing he had never been known to do under ordinary circumstances, and his conduct was a puzzle. He had seen, smelled, and chased bears without special emotion before, and no other beasts of prey were to be found around Sandy,—rattlesnakes were plenty, but not a whit did “Apache” mind them, but the one thing he hated was an Indian. Could it be that Indians were crouching in the tangled brushwood back of the spring?

Truscott slung the reins over a stumpy little cedar, cocked his rifle, and, bending low, stepped over the brook and, parting the interlacing branches, forced his way through the bushes. Something wet and slimy on his hand caused him to raise it to the light, and he found it stained with blood. Close examination showed fresh gouts of blood on the leaves and twigs on either side, then came a little patch of sunlight, a mere break in the thick tangle of shrubbery, and there, stripped, gashed, mutilated,—two arrows still sticking out from the brawny back showing the shots were from the rear,—lay the corpse of Finnegan, the mail-carrier; horse and equipments, arms, ammunition, clothing, and boots, all but the ghastly life-ridden frame, gone. Further search revealed the soldier’s blouse and shirt, so hacked with knives and stained with gore as to be useless even to an Indian, while among a pile of rocks were scattered the letters and papers of the mail for Sandy. Five minutes more and Jack Truscott was speeding down into the valley to the west, sparing neither spur nor word, and “Apache,” nerved to excitement, was making the best time known to Arizona records.

The winding, rocky road lay for a distance under hanging cliffs and boulders, and Truscott, bending low over the pommel with his Henry advanced on the right, peered warily ahead at every turn. A few miles farther, down in the open valley, lay a ranch where travellers and teamsters were accustomed to rest and refresh themselves and their cattle. The next turn would bring him in view of the valley and the ranch itself, and with keen anxiety he gazed as “Apache” bounded over the road. Another moment and the bend was reached, the valley lay before him, and plainer than ever before there stood the ranch, a glare of flame, while a thick cloud of smoke, black and heavy, floated slowly into the air. Never drawing rein he darted ahead; he knew that a party of cavalrymen from the post were out repairing on the line of the military telegraph, that they were on the western side of the range and could not fail to see the conflagration down in the valley; he knew that a few strides more would bring him to the point where the road and the telegraph line lay side by side, for the latter had been strung across country by the most direct route, and between the Agua Fria and the Sandy ran far south of the winding highway. The sergeant in charge of the party was an Irishman who bore an enviable name for bravery and efficiency in Apache warfare, and Truscott felt sure that he and his men would not be far away when there was need of his services. “Two to one the sergeant has seen that fire long before this, and he and his men are well on their way,” was his reflection as he galloped on.

He was among the foot-hills of the western slope now; the road dipped and twisted among the spurs, sometimes in plain view two miles ahead, sometimes not a dozen yards. At a sharp bend “Apache” suddenly swerved violently to the left, and Truscott reined op alongside the smouldering remains of a wagon, near which, gashed and hacked with savage fury, lay the body of a Mexican teamster. The cattle had disappeared, driven off to the northward as the trail indicated, but examining the ground, Truscott saw to his joy the fresh imprint of a score of horse-shoes, crossing the road from the south, evidently in pursuit. Once more “Apache” felt the spur and darted west along the road,—once more his rider came into view of the ranch, and saw with satisfaction that while the sheds and “corral” were a mass of flames, the home of the station-keeper was still safe. The one thing now was to find the sergeant and his men and hie to the rescue. Truscott lost no time by following the trail; he knew well that before this the flames had been seen, and the troopers were taking the shortest line across country towards the point of danger, if, indeed, they were not already there. Five minutes more and now a gently-sloping stretch of road, only a mile or so, lay between him and the ranch, and then—hurrah! off to the right he saw a little squad of blue jackets bounding over the slopes with carbines advanced, and Jack’s voice rang out through the still air, “This way, this way, sergeant; make for the road!” and never drawing rein, he spurred ahead. Now he could hear the crackling of the flames, and every now and then the report of a rifle. Another moment, and scurrying off towards the reservation he caught sight of a party of some twenty Indians, running for dear life, throwing away the plunder they had picked up, clinging to the tails and manes of the few horses their luckier comrades had secured; away they were going, caught in the very height of their devilment, no time to palaver or parley, their hands still stained with rapine and murder,—the cowardly curs had suddenly caught sight of the little band of rescuers, and their first impulse was flight. Truscott turned in his saddle, waving his broad-brimmed hat to the men spurring along behind him, “Head ’em off, men; spread out to the right!” and in another instant “Apache’s” hoofs thundered through the burning corral, past the scorching ranch, whose beleaguered occupants found time to cheer with delight as they dropped their rifles to rush for buckets and water, out through the open court beyond, splash through the rivulet, scramble up the bank on the other side, and Truscott was in full view of the chase. But horses were wellnigh exhausted now, and eager though the riders might be, it was pitiful to hear the gasp and groan with which the steeds made answer to the spur. The mounted Indians were plainly seen striking at their comrades, who, clinging to their mounts, impeded their flight, and some of the troopers, trusting to luck, had opened a long-range fire at the pursued. But “Apache” kept on, fire, mettle, endurance, and speed, all were combined in his glorious race, and almost before he realized it Truscott found himself closing in upon the stragglers.

[Illustration:

“With vengeful eye, drove shot after shot.”

Page 67. ]

Throwing away the arms they dared not stop to use, two Indians flung themselves flat upon their faces on the sward; but another, wheeling quickly, knelt, aimed. Truscott bent low upon his horse’s neck, and the harmless flash of the savage’s rifle was answered by a surer shot that sent a bullet crashing through the tawny, naked breast. Then there came another report, sharp and ringing, close at hand, and with it poor “Apache” wavered, staggered, plunged headlong to his knees and rolled in agony upon the turf. Truscott alighted, cat-like, on his feet, but quickly knelt to avoid the hurried missiles sent back at him by the scattering foe. He ground his teeth in bitter rage as he saw his favorite lying there in his death-struggle, and with vengeful eye drove shot after shot at his slayers, and not till the sergeant and his men could reach him did he know or realize that the blood was streaming down his left arm, and that an arrow had torn a deep rent under the shoulder-strap.

There was no further pursuit: horses were exhausted, and few white men afoot can catch an Apache; but four of the tribe had paid the forfeit of their crimes and lay weltering along the trail. Slowly the victors returned to the ranch, where the owner, a sturdy Norwegian, and his good wife, with eager volubility, poured forth their thanks for the timely rescue, and brought water and bandages for Truscott’s shoulder. One or two bucolical-looking Swedes were still dashing water against the adobe walls, as though the now smouldering ruins of the corral-sheds could communicate flame to dried mud, while in one of the rooms two teamsters, badly wounded but worse scared, were stretched upon the floor groaning lustily in their distress. Close by the corral lay two more Tonto “bucks,” who had presumed too much upon the easy victory over single and unprepared victims, and had ventured with reckless confidence in their overwhelming force to attempt a rush upon the stout-hearted ranchmen. Olson hurriedly told the story of the raid as known to him: how, long before noon, a small party had strolled in to beg for something to eat, and were noticed peering about at the interior of the ranch; how his wife had snatched away a rifle one of them had taken and was eagerly examining; how, later in the day, a trapper rode by from the east, saying he had seen numbers of ’Patchie tracks among the hills and didn’t like the looks of things; and finally, how, after two o’clock, the two teamsters had come tearing in on one horse saying that the Indians had attacked them in the cañon among the foot-hills, and they had to flee for their lives, then came the Indians themselves. He “thought there must have been a hundred of them,” some dressed in soldier clothes, some on horseback, and he and his people had run for the house, which they placed in as defensible a state as they knew how, and fought them back like heroes, according to the good man’s story, though, from the fact that few of the Apaches had fire-arms, and only two of them breech-loaders (which they had secured at the expense of poor Finnegan and the Mexican that morning) and that the household was still quivering with excitement, Truscott concluded that their relief at his appearance was the most genuine portion of the entire exhibit. The Apaches had not made a very determined assault, and the besieged would hardly have held out against one.

It was not probable that another attack would be made that afternoon. The sun was well down towards the west by this time, and Truscott decided, as soon as he could rest his weary horses, to push in to Prescott with the news. A wagon was filled with straw, in which the wounded teamsters were carefully laid. Two of the cavalry horses, refreshed by a two hours’ halt and a hearty feed, were harnessed in, and, leaving the sergeant with two men at the ranch as guard, the adjutant and a little party of three “effectives” set forth at sundown with the wagon-load of wounded.

The road was rough, the night, though still and starlit, was dark in the deep pine forests through which they rode after leaving the Agua Fria. Off to the northeast the signal-fires of the Indians told the story of the outbreak, and the highway was deserted. It was near three o’clock in the morning before Truscott reached the post, turned over his wounded to the care of the hospital steward, and went to headquarters to make his report. The ball was still in progress, and the strains of gay music fell upon his ear as he climbed the slope towards the offices. Lights were burning in the telegraph-room, however, and here he found the operator clicking away at his instrument “My God! lieutenant,” said he, springing up; “we’ve been mighty anxious about you. The Apaches have raided the valley,—just got the news from Sandy half an hour ago, and particulars are coming in every minute. Hold on one second until I tell Sandy you are here.”

Stiff, chilled, and tired, smarting with pain from his torn shoulder, Truscott sank into a chair; his thoughts drifted back over the events of the day, but lingered with keen, and even bitter sorrow on “Apache’s” death. For three long years he had been Truscott’s one pet, his pride and delight. He had borne his rider gallantly that day over hill and dale, rock and rill, a wild rush to the rescue; he had distanced all competitors; was the only horse “in at the death,” thought poor Jack, and as he recalled that mute appeal in the glazing eyes of his favorite, and recalled too that not once before death put an end to his misery had there been a chance for a single caress or word, not one sign to his faithful charger of the love in which he held him, Jack’s pale, set face grew paler, there was an odd quiver about the stern lines of his mouth, and a gathering film in the tired eyes he so hastily covered with his hand. Quick steps came bounding up the pathway, across the narrow piazza, and Colonel Wickham entered with the aide-de-camp. “Well, what’s the latest? Have they heard from Truscott?” was his immediate question.

The operator motioned towards the sitting figure with one hand, while the right kept busily clicking its message, and Truscott, rising, stood before the questioner, who eagerly grasped his hands. “Safe, Jack, thank God!—but you’re hurt! Where did you run across them? D—n it, what a time to ask questions! We’ve had an awful scare about you. Sit down again, man. Here, Bright, run down to the club-room and bring me some whiskey.” The aide was off without a word, and by the time he returned with the required stimulant Wickham, who never used it himself, but knew when it was needed for others, had told Truscott that at midnight a despatch had come from Sandy saying that raiding-parties of Indians were in the valley, and that all the settlers had taken refuge at the post. “The general said to keep the thing quiet until we received further particulars, and sent orders to have the cavalry at Camp Sandy out at daybreak on the trail. From midnight up to half-past two reports came of the Apaches being in force along the valley, but not until half an hour before had anything indicated that they were west of the range. Then a ranchman from the Agua Fria had ridden post-haste into the quartermaster’s corral saying that Olson’s ranch had been burned and his family slaughtered; that lots of teamsters had been killed; and then we thought of you. I hurried off a message to Canker, who replied that you had left the post about ten o’clock, and he ‘feared you had gone alone.’ Then the general ordered ‘G’ company out at once, and the men are stirring up now. All the time though we were trying to keep the thing quiet so as not to spoil the Pelhams’ ball, but just five minutes ago old Catnip and that lovely daughter of his—By Jove! Truscott, there’s a girl to make your head swim—came at the general with point-blank questions about you, and I don’t see how we could have kept it much longer.”

Then Truscott briefly reported the facts as known to him. Bright, the aide, went off to notify the general, and came back saying that the general begged Truscott to come at once to his quarters, and there Jack found an anxious group, consisting of the department commander, Colonel Pelham, and three or four captains of the —th, and after warm greetings and congratulations the adjutant again recited tersely the story of his ride. The general listened intently, never interposing word or query until it was finished, then it came. “How did you happen to have no orderly?” and though for a brief instant Truscott hesitated and looked embarrassed, he replied gravely that “an orderly had not been considered necessary, everything had been so quiet for months past,” and his comrades at least felt pretty certain that in virtually taking upon himself the responsibility Jack Truscott was shielding a man who would have lost no opportunity of hurting his defender, could he have done so. The general’s orders were prompt. The cavalry officers from Sandy were directed to make immediate preparations to return, escorted thither by the troops then saddling, and with hurried farewells they went off to attend to the matter. At the general’s request the colonel and Truscott remained. “The ladies must all wait here at Prescott,” he said. “Let Canker and ‘the boys’ have this tussle to themselves, Pelham, they will scatter and whip them back in short order. You and Truscott must wait here a day or two. Now, first thing, Truscott, I want your shoulder looked after. You are to stay with us. The doctor will be here in a moment, and I’ll show you your room.” Truscott begged to be excused; he knew that the house was full of the fair sex, or would be as soon as they returned from the ball. Even then their silvery voices and laughter could be heard on the walk outside, and the adjutant was far from indifferent to his personal appearance. Just now, covered with dust and his uniform stained with blood, his face haggard with pain and fatigue, he would have much preferred going off to his bachelor comrades; but even as he was attempting to enter his protest the door opened, and Mesdames the General and Pelham, escorted by Lieutenants Hunter and Ray, came sailing in. “Pretty men you are to desert your wives in this way,” vociferated the portly partner of the general, all in a good-humored glow after her pull up the hill. “Pretty men to——Why, Jack Truscott! When did you get here? Why, you’re so pale—and all blood—are you wounded? What’s happened?” And so, hurriedly and disconnectedly, this good lady—“the warmest-hearted woman in the army,” the Arizona exiles used to call her—poured forth question, sympathy, and welcome all at once upon her prime favorite, the adjutant of the —th.

“Now don’t bother Truscott,” the general vainly interposed. “The doctor’s coming, and I want his shoulder dressed, or he’ll be having fever in it;” but his better half could not be suppressed, and over again, quietly and smilingly, Jack strove to tell something of the day’s adventures, but failed signally, because by this time both dames were popping questions at him quicker than he could singly answer either. Ray and Hunter stopped only long enough to grasp his hand, and learn from their colonel that their companies were under orders, when they hurriedly left. The tramp of hoofs and jingle of Mexican spurs was heard in front, staff-officers came quickly and quietly in, received their instructions as quietly from the low-voiced general, and were off in a moment about their business. Pelham seated himself to write a few words of caution to Canker, who was a reckless and impetuous campaigner, whatever might be his disagreeable qualities, and Truscott, breaking away from his female inquisitors, had just stepped to the door to intrust this despatch to Bright, when he came face to face with Grace. It was almost a collision. Truscott stopped short, bowed low, and with a courteous “Pardon me,” held the door open for her to pass. Grace bent her flushed and tearful face, sweeping one quick, furtive glance from under the long lashes at the tall soldier, stepped into the hall, and hearing many voices in the parlor, darted up the stairs to her room, there to bathe her eyes and collect her startled thoughts.

Finding Bright already gone, Truscott carried the despatch to headquarters, gave it to Captain Turner, and then, feeling weak and weary, returned slowly to the general’s. The tear-stained face of the graceful girl who had swept past him at the doorway had by no means escaped his attention. He knew well that it was Grace Pelham, felt thoroughly satisfied that the footsteps bounding away into darkness as he came out upon the piazza were those of Glenham, had quickly decided that it was more than probable the latter would not care to see him just then, and so had not called after him, and saved himself a fatiguing trip. Returning to the parlor, he was seized by his colonel. “_Now_, Truscott, I want to introduce you to my daughter. Never mind your dress, man; I _want_ her to see what my fellows have to go through. She’ll like you all the better, or I’ll disown her.” And, pale and half faint, Jack was led up to the group of ladies, and in another moment was looking down into the most glorious eyes he had ever seen, into a fair frank face that met his gaze with an expression of earnest interest and concern, while a slender white hand cordially greeted his nervous palm, and a gentle voice exclaimed, “It doesn’t seem possible that you and I have never met before, Mr. Truscott; father’s letters have made me feel as though I knew you.” What man would not have thought her welcome both gracious and graceful? What mamma, with ambitious projects of her own, would not have shown alarm? Lady Pelham barely gave Jack time to offer any response before she burst in with, “Now, Grace, Grace, Mr. Truscott is utterly exhausted; too much so to talk, and (with cheerful irrelevance) I know that your father and he have a dozen things to attend to.”

“Not a bit of it,” said the colonel. “He sha’n’t do another stroke of work to-night. I want him to get to bed, but, first of all, to meet Grace. Ah, Truscott, she could ride ‘Apache,’ I’ll warrant you.”

Grace, looking up into the calm features of her new acquaintance, marked a sudden change, a deeper pallor, a knitting of the tired brow, and a nervous twitching at the corners of the mouth. “Miss Pelham’s riding is something the last year’s graduates never tire of talking about,” he answered; but she thought only of the pang that seemed to shoot across his face, and eagerly spoke,—

“You must be suffering from your hurt, Mr. Truscott. Surely you ought to see the surgeon,” and this at once brought the general’s energetic lady to the rescue, even Mrs. Pelham promptly joining in the sympathizing chorus. Jack was remanded to his room, whither the general himself insisted on accompanying him; the doctor, already summoned, was soon on hand, and the ladies Pelham were left alone. Without a moment’s hesitation madame took her daughter’s hands in hers, looked searchingly into her face, and said,—

“Grace, you have been in tears. Has Arthur Glenham spoken to you?”

“Yes, mother.”

“My darling child, I knew it!” And the maternal arms were thrown about the slender form, and an anxious kiss was pressed upon the pale forehead. Then,—“And you answered him?”

Grace paused a moment. She well knew her mother’s ambition, and her love for all the good that money can bring. She knew how hard she had struggled, planned, pinched, and saved that she, her one daughter, the very apple of her eye, should never lack for even the luxuries of life. She loved her tenderly, yet those half-spoken words of Glenham’s had given rise to a painful suspicion. She raised her eyes to her mother’s face, and replied,—

“I do not love him. I could not accept him, mother. I have tried not to encourage this avowal. Have you ever spoken with him? You surely have not let him keep this delusion. I told you at West Point it was useless.”

“Grace, my daughter, think a moment what you are doing. He is a gentleman. He loves you devotedly. He can place you above any possibility of want or care in this world. You may never have such another opportunity. Why, my child, were your father to die to-morrow you would be penniless. Your brothers could do nothing for you. Is it possible you can be blind to our position?”

Slowly Grace Pelham drew herself from her mother’s arms and stood thoughtfully before her. “Do you expect me to marry a man whom I merely like?” she asked.

“But why can’t you love him?” broke in her ladyship, impatiently. “It will come soon enough, Grace; you are too sensible for mere romance. Why, to-night, when I saw you enter in tears, my heart was thankful. I thought of course they were due to anxiety and distress at his sudden summons to join his company. _Why_ were you crying, I should like to know?”

“At his emotion. He seemed so—so—— _Mother!_ answer me: had you given him cause to hope that I loved him?”

Mrs. Pelham hesitated. She knew her daughter’s spirit, her keen sense of honor; she strove to find an answer that might evade the issue, yet satisfy the scruples of her child, but Grace’s clear eyes were fixed upon her face. She reddened, then almost pettishly broke forth,—

“Of course I did not absolutely encourage him, but I did say you were too young to know your own mind, and I’m sure I hoped you would come to your senses by this time. Grace, it is undutiful in you to question me like this. I’m sure I acted for the best, and he deserves better treatment at your hands.”

Grace Pelham pressed her hands upon her temples. Less than a year ago, and again, less than six months, when their coming to Arizona was first discussed, her mother had told her that she had never spoken of the matter to Mr. Glenham; and now—for one moment she looked wonderingly, wistfully, into the flushed and angry face of the elder lady, then, with one half-stifled cry, “Oh, mother!” she fled to her own room.

Half an hour afterwards—a half-hour spent in bitter tears—she heard her father enter the adjoining room, and address his better half in his usual cheery tone: “It wasn’t the wound that made Jack Truscott so miserable. His pet horse was killed under him in the fight, and he never said a word about it. Why, Dolly, you look used up. What’s the matter?”

And Dolly replied in melodramatic grandeur, “Hush!”

Fatigue, excitement, distress, all had spent their force on Grace Pelham. Gentle sleep soon came to soothe her troubled spirit, but, mingling with her last thoughts those words floated through her drowsy brain, “His pet horse was killed under him, and he never said a word about it.”