A Wounded Name

by Charles King

"Is it Lieutenant Blake? We've come with dispatches, sir, from Yuma," and, unfastening his saddle-bag, the trooper placed a packet in the officer's hand.

"Come this way," said Blake briefly, leading toward the light, and inwardly bemoaning an ill-wind that had blown him far more good than he dreamed. A few strides took him to the door of the ranch. The dispatches were for the president of the late court at Camp Cooke, for Turnbull, for Loring and for himself. Sending the courier to camp, he tore open his order—a brief letter of instructions to furnish such escort as might be deemed sufficient for the safe conduct of Lieutenant-Colonels Vance and Turnbull to Tucson. Then he waited to hear from them. With Sancho eagerly scanning their faces the two veterans had opened and read their orders, then looked up at each other in evident surprise. Presently they arose, and, begging their host to excuse them a moment and beckoning Blake to follow, stepped into the lighted bar beyond. Another court had been convened, another officer was to be tried, and the two who had officiated as seniors at Camp Cooke were directed to proceed at once to the old Mexican capital for similar duty there.

Before sunrise, escorted by a dozen troopers, Vance and Turnbull were on their way, their farewell words to Blake being an injunction to see Loring and his precious charges safe to Yuma City.

As long as he lived Gerald Blake was destined to remember the Saturday that dawned upon them as the little party rode away south-eastward. Even the men seemed oddly depressed. Neither to Turnbull, to Loring nor to Blake had this detachment suggested itself as possible. What with having to send a large portion of his command forward on the Yuma road so as to provide comparatively fresh horsemen to accompany the stage with its relays of mules, Blake found himself at reveille with just eighteen men all told, awaiting the coming of that anxiously-expected vehicle. He prayed that it might bring at least one or two officers from Grant or Bowie. He vainly sought another peep at or word with Pancha; but, though Sancho was everywhere in evidence, grave, courteous, hospitable, imperturbable; though one or two ranchmen rode in and out during the morning, and there was a little gathering, perhaps half a dozen of men and mozos, apparently awaiting the coming of the stage at noon, the women kept out of sight. At twelve the old lorgnette was brought to bear on the eastward trail, but, to the apparent surprise of the loungers, one o'clock came and no stage, and so did four and five and then Blake and Loring took counsel together in the seclusion of the willow copse, while their men, silent and observant, gathered about the horses thirty yards away, grooming and feeding and looking carefully to their shoeing, for there was portent on the desert air and symptoms of lively work ahead.

At six came Sancho, oppressed with grievous anxiety as to the safety of the stage. There has been rumors of Apache raids to the east of Maricopa. Only three days before he had warned the caballeros—the gentlemen of the court who were going back to Grant and Bowie, to be on their guard every inch of the way beyond the Wells, and now his heart was heavy. He feared that, disdainful of his caution, they had driven straight into ambush. Ought not the Teniente Blake to push forward at once with his whole force and ascertain their fate? Blake bade him hold his peace. If harm had come to that stage, said he, it was not on the eastward, but the westward run, not at the hands of Apaches, but of outlaws, and Sancho went back looking blacker than night and saying in the seclusion of the corral, to beetle-browed hermano mio and his dusky wife, things that even in Spanish sounded ill and would not be publishable in English. Both officers by this time felt that there was mischief abroad. It was decided between them that if by midnight the stage did not arrive, Loring, with the precious packet in one saddle-bag and the court proceedings in the other, should take eight men as escort and gallop for the west until he reached the platoon sent forward at dawn. From that point the danger would be less, and with either the same or a smaller number of fresh riders he could push on for Yuma, sending all the others back to join Blake, who meantime, with what little force he had, would scout eastward for news of the stage.

But that plan was destined never to be carried out. The long day came to an end. The darkness settled down over sandy plain and distant mountain. The silence of midnight reigned over the lonely bivouac and the somber ranch, yet had not Blake given orders that every man must remain close to the horses throughout the evening, adventurous spirits from the troop could surely have heard the ominous whisperings within the corral and marked the stealthy glidings to and fro. At nine o'clock the famous roan was cautiously led forth from the gateway and close under the black shadow of the wall, and not until well beyond earshot of the willows was he mounted and headed eastward. At ten Loring was sleeping soundly in preparation for the night ride before him, and Blake, nervously puffing at his pipe, was listening to the low, murmurous chat where the guard were gathered about their watchfires, when soft, timid, luring, sweet, again he heard the tinkle of that guitar. It ceased abruptly. There was a minute of silence, then, a trifle louder, it began again; again ceased as though waiting reply, and Blake sat up and listened. Once more, not at the westward willows, not at the ranch, not on the open plain, but somewhere close at hand, close to his side of the bivouac, away from the guard, away from the occasionally stamping, snorting horses, and equally far from the dark, shadowy buildings of the stage station, and Blake slowly, noiselessly got to his feet and, after listening one moment to Loring's deep, regular breathing, buckled on his revolver belt and stole forth into the starlight. Yes, there was the sound again—a few notes, a bar or two of the song Pancha was singing at the willows the night before, and close to the edge of the willows crouched the musician. With his hand on the butt of his revolver, Blake strode slowly toward the shrinking form, and, beckoning, it rose and moved swiftly away.

"Halt where you are," growled the lieutenant, "if you want me to stay here."

For answer there came the same softly played bars and another gesture as though imploring him to come farther away from hearing of the ranch or even of his bivouac, and, whipping out his revolver, the tall trooper sprang forward and a heavy hand came down on the shoulder of the shawl-hidden form, and there, trembling, imploring, ay weeping, was Pancha. Before he could speak one word she began, and, to his amaze, began in English—broken English to be sure, disjointed, incoherent, tremulous—and he listened, at first incredulous, then half-convinced, then utterly absorbed, too absorbed to note that a dark form went scurrying from the shelter of some stunted brush straight toward the ranch, whence presently a bright light shone forth and loud voices harshly shouted the name of Pancha! Pancha! whose wrist he still grasped—Pancha! who, weeping, had implored him to hasten with all his men, that the stage was not three miles away with officers from Grant aboard, that wicked men had planned to murder them to prevent their joining him, and now, in terror, she sought to break away. She begged him to release her. They would kill her if they knew——

And even as she pleaded, far out on the dark, eastward plain there suddenly uprose a chorus of yells, a rattling fusillade, and Blake darted back to the bivouac, shouting as he ran, "Up with you, 'C' troop! Mount, men, mount!" and then all was stir and bustle and excitement. Springing from their blanket beds the troopers threw their carbine slings over their shoulders and flew to their horses. "Never mind your saddles—no time for that!" yelled Blake, as he slipped the bit between the teeth of his startled charger, then threw himself astride the naked back. "Up with you and come on!" Then with a dozen ready fellows at his heels away he darted into the gloom, guided only by the yells and flashes far out over the sandy plain. In less than two minutes every trooper in the little command had gone spurring in pursuit, and Lieutenant Loring, suddenly aroused from slumber, revolver in hand, looking eagerly about for explanation of the row, found himself standing guard over his treasure-laden saddle-bags—utterly alone.

Then came the whish of a riata through the pulseless air, the quick whir-r-r of the horse-hair rope through the loop as it settled down over his head, a snap as it flew taut, a sudden and violent shock as his feet were jerked from under him, the crack of his revolver—aimless, a stunning blow on his prostrate head, then oblivion.