"Not a word or sign of that, sir!"
And yet it was 'Tonio's people who kept the faith as to bearing messages and giving safe conduct to Archer's people in the field. It was all past Archer's comprehension and that of the officers present. There was no Gray Fox there who knew Indians as they knew themselves. There was no genial, straightforward "Big Chief Jake," the fearless soldier leader from the lower reservation, from Camp Apache and the San Carlos, the man on whom the Gray Fox leaned, the man whom the hostiles dreaded, the "friendlies" trusted, and all frontiersmen, soldier or civilian, swore by. They could have fathomed it. Even blunt old Stannard, had he been there, could have thrown some needed light on the vexed and gloomy question. But in all Camp Almy that night there was only one officer who, knowing few of these facts, nevertheless knew 'Tonio so well, and so repented him of his own brief suspicion, that he would have called a halt to the order given Captain Turner within the hour—to send Sergeant Malloy, with a dozen men, as soon as the coast was clear of the hostile Apaches, to run down 'Tonio wherever he might be, to secure and bring him in, a prisoner bound, and if he sought to escape, to shoot him dead.
CHAPTER XIX.
An atmosphere of peace ineffable surrounded old Camp Almy. The Indians lately infesting the neighborhood seemed to have gone away into the mountain fastnesses. Turner had pushed little scouting parties cautiously into the foothills to the west and the rugged country eastward across the stream. Others had ventured down to the Peak and scaled it in search of signal smokes or fires. Others still had explored the valley toward Dead Man's Cañon, and back by way of Bennett's, without finding so much as a moccasin print. Even the Apache-Mohaves seemed to have gone from the neighborhood. Malloy with his chosen ten was still out, and a rumor was prevalent that their orders might keep them away some days, so no apprehension was felt at their continued absence.
Another week was nearing an end. A runner, Hualpai, had come in from the far north-east, with despatches from Stannard. He was with General Crook and their comrades from the northward camps and stations. They had abundant supplies, had scattered and driven the Tontos, had made some prisoners of squaws and pappooses, who, even to the general, declared they knew not where the Bennett children had been hidden. The general was expecting to work southward along the Black Mesa to meet the column out from the Upper San Carlos under Major Randall ("Big Chief Jake," the aforementioned) and between them they meant to leave no stone unturned in the effort to find the boys. Stannard enclosed a letter for his bonny wife, and closed with a word by way of postscript over which Archer and the three B's found themselves pondering not a little.
"Wish we had Harris and 'Tonio with us. Hope they are doing well. The general is anxious to meet and know them both."
Harris was not well. His convalescence had been interrupted and impaired, as we have seen, and no man thrives bodily when heart and soul are sore within him; and, heart and soul, Harris was sore. He was sitting up, to be sure, but it was plain to be seen he was suffering. Mrs. Stannard, wise woman that she was, believed she knew something of the cause and held her peace. Dr. Bentley, believing also that he knew something of the cause, was not so thoroughly wise. Between Mrs. Bennett, his patients at the hospital, mostly convalescent, and this young knight, the doctor was having a busy time of it. Mrs. Bennett improved not at all, but had at least become less violent in her anguish. At times she seemed almost in a stupor, and Mrs. Stannard was beginning to wonder whether the matron, worn out with her lamentations, had been administering surreptitious opiates. Mrs. Archer's visits had become less frequent, because for long hours she had had to go and sit with Lilian and her crippled hero. But now that hero was up and out on the veranda, basking in the sunshine of love unutterable, though enjoined as yet to avoid the fervor of that of Arizona. Willett had never appeared to better advantage in his life than now, in modestly accepting congratulations, manfully asserting his unworthiness of the blessing that had come to him, and his determination, please God, to live a life of devotion to his new-found delight, this sweet floweret of the desert that so suddenly, so wonderfully, so dominantly had come to gladden, to bless, to inspire his career. Love is a marvellous beautifier, mental, moral and physical. In such pure and exquisite companionship, in the radiance of her presence, in the ecstasy of her sweet, shy, still half-timid caress, in the undoubted honesty of his resolution to be all her fondest wishes would have him, and in no easily shaken conviction that, even as he stood, he was a remarkably fine fellow, well calculated to make any girl happy, it was not difficult for Willett to rise superior to his past—to forget it, in fact, and to fancy himself for all times the high-minded, love-guided gentleman he stood to-day. Why should he not to the full rejoice in her delicious homage?—indulge her sweet rhapsodies?—encourage her fond day dreams? It was so easy now to be all deference and tenderness to the gentle mother he was soon to rob of her one darling, to be all respect and attention to the gallant old soldier father, to be everything that was exquisitely tender, fond, impassioned to this innocent and lovely girl, who trembled with delight at his kiss and clung in speechless rapture to his side. Life for him, even here at desolate Almy, had suddenly become a veritable heaven. Small wonder then that he quite forgot the purpose of his coming, the sordid events that preceded that most fortunate catastrophe, the fire,—forgot or thrust aside all consideration of the episode at the store, the encounter at Harris's bedside, the events of the evening when he was hurled headlong among the rocks, the victim of 'Tonio's vengeful aim. He had even ceased to remember that he had ever been capable of considering "Hefty" Harris a rival, that he had ever been capable of undermining or intriguing or inspiring an official report that reflected sorely on Harris as an officer and leader. In his present mood, in fine, forgetful of all his past, his heart was overflowing with the milk of human kindness, even to Harris, and, having successfully tricked him out of everything worth having at the post, was quite ready to forgive him and once more be the friend, comrade and classmate of his own imaginings.
Harris alone had not come to congratulate him, but then, as Willett well knew, Harris could not. Mrs. Stannard and Dr. Bentley both reported him still too weak to walk about. He had had much fever and pain and loss of sleep, said they. But now, when in the soft light of this Friday evening, Willett essayed a stroll up the line, with Lilian almost dancing by his side, and with fond eyes following the graceful pair, he took it quite amiss that Harris did not come forth to envy, and to add his felicitations. Come to think of it, that very truthful woman, Mrs. Stannard (who never told even a society lie unless there was no way out of it), had brought no word from Harris, nor had Bentley mentioned such a thing, and this fact impressed itself upon the happy man as twice, thrice they slowly promenaded past the open door of the doctor's quarters without a glimpse of Harris, and, finally, on the fourth, the return trip, Willett in his exuberant bliss, would not be denied.
"Harris! O—o—o—Hefty!" he shouted. "Come out and see a fellow!"
For a moment, silence. Then, not so resonant but still clearly audible, for both men had voices that "carried" and were used to command: