"Now's the time to nab him!" said Turner, as he carried the report to Archer. "'Tonio has managed to elude Malloy's party, probably by leading them off on a false scent, but now we have blood to follow. Let me send out a platoon, mounted, and we may nail the gang before sunrise."
It was then short of two o'clock, and while busy trailers followed on with their lanterns down the eastward bank, and were presently seen flitting like fireflies far south among the willows, Turner himself, with a score of his men, hastened back to quarters. There was saddling in hot haste, yet with the precision of long practice. By half past two all sight or sound of the trailers and the pursuing horsemen was lost in the distance, and a corporal, trotting back from the Sanchez place, reported that Muñoz and some of his fellows had joined in the search, and already with important result. Captain Turner sent him back with his compliments to the commanding officer.
In the presence of Bonner, Bucketts and Strong, the general took the package, something heavy, bundled in the red silk handkerchief Turner had torn from his own brawny throat. A scrap of paper went fluttering to the ground, which the adjutant quickly recovered and handed to his chief, who read aloud in the dim candle light the words: "It might be well to keep this from Harris, at least to-night."
Looking a trifle dazed, Archer unrolled the silken folds, and laid on the office table the handsome, silver-mounted Colt revolver of the old calibre 44 model Willett had lost that Sunday night of his perilous adventure up the valley. There it was, inscription and all, every visible chamber still loaded, its murderous leaden bullet showing in the candle light. Archer slowly drew back the hammer. The cylinder slowly revolved. The barrel-chamber swung as slowly into view, black, powder-stained, and—empty. One shot, then, had been fired and very recently. Who could have had it all this time but 'Tonio? Who else could have fired it?
CHAPTER XXII.
Turner and his men were gone all night, all the next day, and much of the night that followed. Then they began drifting back in squads of three or four. By noon the second day the captain himself, with the main body, returned, dispirited, mystified. They had lost the trail near the Picacho, found it again, lost it, found it, scoured the foothills and scouted the east face of the Mazatzal, and came back empty-handed. Willett's pistol was the only thing recovered, even with such aid as could be rendered by some of the Sanchez party, Muñoz and José being most energetic in their aid—"'Patchie" Sanchez being, of course, nowhere visible. 'Patchie had affairs of his own to answer for and explain against the homeward coming of the Big Chief Crook, and was shy of Saxon society in consequence.
And Turner was plainly nettled and chagrined. He and his troop were about as expert trailers as could be found in our cavalry, which, in the old Arizona days, meant not a little. Turned believed that 'Tonio had dared to venture close to the sentry line, had lured his enemy to the fords, and there, aided by one or two of his band, had done him near to death, then fled for the fastnesses of the mountains. Turner believed that 'Tonio, or one of his people, was wounded and could be overtaken. The trail was easy as much as a mile down stream, and then became difficult. Turner had accepted the proffered aid of Muñoz and certain of their set. They were all up, it seems, by the time he reached the ranch, having been routed out earlier by the first explorers from the post, Sergeant Connelly and party, who stated that they found the "hull outfit asleep," this in spite of the fact that a game seemed to have been going on earlier in the night, for the paraphernalia were in evidence, also a moderate supply of liquid mescal.
Now mescal in those days was not distilled north of the Gila—was brought by devious route, when brought at all, from Mexico, and "Greaser" packers, who were models of temperance when only Gringo whiskey or German beer could be had, would sometimes stampede at the mere whisper of mescal. Yet here was mescal, and here were some, at least, of the Sanchez "outfit," sober and fit for business. Then it must be that the three who lay stupefied had had money to invest at monte, and had been plied with mescal until both cash and consciousness had left them, and all this would account for the sudden hegira from the store the evening preceding the shooting.
But in spite of their vehement assertions that 'Tonio had been signalling that very day—that they could point to the tracks of himself and his fellows in several places along the stream—these energetic and swarthy sons of the Incas could by no means find 'Tonio, or one of his tribe, when given the chance to lead and the backing of armed troopers. 'Tonio, well or wounded, was far too wary for them and, after hours of brag and bluster, not a vestige of him did they discover beyond a few scattered footprints and that one revolver, concerning which, it seems, Muñoz told sensational tales. He declared he had found it glinting in the moonlight just at the foot and to the right of the trail leading from the low ground to the summit of Squadron Peak. His story, indeed, was so positive and plausible that valuable time had been lost while some of Turner's most active troopers scaled the height in search of the fugitives whom Muñoz thought more than likely must be there, and José had agreed with him. Once well up among the rocks of the Mazatzal, after sunrise, these valued allies became bewildered and gave out, were handed a canteen and ration of crackers apiece and left to limp back to the shack, while Turner pushed on. They were at the store, recuperating, when his people reappeared at Almy, and each had derisive and uncomplimentary things to say of the other. Moreover, there was internal dissension among the Mexicans themselves. Dago's disgust with Muñoz seemed rekindled, while the sore-headed trio, done out of their money by aid of mescal, were slinking about the shack, looking unutterable things. When rogues fall out honest men profit, if they are wise and wakeful, and now, at a time when something of advantage might be learned, the interest of the garrison seemed centred about the general's quarters, whither Harold Willett had been borne, still senseless and in desperate case. Bentley could not say that he would live, yet had been heard to say he believed the bullet not yet cast that could kill him.
There had been a difference between Archer and his surgeon. The shack was no place for a patient in such a plight. It was on low ground, hot and stuffy in spite of high ceilings. Bentley wished him borne on elastic litter to hospital. Archer said bear him to his quarters, Mrs. Archer would have it, and it was so ordered and done. Bentley wished to find that bullet, the blunt, old-fashioned, soft lead plug, and find it he had, lying fortunately close under the skin, after traversing several inches of Willett's anatomy without piercing a vital organ. It was cut out with little time or trouble, and set aside, sealed for future reference. Fever, of course, set in, and where, asked Archer, could more devoted nurse or nurses be found, and, in the absence of the patient's own mother, what woman had better right?