But meanwhile further tidings had come from the San Carlos and beyond. "Big Chief Jake" had been doing some famous rounding up among the late recalcitrants. The General-in-Chief had given a feast to the incoming Indians, had shaken hands with their leaders, ordered rations for the families until the agency could again take them under its wing, had detailed escorts to conduct them by easy stages to the reservation set apart for them, but, as punctilious to the keeping of one part of a promise as to another, he sent forth his scouting parties to look up those Indians who had not come in, with strict orders to stick to it until the fate of the Bennett boys was definitely settled, and the scattered renegades were captured or destroyed. And this was why Mrs. Stannard was destined to wait still awhile longer for the home-coming of her beloved captain. This was why, within the week that followed their mission in quest of ice, three Indian scouts that were still "casuals" at Almy, set forth eastward, full panoplied for the field, with little Harris at their head.
"Wouldn't you like to see Harold before you go?" Mrs. Archer had asked him when he called to say good-by. Her heart had warmed to him, as had Lilian's, in grateful appreciation of that gift of ice ("though of course Mr. Harris should know that now, under the circumstances, he really—well, it wasn't at all a matter to be spoken about, but dear Mrs. Stannard could see for herself that—it were quite as well that Mr. Harris got back to his duties"). Both mother and daughter, knowing well what it must have cost in time and labor, had thanked Harris very prettily, and fully meant all they said, which kept them from saying too much. It was but natural that his classmates should do anything for Harold.
"Would he care to see me?" asked Harris, very quietly.
"Well, he is sleeping just now, and he needs that so much. Lilian soothes him to sleep when no medicine can. He can't bear to have her out of his sight."
"Then I think I should not disturb them," said Harris. "He'll be himself again before we are a week away, and you can say good-by for me, also to Miss Lilian, will you not?"
It was thus he would have gone, but, as he turned away, compassion seized the mother's gentle heart, still bleeding—bleeding for her own beloved boy. After all, how could any young fellow help loving her Lilian? How could Harris help it? Why should she wish to seek to hold him aloof? "Come back one minute," she cried, half choking, then disappeared within.
And so he turned again. He could not well refuse, and presently She came and smiled upon him and put her long, slim hand, cool from contact with iced towelling, into his hot, dry palm, and slipped the fingers slowly forth again, and spoke almost in whisper, lest the sleeper might hear her voice and know she had ventured forth and was conversing with some other man—all in that exaggerated precaution of word and manner that, whenever so much in love with one man, a girl so often observes toward others even ever so little in love with her.
"You have been so good to—us, Mr. Harris, and I know how—he will thank you when he is able. Till then you must let me. Good-by!" Poor comfort at best, yet what one of us would not have sought it rather than nothing? And then she was gone lest he should awake and remember—or Harris should awake and—and forget. She was but a child, after all, and her fond and beloved mother little less so.
And of such was Harris's leave taking, cool as his contribution to that happy rival's comfort, he thought, as he rode drearily away to the ford, with but a wave of the hand in response to the shout of Craney and Watts at the shack, while "Barkeep" and a few hangers-on stood gazing from under the canvas shade at the store, and Case, the silent bookkeeper, bent over his desk by the east window—the desk wherein still reposed that big calibre 44, with every chamber loaded and the handle more coated with dust.
Half-way to the ford Harris's broncho stumbled and kicked up a muddy splash in the shallow pool. His rider reined him up sharply and spurred on; the three pack mules, following in file a scrawny Mexican on the bell horse, shied clear of the water cloud and emerged with dripping bellies from a deeper pool just to the left. The Indians, skipping dry-shod over the bowlders, a dozen yards below, turned their heads at sound of the stumble, and their keen eyes exchanged glances. Presently one of them shed his moccasins and waded in toward the mud cloud on the face of the rippling waters, and, while his companions stood at the bank, began searching in the knee-deep puddle. Presently again he swooped, thrust down a bare, brown arm almost to the shoulder, and drew forth a dripping object a foot long, covered with rust and mud. "Huh!" was all he said, as he splashed back to shore, exhibiting his prize to his fellows. Then together the three went a jog trot after Harris and held it up for his inspection. He took it curiously—an old-fashioned, war-time, percussion-capped Navy Colt—the pistol officers carried through the four years of battling in preference to the so-called Army Colt issued to the cavalry. "Some relic of the old volunteer days at Almy," said Harris to himself, and bade the Indian keep it. Nor did he think again of that pistol until many days later.