But within were glad-hearted friends, weeping joyfully with her. Without were sturdy soldiers, shaking hands and slapping backs and shoulders in clumsy delight, and somebody was moved to say he'd bet the Old Man wouldn't care if it was after taps, "and—Craney's was still open."
And so by dozens they went trooping down, for, though cash was scant and the paymaster overdue, the rules were suspended and Craney bade "Barkeep" credit all comers who drank to Harris; and Case, the bookkeeper, with white and twitching face, waylaid such men as came from the escort with odd, insistent questioning. If 'Tonio was really leader in the rescue, had nothing been seen of 'Patchie Sanchez? Was Sanchez heard of—nowhere?—until, with his fifth free drink to the health of everybody concerned, Corporal Dooley turned on Case with "What the hell's it to you, anyhow, whether 'Tonio led or Sanchez's dead?" and Craney, listening and watching, turned to Watts and asked had Case begun again? If so, they couldn't too speedily check him. "Come up here, if you're a man," insisted Dooley, "and have wan on me to big little Harris and 'Tonio—'Tonio, bedad, even if he did do up Loot'nent Willett!"
Whereat, even in the noisy barroom there was sudden silence, save for responsive murmurs of 'Tonio's name, for strange sympathy had come sifting in from the columns afield. But Craney had heard in the adjoining room and was up in an instant, Watts following suit. This would never do. This was disloyalty to the best and gentlest and most courteous of post commanders, and no soldier should, no employé of his could, drink such a toast within Craney's doors. But he need not have feared. Promptly a big sergeant had interposed, and caught the corporal by the wrist, with thunderous "None of that, Dooley!" Prompt came Case's answer, though low-toned and guarded: "I'm drinking nothing, man, till after pay-day. Then come at me and I'll settle it with you drink for drink."
But Dooley's Irish blood was up, five fingers of tanglefoot tingling in each fist and bubbling in his brain. Struggling in the sergeant's grasp, he shouted his reply: "Settle be damned! How'd you settle wid Willett for the girl he did you out? Bluffed him on a queen high, and called it square! You're nothin' but a bluffer, Case, an' all Vancouver knowed it!" In the instant of awkward, amazed silence that followed no man moved. Then, his face still whiter, his lips livid, Case turned to Sergeant Woodrow. "That man has no right to be heard here—much less to be wearing chevrons," said he. "His name's Quigley, a deserter from the Lost and Strayed!"
It was then just midnight, and the sergeant of the guard, coming to close the festivities, went back with an unlooked-for prisoner, who, every inch of the way, cursed and foamed and fought, and swore hideous vengeance on Case for a cur and a coward, so that the fury of his denunciation reached even the general's quarters, where peace and congratulation were having sway, and lovers were still whispering ere parting for the night—reached even the ears of Willett himself, reclining blissfully at the open window, with Lilian's hand in his, her fair head pillowed on his shoulder. There in the open hearth lay the ashes of the letters, unread, unopened, that had come to accuse him, but even the fires of hell could not burn out the memory of the wrong that, after all, had tracked him here unerringly, for in the few half-drunken, all-damning words that reached him, Harold Willett heard the trumpeting of his own disgrace. His sin had found him out.
And, barely an hour before, he had sworn to her that the Stella of whom he had babbled in his dreams was indeed but a favorite hound he had lost in the Columbia; that no Stella had penned a line to him in years, and, taking her sweet, upturned face between his palms, with the soft, tender brown eyes looking fondly down into the trustful, beautiful blue, he had said: "My darling, like other men, I have had fancies in boyish days, and even a flame or two, but never a love, real love, until you came into my life. In a week now I must be with my general at Prescott, but every day, every moment of my absence, you will be the only girl in all the world to me. I shall shrink from the mere touch of another hand. I shall count the hours until you become my wife."
And she believed him, utterly, poor soul. He even believed himself.
CHAPTER XXV.
The Gray Fox had returned to his own. The general commanding the department was spending a month at head-quarters—for him, who loved the mountains and the field, a most unusual thing. The wild tribes of Arizona, with the exception of one specially exempted band of Chiricahuas and a few hopeless desperadoes with a price on their heads, were gathered to their reservations—a most unheard-of thing in all previous annals of the territory—and a season of unprecedented gayety had dawned on the post of Fort Whipple and the adjacent martial settlement, the homes of the staff and their families. The general and his good wife, childless, and boundless in their hospitality, had opened their doors to army wayfarers. New officers were there from 'Frisco and the States. Matrons and young women, new to Arizona, had come to enliven the once isolated posts of the desert and mountain. Major Dennis, of one supply department, was accompanied by a young and lovely and lively wife, who danced, if Dennis did not. Major Prime, of another, had recently been joined by his wife and two daughters, bright, vivacious girls, just out of school and into society, and, perhaps most important of all, Colonel and Mrs. Darrah, of the Infantry, had come, accompanied by their daughter Evelyn, as beautiful and dashing a belle as had ever bewildered the bachelors about the Golden Gate, and from every camp or post within a hundred miles or more junior officers had been called in to Prescott, on "Board," court-martial duty or leave, until nearly a dozen were gathered, and while boards and courts dragged their slow length, and maps, reports and records of the recent campaign were being laboriously yawned over at odd intervals during the sunshiny days, far more thought and time and attention were being given to riding, driving, tramping and picnic parties—even croquet coming in for honorable mention—while every night had its "hop" and some nights their ball that lasted well toward morning, and for the first time in its history "head-quarters" was actually gay. Time had been in the recent past when a Fort Whipple hop consisted, as said a cynical chief commissary, in "putting on full uniform and watching Thompson dance a waltz," there being then but one officer at the station equipped with the requisite accomplishment. Now there were more dancers than girl partners. The latter were in their glory, and the married women in clover. "Let them have a good time," said the chief, when his pragmatical adjutant would have suggested sending some of them back to their posts to finish maps and reports they were only neglecting here. "But they'll be getting impatient at division head-quarters," said the man of tape and rule. It was a whip which often told on department commanders, but not on Crook. "Let them have a good time. Every one of those youngsters has been scouting and fighting and living on bacon and beans for the last six months, and I like to see them dance." The office-bred officer sighed, and wondered what the papers, or Congress, would say if they knew it. The service-tried soldier said he'd take all the raps and responsibility, and that ended it. So here were the young gallants of the cavalry and infantry, active, slender, sinewy, clear-eyed, bronze-cheeked fellows, as a rule, capital dancers and riders, all-round partners, too, though few had a penny laid by for a rainy day, and several had mortgaged pay accounts. There was Billy Ray, from Camp Cameron, who could outride a vaquero, and "Legs" Blake from McDowell, who could outclimb an Apache, and Stryker, of the scouts, who had won fame in a year, and "Lord" Mitchell, his classmate, whom the troopers laughed at for a fop the first few months, and then worshipped for his daring after the pitched battle at the Caves. There were three or four young benedicts with better halves in the far East, who had forgotten little of their dancing days, and not too much of their wooing, and there were lesser lights among the subs, and two or three captains still uncaught, and even one or two men of whom others spoke not too highly, like Craven, and "that man Gleason," to whom Blake would not speak at all. Then there were Steele and Kelly from Wickenberg and Date Creek, and Strong was to come up from Almy, bringing with him in chains the desperado, 'Patchie Sanchez, secreted by his own people when charged with the killing of the interpreter, but tamely sold when a price was set on his head. And the commander sent still another missive to Archer, whom the luckier general held in especial affection, enclosing one from the good wife to Mrs. Archer, begging that she and Lilian should be their guests for a week, "and as long thereafter as practicable," that the engagement might be ratified and celebrated, "for we all think Mr. Willett the most fortunate of men."
And then, of course, there were Wickham and Bright, the general's other aides, who were famous entertainers, and then, above all, perhaps—pitted for the first time against all the soldier beaux of Arizona—there was the general's latest acquisition, handsome, graceful, charming Hal Willett, who had, with characteristic modesty, made no mention of the fact that he was an engaged man until Mrs. Stannard's letter to Mrs. Crook told all about it, and we, who knew and loved Mrs. Stannard, knew just why she wrote, and never blamed her, as did Willett.