"Then don't, my boy, for God's sake!" said Darrah. "Say it to Mrs. Darrah, will you? She—er—settles all—this sort of thing for me. She understands—er—Evvy—if anybody does—I'm blessed if I can, and—er—if you don't mind, I—I—I think I'll say good-night. Have a smoke or a drink before you go?" he asked, in enforced and miserable recognition of the demands of hospitality. "No? Well, of course, you'd rather be back, I suppose," and so saying, he hoped to get Willett to go without being the one to either hear what Willett had to say or even to tell Willett what he knew—that at this very moment Lilian Archer, the girl to whom this young gallant's love and loyalty were pledged—was harbored there beneath their general's roof, where the lights were burning on the brow of the hill.
So not for half an hour did Willett get the news. He would not return to the hop room. He did not go directly home. He dimly saw the mule team, at spanking trot, go rattling up the road; saw and heard it draw up at the general's, and then whisking back to the valley to deposit Bright. He divined at once that the chief must have returned and congratulated himself that he would not be expected to pay his duty until the morning, especially if he at once saw Bright. So upon his fellow staff officer he projected himself with proper welcome, and the first question Bright asked was: "How are the Archers?" It had not occurred to him that no mail had come up for nearly a week—that Willett did not know that they had started from Almy three days before. Then Wickham came in and briefly said: "Certainly. They're up at the general's. They were down at the dance awhile, looking on through the windows," whereat Harold Willett's handsome face went white.
Late as it was he knew he should go over at once, and he did, and it was God's mercy, as Wickham said afterwards, that sent the bearded general, not the gray-haired, raging father to meet him at the door. There had been a minute of tearful, almost breathless, conference between the devoted couple before Archer released his wife from his arms, sent her in to Lilian, and then came down as calmly as he could to face his host and hostess. There had been a moment or two, in the sanctity of their chamber, in which this other devoted but childless couple—the Darby and Joan of the old army—conferred swiftly over the situation, the wife briefly telling the soldier spouse of what she had seen, heard and believed, and a glance at Archer had done the rest. Crook saw the anguish in the face of his old friend, and had only measurably succeeded in calming him when Willett's step was heard upon the veranda. The chief sprang to his feet. Archer would have followed, but with a silent, most significant gesture, the commander warned his comrade back. Then, closing the parlor door behind him, confronted the young officer in the silence and darkness of the veranda.
What transpired in that brief interview was never told. Two or three couples, wearying of the dance, and wending their homeward way, saw the two tall, shadowy forms in the dim light, saw that one of them was standing strictly at attention, and knew thereby that the other must be the general, saw that the interview was very brief, for in a moment the caller raised a hand in salute, faced about, and went somewhat heavily down the steps and, avoiding both the main road and the pathway, disappeared in the direction of the bachelors' quarters under the hill.
At ten the following morning a buckboard called at Willett's door, and that young officer drove away in travelling rig, with a valise by way of luggage, and when people inquired, as many did, and many more would have done had they followed their inclination, what took Willett away in such a hurry and—er—at such a time, all that black-bearded Wickham would say was, he heard it was a wagon. As for Bright, one might as well seek information of the Sphinx. There never was a man who, knowing all about a matter, could look, as more than one fair critic had been heard to say, so exasperatingly, idiotically ignorant. At noon, however, it was known that Willett's wagon stopped but a few moments on the plaza in the little mining town and capital, then shot away southward on the Hassayampa road.
Three days later the array of "Casually at Post" on the morning report of Fort Whipple showed an increase of something like a score. Lieutenant Briggs with a sergeant and a dozen troopers rode in the previous evening, after turning over a quartette of dusky civilians at the calaboose, and leaving a guard at the hospital in charge of a pallid, nervous, suffering man, whom a big-hearted post surgeon received with compassionate care. The doctor had known him in better days. It was what was left of the recent lion of Camp Almy—Case the bookkeeper.
Among the arrivals extraordinary at head-quarters on the hill were Captain and Mrs. Stannard of Camp Almy, Captain Bonner, Lieutenant Strong, post adjutant thereat, and then, as Bright's special guest, was Lieutenant "Hefty" Harris, of old Camp Bowie, and as Bright's special charge were 'Tonio, sometime chief of the Red Rock band of Apache-Mohaves, Kwonahelka, his associate and friend, with two young braves of the tribe, Kwonahelka's shy, silent wife and her ward, a motherless young Apache girl, sister to Comes Flying, he whose untimely taking off had so seriously complicated the Indian question in the district of the Verde. Bright had his Apache visitors comfortably stowed, and abundantly provided for, close to his own roof, and 'Tonio, charged with serious crimes against the peace and dignity of the people of the U.S. in general, and Arizona in particular, received with native dignity at the entrance to his canvas lodge callers and even congratulations—for great was the desire to see him—and, unbailed, unhampered, untrammelled by fetter, guard or shackle, calmly awaited his examination before the Great Chief with the coming of the morrow. Soldiers like Crook and the staff of his training knew 'Tonio and his lineage, and unlike Willett, valued his word.
And early on that morrow Willett reappeared, delivered certain despatches at the office long before office hours, betook himself to his quarters for bath, shave and breakfast, and behind closed doors and shrouded windows, awaited the summons if needed to appear before the department commander. His narrative long since had been reduced to writing. Between him and black-bearded Wickham there had been one significant interview, never till long afterwards given even to intimates on the general's staff. As for 'Tonio, to no one less would he plead his cause than the department commander himself, the Great White Chief.
Never in the chronicles of that sun-blistered land, home of the scorpion and rattlesnake, the Apache and tarantula, had that sun shone on scene so dramatic as that the Exiles long referred to as "'Tonio's Trial," and never, perhaps, was trial held with less of the panoply and observance of the law and more assurance of entire justice.
It was a great chief trying a great chief. The powerful commander of the department sitting in judgment on the once powerful head of a warlike band, long since scattered, absorbed, merged in neighboring tribes, worn down in ceaseless battling against surrounding forces and implacable Fate. Crook knew the Indian as it was given few men to know him, and in his own simple, straightforward way generally dealt with the Indian direct. But here was a case, as he well understood, where he who had once moved the monarch of these silent, encircling mountains, stood accused of treachery to the hand that had fed, sheltered and uplifted him, to the Great Father whose service he had sought, to the white chiefs, old and young, whom he had sworn to obey. If guilty he deserved the extent of the law, if innocent, the fullest vindication of the highest power he and his people knew and recognized. To no mere captain or even post commander would 'Tonio plead. To no agency official would he trust himself or his cause. There was one soldier chief whom every Indian of the Pacific Slope knew well by reputation and by name—the chief who spoke ever with the straight tongue and told them only the truth—the chief who never broke his word or let others ignore it. "Gray Fox" they named him later among other tribes, but these of the Sierras spoke of him only as "Crook."