“What! Where?”
“At San Carlos! An Injun shot him. There’s been an uprising.”
The word sped rapidly through Fort Whipple. It was a noon of the first week in June, and Jimmie had ridden in to dinner just on time to see a courier dash across the parade-ground for the adjutant’s office.
Chief of Scouts Al Sieber appeared, walking fast. The men made a rush for him.
“What’s that, Al? Almy killed?”
Al spoke tersely.
“Yes. At San Carlos. Chan-dezi (Long-ear) shot him. Chuntz was in it, too; he and Cli-bic-li (Tied Horse) and Cochinay. The Chuntz gang have been hanging ’round the agency, and sneaking in at night for food and to make mischief. The Tonto and Yavapai had hatched a scheme to kill the agency whites, this month, and take to the hills. But they got hold of some whiskey on the reservation, and broke too soon. The agency police started in to arrest the chiefs. Long-ear tried to lance Agent Larrabee. Yomas, a friendly, knocked the lance aside. There was a mob. Almy undertook to do the arresting himself. Went in among them alone—bravest act I ever heard of. Long-ear shot him dead and made a getaway, with Chuntz and Cochinay. That was May 27.”
“Does it mean a little scout, Al?” they hopefully queried.
“No, I think not, boys. The hostiles probably won’t leave the Gila Canyon, there, and the troops and the police can corral them. But the general’s going over.” Al saw Jimmie, and beckoned him apart. “Are you fit for a trip to Apache?”
“Yes, Mr. Sieber.”