A Wounded Name | Page 7

and every man in
the detachment. As the cavalcade approached the dun-colored walls of
the corral and, without a word or sign to the knot of curious spectators
gathered at the bar-room door, filed away to the spot where wandering
commands of horse were accustomed to bivouac for the night (tents
would have been superfluous in that dry, dewless atmosphere), the
women whispering together behind their screened window place, stared
the harder at sight of the leaders. One was Lieutenant Blake--no
mistaking him, the longest legged man in Arizona. Another was big
Sergeant Feeney, a veteran who bad seen better days and duties, but
served his flag in the deserts of the Gila as sturdily as ever he fought
along the Shenandoah three years before. Between these two, dapper,
slender, natty, with his hat set jauntily on one side and his mustache
and imperial twirled to the proportions of toothpicks, rode a third
cavalier whom every one recognized instantly as the fugitive of Camp
Cooke, the urgently-sought Captain Nevins. And, though Nevins' arms
and legs were untrammeled by shackles of any kind, it was plain to see
that he was a helpless prisoner. He had parted with his belt and revolver.
His spurs were ravished from his heels, and his bridle-rein, cut in two,
was shared between Blake and his faithful sergeant. Behind these three
rode another set. Sandwiched between two troopers was a man whom
Sancho's people well remembered as Nevins' clerk and assistant,
despite the fact that a bushy beard now covered the face that was
smooth-shaven in the halcyon days of the supply camp. Then came

some thirty horsemen in long, straggling column of twos, while,
straight from the flank to the gate of the corral, silent and even somber,
rode the engineer, Lieutenant Loring. To him Sancho whipped off his
silver-laced sombrero and bowed, while two jaded-looking vaqueros,
after one long yet furtive stare, glanced quickly at each other and sidled
away to the nearest aperture in the wall of the ranch, which happened to
be the dining-room door. Loring mechanically touched his hat-brim in
recognition of the ranch-keeper's obeisance, but there was no liking in
his eye. At the gate he slowly, somewhat stiffly, dismounted, for it was
evident he had ridden long and far. The roan with hanging head tripped
eagerly, yet wearily, to his accustomed stall, and a swarthy Mexican
unloosed at once the cincha and removed the horsehair bridle. Thus
Sancho and the engineer were left by themselves, though inquisitive
ranch folk sauntered to the gateway and peered after them into the
corral. Over at the little clump of willows Blake's men were throwing
their carbines across their shoulders and dismounting as they reached
the old familiar spot, and Loring cast one look thither before he spoke.
"Who were the two men who followed me?" he calmly asked, and his
eyes, though red-rimmed and inflamed by the dust of the desert, looked
straight into the dark face of the aggrieved Sancho.
"Surely I know not, Señor Teniente"--he had dropped the "capitan" as
too transparent flattery.
"Don't lie, Sancho. There's ten more dollars," and Loring tossed an
eagle into the ready palm. "That's thirty, and I shall want that horse
again in the morning."
"To-morrow, señor! Why, he will not be fit to go."
But to this observation Mr. Loring made no reply. Straight from
Sancho's side he walked down the corral, halted behind two rangy,
hard-looking steeds that showed still the effects of recent severe usage,
and these he studied coolly and thoroughly a few minutes, while
peering from two narrow slits in the ranch wall between the windows
two sun-tanned frontiersmen as closely studied him. With these latter,
peeping from the shaded window, was "the wife of my brother,"

exchanging with them comments in low, guarded tones. In the
adjoining room, a bedroom, a girl of perhaps sixteen, slender, graceful
and dark-eyed, peeped in the opposite direction, over toward the
willows where Blake's men were now unsaddling--whence presently,
with giant strides came Blake himself, stalking over the sand. Sancho,
despite his anxious scrutiny of Loring's silent movements, saw the
coming officer and prepared his countenance for smiles. But with a
face set and forbidding Blake went sternly by, taking no notice of the
proprietor, and made directly for the little group now muttering at the
dining-room door. The loungers, some of whom had deserted the
supper-table for a sight of the captives and the cavalcade, sidled right
and left as though to avoid his eye, for into each face, most of them
hang-dog visages, he gazed sharply as though in search of some one,
yet never faltered in his stride. Back from her barred window shrank
the young girl as the tall soldier came within a dozen paces. To one
side or another,