An Apache Princess | Page 5

him little,--the prejudice of Mrs. Bridger, who knew
and loved him not at all,--and the jealous pique of Mrs. Plume, who had
known and loved him, possibly, too well.
There was little duty doing at Sandy at the time whereof we write. Men
rose at dawn and sent the horses forth to graze all day in the foothills
under heavy guard. It was too hot for drills, with the mercury sizzling
at the hundred mark. Indian prisoners did the "police" work about the
post; and men and women dozed and wilted in the shade until the late
afternoon recall. Then Sandy woke up and energetically stabled, drilled,
paraded under arms at sunset, mounted guard immediately thereafter,
dined in spotless white; then rode, drove, flirted, danced, gossiped,
made mirth, melody, or monotonous plaint till nearly midnight; then
slept until the dawn of another day.
Indians there were in the wilds of the Mogollon to the southeast, and,
sometimes at rare intervals straying from the big reservation up the

valley, they scared the scattered settlers of the Agua Fria and the
Hassayampa; but Sandy rarely knew of them except as prisoners. Not a
hostile shot had been fired in the surrounding mountains for at least six
months, so nobody felt the least alarm, and many only languid interest,
when the white-coated officers reported the result of sunset roll-call
and inspection, and, saluting Major Plume, the captain of "C" Troop
announced in tones he meant should be heard along the row: "Mr.
Blakely, sir, is absent!"
CHAPTER II
SCOT VERSUS SAXON
Three women were seated at the moment on the front veranda of the
major's quarters--Mrs. Plume, Miss Janet Wren, the captain's sister, and
little Mrs. Bridger. The first named had been intently watching the
officers as, after the dismissal of their companies at the barracks, they
severally joined the post commander, who had been standing on the
barren level of the parade, well out toward the flagstaff, his adjutant
beside him. To her the abrupt announcement caused no surprise. She
had seen that Mr. Blakely was not with his troop. The jeweled hands
slightly twitched, but her voice had the requisite and conventional
drawl as she turned to Miss Wren: "Chasing some new butterfly, I
suppose, and got lost. A--what time did--Angela return?"
"Hours ago, I fancy. She was dressed when I returned from hospital.
Sergeant Leary seems worse to-day."
"That was nearly six," dreamily persisted Mrs. Plume. "I happened to
be at the side window." In the pursuit of knowledge Mrs. Plume
adhered to the main issue and ignored the invalid sergeant, whose slow
convalescence had stirred the sympathies of the captain's sister.
"Yes, it was nearly that when Angela dismounted," softly said Mrs.
Bridger. "I heard Punch galloping away to his stable."
"Why, Mrs. Bridger, are you sure?" And the spinster of forty-five
turned sharply on the matron of less than half her years. "She had on

her white muslin when she came to the head of the stairs to answer
me."
Mrs. Bridger could not be mistaken. It was Angela's habit when she
returned from her rides to dismount at the rear gateway; give Punch his
congé with a pat or two of the hand; watch him a moment as he tore
gleefully away, round to the stables to the westward of the big
quadrangle; then to go to her room and dress for the evening, coming
down an hour later, looking fresh and sweet and dainty as a dewy
Mermet. As a rule she rode without other escort than the hounds, for
her father would not go until the sun was very low and would not let
her go with Blakely or Duane, the only bachelor troop officers then at
Sandy. He had nothing against Duane, but, having set his seal against
the other, felt it necessary to include them both. As a rule, therefore,
she started about four, alone, and was home an hour later. Five young
maidens dwelt that year in officers' row, daughters of the
regiments,--for it was a mixed command and not a big one,--two
companies each of infantry and cavalry, after the manner of the early
70's. Angela knew all four girls, of course, and had formed an intimacy
with one--one who only cared to ride in the cool of the bright evenings
when the officers took the hounds jack-rabbit hunting up the valley.
Twice a week, when Luna served, they held these moonlit meets, and
galloping at that hour, though more dangerous to necks, was less so to
complexions. As a rule, too, Angela and Punch contented themselves
with a swift scurry round the reservation, with frequent fordings of the
stream for the joy it gave them both. They were rarely out of sight of
the sentries and never in any appreciable danger. No