An Apache Princess | Page 9

you lured her, for my lass would never have met you--"

"You shall unsay it, sir," was Blakely's instant rejoinder. "Are you
mad--or what? I never set eyes on your daughter to-day--until a
moment ago."
And then the voice of young Duane was uplifted, shouting for help.
With a crash, distinctly heard out on the parade, Wren had struck his
junior down.
CHAPTER III
MOCCASIN TRACKS
When Mr. Blakely left the post that afternoon he went afoot. When he
returned, just after the sounding of retreat, he came in saddle. Purposely
he avoided the road that led in front of the long line of officers' quarters
and chose instead the water-wagon track along the rear. People among
the laundresses' quarters, south of the mesa on which stood the
quadrangular inclosure of Camp Sandy, eyed him curiously as he
ambled through on his borrowed pony; but he looked neither to right
nor left and hurried on in obvious discomposure. He was looking pale
and very tired, said the saddler sergeant's wife, an hour later, when all
the garrison was agog with the story of Wren's mad assault. He never
seemed to see the two or three soldiers, men of family, who rose and
saluted as he passed, and not an officer in the regiment was more exact
or scrupulous in his recognition of such soldier courtesy as Blakely had
ever been. They wondered, therefore, at his strange abstraction. They
wondered more, looking after him, when, just as his stumbling pony
reached the crest, the rider reined him in and halted short in evident
embarrassment. They could not see what he saw--two young girls in
gossamer gowns of white, with arms entwining each other's waists,
their backs toward him, slowly pacing northward up the mesa and to
the right of the road. Some old croquet arches, balls, and mallets lay
scattered about, long since abandoned to dry rot and disuse, and, so
absorbed were the damsels in their confidential chat,--bubbling over,
too, with merry laughter,--they gave no heed to these until one, the
taller of the pair, catching her slippered foot in the stiff, unyielding wire,
plunged forward and fell, nearly dragging her companion with her.

Blakely, who had hung back, drove his barbless heels into the pony's
flanks, sent him lurching forward, and in less than no time was out of
saddle and aiding her to rise, laughing so hard she, for a moment, could
not speak or thank him. Save to flowing skirt, there was not the faintest
damage, yet his eyes, his voice, his almost tremulous touch were all
suggestive of deep concern, before, once more mounting, he raised his
broad-brimmed hat and bade them reluctant good-night. Kate Sanders
ran scurrying home an instant later, but Angela's big and shining eyes
followed him every inch of the way until he once more dismounted at
the upper end of the row and, looking back, saw her and waved his hat,
whereat she ran, blushing, smiling, and not a little wondering, flustered
and happy, into the gallery of their own quarters and the immediate
presence of her father. Blakely, meanwhile, had summoned his servant:
"Take this pony at once to Mr. Hart," said he, "and say I'll be back
again as soon as I've seen the commanding officer."
When Downs, the messenger, returned to the house about half an hour
later, it was to find his master prostrate and bleeding on the bed in his
room, Dr. Graham and the hospital attendant working over him, the
major and certain of his officers, with gloomy faces and muttering
tongues, conferring on the piazza in front, and one of the lieutenant's
precious cases of bugs and butterflies a wreck of shattered glass. More
than half the officers of the post were present. A bevy of women and
girls had gathered in the dusk some distance down the row. The
wondering Milesian whispered inquiry of silent soldiers lingering about
the house, but the gruff voice of Sergeant Clancy bade them go about
their business. Not until nearly an hour later was it generally known
that Captain Wren had been escorted to his quarters by the post adjutant
and ordered to remain therein in close arrest.
If some older and more experienced officer than Duane had been there
perhaps the matter would not have proved so tragic, but the latter was
utterly unstrung by Wren's furious attack and the unlooked-for result.
Without warning of any kind, the burly Scot had launched his big fist
straight at Blakely's jaw, and sent the slender, still fever-weakened
form crashing through a case of specimens, reducing it to splinters that

cruelly cut and tore the bruised and senseless face. A corporal of the
guard, marching his relief in rear of the quarters at the moment, every
door and window being open, heard