Lord Apache

Gradually the camp began to take on a neater appearance. With an ax Phoebe broke up old boxes for firewood, repaired camp chairs with wire she found in the wreckage, cut stalks of bamboo and made a brush awning to shelter the makeshift kitchen where Mrs. Glore worked. Phoebe was still angry with him, Drumm suspected. He watched covertly as she busied herself about the camp. In soiled traveling dress, red hair done up in a bun, and her face dirty, Miss Larkin did not in the least resemble the attractive female who had stepped off the Prescott stage. Unfavorably Drumm compared her to Cornelia Newton-Barrett. He could not imagine Cornelia chopping firewood. It was unladylike, to say the least, though he was bound to admit he appreciated Miss Larkin's efforts.

Watching her, he saw also what seemed a movement in the tall reeds along the river, a rustling not accounted for by the breeze. Seizing the Sharp's rifle, which lay always nearby, he rushed into the greenery, calling out, 'Who's there?'

Eggleston, carrying his pick, ran after him. Together they stood among the reeds, sun filtering down on them in a lacy pattern like a Japanese print.

'What is it, Mr. Jack?' Eggleston finally whispered. 'Did you see something?'

'I don't know.' Drumm parted the reeds, rifle cocked. 'It seemed to me something moved! Well—' He shouldered the gun. 'Perhaps it was only an animal of some sort. At any rate, there appears to be no danger now.'

That night they ate more of Mrs. Glore's boiled beans, along with mutton she fried up to prevent it from spoiling. The meat was strong but they all had good appetites. Drumm thought of dinner at Clarendon Hall; how unlike this! But the rains would soon be coming to Hampshire. The weather would turn cold and dank, the great house uncomfortable except for an island of warmth before the fireplace and in the kitchen around the cookstove. Here, on the other hand, the evening turned soft and mellow. Swallows flitted about in search of insects, and the western sky was streaked rose and saffron and the soft lavender of lilacs.

'Surprise!' Mrs. Glore cried. Beaming, she placed on the table a tin plate. 'I found a can of peaches and some flour, and made a kind of—well, pie, I guess you could call it, though I could have done better with lard and a proper rolling pin!'

After the scanty rations, Mrs. Glore's pie was a treat. Drumm lolled in a camp chair, lighting a tattered but generally serviceable Trichinopoly cigar that Eggleston had discovered in a broken chest. In the glow of the moment, he felt almost charitable toward his unwelcome guests. He spoke briefly to Phoebe Larkin.

'You mentioned an uncle awaiting you in Prescott. Won't he be worried when you don't arrive there?'

She scraped the bottom of the tin plate with a spoon, dredging up the last juice. 'My, that was good! It's been a long time since I et—ate pie!' She turned to Drumm, sucking a sticky finger. 'Uncle Buell? Oh, he won't worry! He's lived out here long enough to know how uncertain schedules are on the frontier.'

Drumm puffed on his cigar, watching the blue-gray smoke mingle with the sunset colors. 'I do hope,' he murmured, watching Beulah busy herself with soap and a pan of dirty dishes, 'that Mrs. Glore's liver condition has improved.'

'Her what?'

'The liver condition! You said her liver was bothering her—that jolting in a wagon to Prescott was medically inadvisable.'

Phoebe looked puzzled but Beulah Glore drew quickly near, waving a damp dishcloth in the air to dry it. 'That's right!' she confirmed. 'That's the God's truth, Mr. Drumm! That's why we couldn't go to Prescott!'

Phoebe looked relieved. 'Yes,' she said quickly, 'that was the reason, all right. Her liver still pains her, too, though it's some better.' Changing the subject, she looked up at the stars beginning to wink on against the velvet mantle of the night. 'I've read a lot of astrology, Mr. Drumm. Do you know—the stars tell everything?'

He drew on the cigar. 'So it is said.'

'I cast up my horoscope last night, by candlelight. Right now is really not a good time to travel anyway. Jupiter is in Aries, I think —maybe it's the other way around—but traveling is not advisable for a Pisces person like me—or Beulah, either.'

There was something almost beseeching in the way she spoke. Casting aside the stub of cigar, he rose to join her in the gloaming. Eggleston was busy helping Mrs. Glore put supper things away on improvised shelves. 'I believe,' he said, 'it is somehow unwise for you to travel to Prescott, though I must admit I am not sure of the real reason.'

For a moment she tensed; he feared that she was going to be angry again. But finally she sighed, looking at him with mournful eyes. 'Life,' she murmured, 'is very difficult for a spirited woman. A woman alone, I mean, who has to fight for what she wants. Mr. Drumm, I shouldn't want you to think Beulah and me ungrateful, kind as you've been to us, taking us in and all.'

He was looking beyond her, staring into the darkness along the river.

'What is it?' she asked.

An owl hooted, the sound eerie against the faint splashing of waters. 'Did you hear that?' he asked.

'I heard the owl.'

Shaking his head, he moved slowly toward the awning where his needle-gun was propped against the table. Washing beans for the morrow, Eggleston watched him.

'Don't anybody move!' Drumm warned. He picked up the rifle. The sound of the hammer was loud as he cocked it. Holding the camphene lamp, he walked again toward the reeds. 'Who's there?'

Nothing moved; the slight breeze had died at dusk. The stalks of bamboo stood stiffly erect, unmoving.

'Who's there?' he called, waving the muzzle of the rifle menacingly. 'Hallo, there! Throw down your weapons! We have you surrounded!'

The sound of his bravado died away in the silence; the reeds still did not move. There was only the faint gurgling of water in the pools of the Agua Fria.

Feeling foolish, he started to go back to the camp, when the reeds wavered, trembled.

'Come out!' Drumm ordered. 'Come out with your hands in the air, or I'll shoot!'

The reeds parted. A wizened face, small and brown like that of a monkey, peered through.

'Careful!' Drumm warned. 'No sudden moves!'

The intruder was an Indian, but not an Apache; at least, he did not resemble Agustin and his raiders. He was below even the height of the stocky Apaches, and dressed in a ragged pair of once-white pantaloons and leather jerkin. The feet were bare and horny; a tangle of glass beads hung around his neck. He wore a tattered felt hat that once must have belonged to a white man.

'Keep your hands over your head!' Drumm ordered.

In response to his gesture the wrinkled little man shuffled from the thicket. He was trembling; in the light of the camphene lamp the seamed and leathery face worked convulsively.

'Why, the poor thing!' Mrs. Glore murmured. 'He's scared!'

Drumm gestured. 'Search him for concealed weapons, Eggie! This man could be dangerous! He is certainly not one of our good simple English countrymen!'

The valet patted the intruder's clothing, rummaged through the leather bag the man carried, tossed a hatchetlike knife with a cord-wrapped handle to his master.

'No firearms, certainly,' he reported.' and in his knapsack are only some of those flat pancakes—'

'Tortillas, they are called.'

'And little sacks filled with seeds—beans, peas, Indian corn, things like that.'

Mrs. Glore pushed between Drumm and the visitor. 'My goodness!' she protested. 'You're scaring the tripes out of him with that gun! He's hungry—look how his ribs stick out!' Ladling beans into a tin plate, she offered it to the man.

Warily he eyed it; then the monkey's paw of a hand shot out and he snatched the plate. Squatting, the newcomer dredged food into his mouth with his fingers, finally wiping the plate clean with a tortilla from his knapsack.

'There—I told you!' Mrs. Glore said. 'There's no harm in the poor creature!'

Drumm lowered his gun, but continued to observe the Indian.

'He is probably a Pima, or a Papago. They are peaceful farmers, and the seeds he carries very likely represent his only wealth.'