Lord Apache

shimmered in the heat. The eastbound train had not yet arrived.

'I—I suppose so,' he stammered. '1 dozed a little, then—'

Embarrassed, he got up to stroll the station platform. Inside the board shack the telegraph sounder clattered its metallic language. Corporal Bagley and the operator bent over a penciled message.

'Christ!' Bagley muttered. He chewed at his mustache. The operator, a wispy man in shirtsleeves and eyeshade, looked at Corporal Bagley uncertainly. 'Last night,' he said in a hushed voice. 'Not twenty-four hours ago!'

They became aware of Jack Drumm's presence.

'What is it?' he asked. 'What has happened?'

Bagley swallowed; his Adam's apple bobbed, twitched, came to an uneasy rest. He picked up the paper and scanned it again, lips moving silently.

'Mr. Drumm,' he said finally, 'this is railroad business, and they told me I wasn't to stick my nose in it. It's Army business, too, and on that account, beggin' your pardon, it ain't any of your business. But I'm bound to admit you got a kind of a stake in it.' He spread the paper flat on the desk. 'This here is from Major Trimble at Fort Whipple. He says to be on the lookout for some action. Agustin has busted out of the Mazatzals and is raising a hell of a lot of sand.'

'Causing trouble, you mean?'

Bagley nodded. 'I guess you could say that. Last night he raided along the Agua Fria.'

Jack Drumm felt suddenly cold. The desert sun lost its warmth. Something in Jim Bagley's voice made him tremble. There was more coming, he knew. The scar on his lip began to smart, to burn.

'Last night,' the corporal said, 'Agustin come down hard on your place. Rancho Terco—ain't that what you called it?'

Jack nodded dumbly. After a moment he asked, 'Was anyone—was anyone—hurt?'

Bagley took a deep breath. 'Luther,' he said to the telegraph operator, 'you got any gin put away? Or whiskey? I want to give Mr. Drumm a little snort.'

'I don't need anything!' Jack insisted. 'Tell me—what happened?'

'Feller named Sloat was killed,' Bagley said grimly. 'Some of the others was cut up, but they'll live. And that girl—the one with the pretty hair—'

'Damn it!' Jack shouted, taking him by the butternut sleeve. 'Tell me! What happened?'

Bagley's face was somber. 'Miss Larkin—that her name? Agustin carried her off to the Mazatzals, Major Trimble thinks.'

Chapter Ten

He loved her. He loved Phoebe Larkin. He must have known it all the time, from the moment she stepped off the stage at Rancho Terco, hair done up in that China silk scarf. There had been the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the proud and independent way of her, the coltish eagerness so strange and unsettling to his staid British soul. Yes, he must have known all the time that he loved her, but had been too Drumm-stubborn, too Anglo-Saxon reserved, to admit it. Now the realization stunned him. This was— this must have been—love all along! He tugged at his tight collar, stared wild-eyed from Bagley to the telegraph operator.

'I'm going back! Right now!'

'Take it easy, Mr. Drumm,' Corporal Bagley cautioned. 'There's no need to—'

'I'm going back! Can you let me have a horse from your corral out there?' He pointed through the dusty window. 'Look, if it's money—'

Bagley pushed the wallet away. 'There's nothing you can do, believe me. Major Trimble and George Dunaway and B Company are there by now.'

A steam whistle blew. The musical note, rich and complex, sounded like the chimes of Salisbury Cathedral. 'Mr. Drumm!' Beulah Glore called. 'Hurry! The cars is coming!'

He ran out on the platform. Around the distant bend came the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad's Western Express, stack puffing smoke as the train toiled up the grade to Bear Spring station. Eggleston and Charlie the Papago carried baggage to the edge of the platform.

'I'm not going,' Jack blurted.

They stared in astonishment.

'Listen,' he said, fumbling in his pocket. 'Listen to me! Something has happened at the ranch. The Apaches attacked again. They killed Mr. Sloat and carried off Miss Phoebe.' He handed the envelope to the valet. 'Here are your railroad tickets, and money.'

Beulah Glore, listening, nearly swooned. Eggleston caught her under the arms. 'My God, Mr. Jack! Can it be so?'

The Western Express reached the plateau of Bear Spring. The chuffing quieted, the whistle blew again, this time louder and nearer.

'There is no time to talk!' Jack insisted. 'I must somehow get back to the ranch and see what I can do in this terrible situation!'

'But what are we to do when we reach New York City?'

'Go directly to the offices of the White Star Lines at Pier B and book passage for yourself and Mrs. Glore. I will try to catch up with you, but there can be no assurance. There is no reason for you and your—' He tried to smile reassuringly at Beulah Glore, but the gesture was strained. 'For you and Beulah to delay your return to Clarendon Hall.'

The Western Express slowed, ground to a halt. Brakes squealed, there was a release of steam, a shower of ashes, clouds of pungent woodsmoke.

'Now go!' Jack commanded. 'Look—the conductor is already signaling the engine driver!'

In spite of Beulah's protestations, he rushed her and Eggleston into the car. When Charlie attempted to put his own bag in the vestibule, Jack snatched it away, saying, 'No, no, Charlie! I am not going!'

Weeping, Beulah leaned from the open window. 'I can't go! What will happen to poor Phoebe?' She turned within. 'Mr. Eggleston, let go my skirts!'

Gently Jack pushed her back into the car.

'There is nothing you can do,' he comforted. 'I myself can probably accomplish little. But Corporal Bagley says Lieutenant Dunaway and B Company are already on the trail of the kidnappers, so please put your mind at ease.'

'All abo—o—oard!' called the conductor.

As the cars gathered speed Jack ran along the platform, shaking Eggleston's hand. 'Mrs. Glore is your concern now, Eggie! When you arrive, tell everyone at home I will be along as soon as possible!'

Shaken and out of breath, he watched the departing Western Express, bound for places with strange- sounding names like Albuquerque, Trinidad, Wichita, and Topeka. Suddenly he realized Charlie was tugging at his sleeve. The Papago's face was clouded with fear.

'Ostin, what happen? Something—something bad?'

'Charlie, Agustin and his Apaches attacked our ranch last night.' He spoke slowly and carefully; the Papago's English was poor. 'You are not to worry, though. Corporal Bagley says that only poor Mr. Sloat was killed.'

Charlie's leathery face contorted. 'Esposa—my wife—my ninos —'

'I am sure they are all safe, else Corporal Bagley would have told me.'

He had not been aware that Corporal Jim Bagley was standing near. 'No word of other casualties,' the corporal confirmed.

Charlie looked bewildered. 'What we do now, Ostin?'

'I want to get to the ranch fast,' Jack said to Bagley. 'I must ask you again. Can I borrow one of your cavalry mounts?'

Bagley scratched his head, uncertain. 'Mr. Drumm, I'm in a pack of trouble already with the major. Them bangtails is U. S. Gov'mint property. If I was to let a civilian take one—'

'This is a matter of life and death!' Jack burst out. 'Good God, Bagley, can't you see that—'