miles south-west, and came
on from there while the captain and the troop turned back to the Verde
Valley. No, they had neither seen nor heard of hostile Indians. All
such seemed to have cleared out, for the time being at least. Had they
met the Almy couriers on their way? Not one. They had come the lower
trail by way of Standard Peak, where they had a signal station and
guard now, where they left mail and rations for them, and then pushed
on over into the valley. The Almy couriers took the short cut. No, they
had seen nobody but some Mexicans, and hadn't much to say to them,
'cause Sanchez--'Patchie Sanchez--had been caught and was in the
guard-house at McDowell, charged with being mixed up in the shooting of
Sergeant Graves. That, at least, was welcome news. Had anything been
heard of General Crook? Yes, something. Apache-Mohave runners came in
to the bivouac at Silver Springs, with despatches, before they left,
and that was one reason the captain turned back. One of them was
wounded. They'd had a scrimmage with Tontos, they said, but got through
safely, barring just this one--'Tonio they called him--said he was a
chief of the old tribe.

"'Tonio there, and wounded!" cried Archer, while Strong and Bonner
almost sprang to their feet, in surprise.

"'Tonio, sir, certainly," said the sergeant. "The doctor had him
dressing his wound when we came away. It was only slight."

"Then," said the general, "by this time they've got my despatches, and
'Tonio's a doomed Indian!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

The week was closing, the third of a mournful little series of
seven-day happenings, the like of which Almy had never before
experienced, and it was hoped might never know again. "The Moon of Many
Woes," as later it transpired the Indians had named the night goddess
of November, was a thing of the past. A new queen had come, hovering
like silvery filament over the black barrier of the Mazatzal in a sky
cloudless and glinting with myriad points of fire. The nights were cold
and still, the days soft yet brilliant in the blaze of an unshrouded
sun. An almost Sabbath-like calm hovered over the valley, for even
signal smokes had ceased to blur the horizon. Not a hostile Indian had
been heard of since the coming of Freeman's couriers. The brawling gang
of "greaser" gamblers had stolen away from the "ghost ranch." Even the
ghost himself seemed to walk no more. Something had happened to call
the firm of Munoz y Sanchez elsewhere, and D