ome to think ill of 'Tonio, whom at first he
had championed. Collins despised 'Patchie Sanchez, whom he had known
five years, and described as a "durrty cross betune a skunk and a
spitbox," a greaser Indian who would knife his best friend. As for
'Tonio, whom he had known ever since he came to Arizona in '65, and
once held to be "the wan good Indian in it," 'Tonio had made him
believe he too held Sanchez in contempt. Yet, to all appearance, the
two, who up to this night had been confined entirely apart, had gone
together. One of the counts in the unwritten indictments against
McDowell was that its officers and men had lionized the dangerous
Indian they were bidden to hold under careful guard, had held him
without bond or shackle in a vacant room of the hospital, until that
very day, when, stung by an inspector's comment, Brown ordered him at
last into confinement with Sanchez, who was shackled to a post in the
prison room. Yet all that was left of either was the "greaser's"
chains. _Could_ there have been collusion?

It meant more trouble for 'Tonio. Instead of facing investigation, as
Harris declared he would, he had fled. It even meant more trouble for
Harris, who, having stood his friend through thick and thin, proclaimed
his innocence in spite of accumulation of evidence, now found himself
utterly alone in his views and all Almy beginning to veer over to
Willett. Willett, now able at last to recognize those about him, was
sitting up a little to be nursed and petted and read to, a recovery in
which the ice, for which Harris had sent his Indian followers forty
miles, had played no unimportant part. Willett was now the object of
devoted care and unspeakable interest, for all Almy hoped to hear the
story of the assault with intent to kill. But Almy was doomed to
disappointment. Beyond the expression of an unalterable conviction that
he had been shot down from ambush by 'Tonio, hammered senseless, and
left for dead, Willett declared he knew no more about it than they did.
He seemed, in fact, to know as little of them as he knew of Stella,
when at last the doctor gave him, without a word, the little packet
held in trust by Mrs. Stannard. "He is muddle-headed yet," said
Bentley, in explanation. "He'll know more after awhile, which is more
than we may," was the mental addition, as he looked into Mrs.
Stannard's doubtful eyes.

But meanwhile further tidings had come from the San Carlos and beyond.
"Big Chief Jake" had been