ore the truth, the whole truth, was known. Case for a time
would not return to Almy. He found some work to keep him busy at
Prescott, and would have had to do no work at all, said the agent of
the Wells-Fargo, "if he'd kept his money, but he sent every damned cent
of four hundred dollars to somebody up at Portland." He was forever on
the lookout for the coming of the buckboard with the mail--we had no
telegraph until '74--and his excitement over the receipt of certain
letters and newspapers, along in mid-February, was something not soon
to be forgotten. He had been sober and solemn as an anchorite for over
six long weeks, and this night, to the joy of the gamblers in the
Alcazar, insisted on "setting 'em up" for all hands, soldier and
civilian; then, to their amaze, insisted further on their drinking to
the health of Mr. and Mrs. Hal Willett, by gad! "for he's a square man
at last."

And the news lacked no confirmation at the barracks. There came a
missive to Wickham; there was a message to the general; there was a
very earnest message to 'Tonio; there was even a letter in Willett's
hand to Evelyn Darrah. No one ever saw its contents save the girl to
whom it was addressed, but there came nothing to be forwarded to the
Archers at Camp Almy. From that night among the cedars Lilian never
again saw Harold Willett. It was a pitifully insignificant little
packet of letters the young officer found on his desk the morning of
his return from the Hassayampa road. It contained only the pages he had
penned to his Lily of the Desert. The earlier ones were fond,
endearing, sweet as girl could ask, and had been rapturously welcomed,
read and reread, kissed and fondled and treasured. The later ones were
hurried, perfunctory, full of excuses, full, alas! of lies that he knew
and that he hated himself for writing. There was not so much as a line
from her, nor was one needed. Between the few words spoken by his
general in the darkness of the veranda and that one conference with
Wickham, Willett knew exactly what he had to face. Just as it had
dawned upon him that breathless night at Almy, when the ravings of the
Irish deserter told him that his sin had followed and had found him
out, he realized here at Whipple that all was known and, for him, all
was over. He had burned in vain the burning and accusing letters that
poor girl in Portland had written him. Her mother at last, learning
everything, had written to Crook, and, through Wickham,