from his pallet, under the
"linter" of the corral, he had been roused by the sudden yell at the
ranch, followed by swift shooting, screams and cries of Mrs. Bennett
and the children, the outburst of flame, and then he saw them, the
Indians, coming for him, and he sprang on the best horse and lashed him
all the way to the post.

Stannard came at the moment, solid, stocky, and reliable--a man it was
a comfort to look at in moments of peril or excitement, and such
moments were frequent in the old days of the frontier. Silently he
saluted, stood before the commander and received his brief
orders--mount the troop, follow the scouts, and if it should appear
that Mrs. Bennett and the children had been carried off by the Indians,
to pursue and do his best to recapture. Rations would follow by mule
train.

Stannard had just one question to ask.

"Shall I call on Mr. Harris or Mr. Willett for scouts, sir?" And even
then it was noted that he named Harris first.

"Why--on Mr. Harris. He is in command."

"Very good, sir," said Stannard, and turned on his heel. Mrs. Stannard,
hastily kissing Lilian's pale and tear-wet cheek, started to follow,
but through the little knots of soldiery a strange figure came forcing
a way, a lithe Apache on resentful mule--'Tonio, already back from the
front, a little folded paper in his hand. Lashing the obstinate brute
he bestrode, 'Tonio dove straight at the general, and all men waited to
learn the tidings. Hastily Archer opened the paper, glanced it over in
the moonlight, looked up, and nodded to Stannard.

"Willett says from round the point they can see two more signal fires
toward the north-east, just the way to the Apache Mohaves!"

Then came a dramatic incident. Sitting his saddle mule like a chief of
the Sioux, 'Tonio straightened to his full height, his strong face
gleaming in the brilliant, silvery sheen, his bare right arm, with
clinching fist uplifted, and in a voice that rang out like a clarion on
the hushed and breathless night, shouted his response for his people:

"Apache Mohave! No! _No!_ No!"

CHAPTER VI.

Barely a mile away to the north-east of the site of old Camp Almy a
ridge of rock and shale stretches down from the foothills of the Black
Mesa and shuts off all view of the rugged, and ofttimes jagged,
landscape beyond--all save the peaks and precipitous cliffs of the
Mogollon, and some of the pine-crested heights that hem the East Fork.
Time was, toward the fa