s. Plume had no desire to see
Miss Wren, the younger. She expressed none, indeed, when policy and
the manners of good society really required it. Miss Janet had come in
with Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Sanders to call upon the wife of the
commanding officer and say what words of welcome were possible as
appropriate to her return. "And Angela," said Janet, for reasons of
her own, "will be coming later." There was no response, nor was there
to the next tentative. The ladies thought Mrs. Plume should join
forces with them and take Natzie out of the single cell she occupied.
"Can she not be locked at the hospital, under the eye of the matron,
with double sentries? It is hard to think of her barred in that
hideous place with Apache prisoners and rude men all about her." But
again was Mrs. Plume unresponsive. She would say no word of interest
in either Angela or Natzie. At the moment when her husband was in
melting mood and when a hint from her lips would have secured the
partial release of the Indian girl, the hint was withheld. It would
have been better for her, for her husband, for more than one brave lad
on guard, had the major's wife seen fit to speak, but she would not.

So that evening brought release that, in itself, brought much relief
to the commanding officer and the friends who still stood by him.

Thirty-six hours now had Natzie been a prisoner behind the bars, and
no one of those we know had seen her face. At tattoo the drums and
fifes began their sweet, old-fashioned soldier tunes. The guard turned
out; the officer of the day buckled his belt with a sigh and started
forth to inspect, just as the foremost soldiers appeared on the porch
in front, buttoning their coats and adjusting their belts and slings.
Half their number began to form ranks; the other half "stood by,"
within the main room, to pass out the prisoners, many of whom wore a
clanking chain. All on a sudden there arose a wild clamor--shouts,
scuffling, the thunder of iron upon resounding woodwork, hoarse
orders, curses, shrieks, a yell for help, a shot, a mad scurry of many
feet, furious cries of "Head 'em off!" "Shoot!" "No, no, don't shoot!
You'll kill our own!" A dim cloud of ghostly, shadowy forms went
tearing away down the slope toward the south. There followed a
tremendous rush of troop after troop, company after company,--the
whole force of Camp Sandy in uproarious pursuit,--until in the dim
starlight the barren flats below the post, the willow patch