Apache Princess

Charles King

Description

U.S. soldier Charles King first saw the battlefield during the American Indian Wars and, by 1898, had worked his way up to the rank of Brigadier General. After retirement, the battle-scarred veteran turned his attention to literature, penning dozens of action-packed novels, stories, and screenplays. An Apache Princess recounts the tale of a grizzled lieutenant whose daring exploits on the battlefield are bested only by his romantic entanglements with a handful of markedly different women.

Sujets

• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775455196
• Langue: English

Extrait

AN APACHE PRINCESS
A TALE OF THE INDIAN FRONTIER
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CHARLES KING
 
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An Apache Princess A Tale of the Indian Frontier First published in 1903 ISBN 978-1-77545-519-6 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - The Meeting by the Waters Chapter II - Scot Versus Saxon Chapter III - Moccasin Tracks Chapter IV - A Stricken Sentry Chapter V - The Captain's Defiance Chapter VI - A Find in the Sands Chapter VII - "Woman-Walk-in-the-Night" Chapter VIII - "Apache Knives Dig Deep!" Chapter IX - A Carpet Knight, Indeed Chapter X - "Woman-Walk-in-the-Night" Again Chapter XI - A Stop—By Wire Chapter XII - Fire! Chapter XIII - Whose Letters? Chapter XIV - Aunt Janet Braved Chapter XV - A Call for Help Chapter XVI - A Return to Command Chapter XVII - A Strange Coming Chapter XVIII - A Stranger Going Chapter XIX - Besieged Chapter XX - Where is Angela? Chapter XXI - Our Vanished Princess Chapter XXII - Suspense Chapter XXIII - An Apache Queen Chapter XXIV - The Meeting at Sandy Chapter XXV - Rescue Requited Chapter XXVI - "Woman-Walk-No-More" Chapter XXVII - The Parting by the Waters L'envoi
Chapter I - The Meeting by the Waters
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Under the willows at the edge of the pool a young girl satdaydreaming, though the day was nearly done. All in the valley waswrapped in shadow, though the cliffs and turrets across the streamwere resplendent in a radiance of slanting sunshine. Not a cloudtempered the fierce glare of the arching heavens or softened the sharpoutline of neighboring peak or distant mountain chain. Not a whisperof breeze stirred the drooping foliage along the sandy shores orruffled the liquid mirror surface. Not a sound, save drowsy hum ofbeetle or soft murmur of rippling waters, among the pebbly shallowsbelow, broke the vast silence of the scene. The snow cap, gleaming atthe northern horizon, lay one hundred miles away and looked but aneasy one-day march. The black upheavals of the Matitzal, barring thesouthward valley, stood sullen and frowning along the Verde, jealousof the westward range that threw their rugged gorges into early shade.Above and below the still and placid pool and but a few miles distant,the pine-fringed, rocky hillsides came shouldering close to thestream, but fell away, forming a deep, semicircular basin toward thewest, at the hub of which stood bolt-upright a tall, snowy flagstaff,its shred of bunting hanging limp and lifeless from the peak, and inthe dull, dirt-colored buildings of adobe, ranged in rigid lines aboutthe dull brown, flat-topped mesa , a thousand yards up stream abovethe pool, drowsed a little band of martial exiles, stationed here tokeep the peace 'twixt scattered settlers and swarthy, swarmingApaches. The fort was their soldier home; the solitary girl asoldier's daughter.
She could hardly have been eighteen. Her long, slim figure, in itsclinging riding habit, betrayed, despite roundness and supple grace, acertain immaturity. Her hands and feet were long and slender. Hersun-tanned cheek and neck were soft and rounded. Her mouth wasdelicately chiseled and the lips were pink as the heart of aBridesmaid rose, but, being firmly closed, told no tale of the teethwithin, without a peep at which one knew not whether the beauty of thesweet young face was really made or marred. Eyes, eyebrows, lashes,and a wealth of tumbling tresses of rich golden brown were all superb,but who could tell what might be the picture when she opened thosepretty, curving lips to speak or smile? Speak she did not, even to thegreyhounds stretched sprawling in the warm sands at her feet. Smileshe could not, for the young heart was sore troubled.
Back in the thick of the willows she had left her pony, blinkinglazily and switching his long tail to rid his flanks of humminginsects, but never mustering energy enough to stamp a hoof or straina thread of his horsehair riata . Both the long, lean, sprawlinghounds lolled their red, dripping tongues and panted in the sullenheat. Even the girl herself, nervous at first and switching with herdainty whip at the crumbling sands and pacing restlessly to and fro,had yielded gradually to the drooping influences of the hour and,seated on a rock, had buried her chin in the palm of her hand, and,with eyes no longer vagrant and searching, had drifted away intomaiden dreamland. Full thirty minutes had she been there waiting forsomething, or somebody, and it, or he, had not appeared.
Yet somebody else was there and close at hand. The shadow of thewestward heights had gradually risen to the crest of the rocky cliffsacross the stream. A soft, prolonged call of distant trumpet summonedhomeward, for the coming night, the scattered herds and herd guards ofthe post, and, rising with a sigh of disappointment, the girl turnedtoward her now impatient pony when her ear caught the sound of asmothered hand-clap, and, whirling about in swift hope and surprise,her face once more darkened at sight of an Indian girl, Apacheunquestionably, crouching in the leafy covert of the opposite willowsand pointing silently down stream. For a moment, without love or fearin the eyes of either, the white girl and the brown gazed at eachother across the intervening water mirror and spoke no word. Then,slowly, the former approached the brink, looked in the directionindicated by the little dingy index and saw nothing to warrant therecall. Moreover, she was annoyed to think that all this time,perhaps, the Indian girl had been lurking in that sheltering grove andstealthily watching her. Once more she turned away, this time with atoss of her head that sent the russet-brown tresses tumbling about herslim back and shoulders, and at once the hand-clap was repeated, low,but imperative, and Tonto, the biggest of the two big hounds, upliftedone ear and growled a challenge.
"What do you want?" questioned the white girl, across the estrangingwaters.
For answer the brown girl placed her left forefinger on her lips, andagain distinctly pointed to a little clump of willows a dozen rodsbelow, but on the westward side.
"Do you mean—someone's coming?" queried the first.
"Sh-sh-sh!" answered the second softly, then pointed again, andpointed eagerly.
The soldier's daughter glanced about her, uncertainly, a moment, thenslowly, cautiously made her way along the sandy brink in the directionindicated, gathering the folds of her long skirt in her gauntletedhand and stepping lightly in her slender moccasins. A moment or two,and she had reached the edge of a dense little copse and peeredcautiously within. The Indian girl was right. Somebody lay there,apparently asleep, and the fair young intruder recoiled in obviousconfusion, if not dismay. For a moment she stood with fluttering heartand parting lips that now permitted reassuring glimpse of pearlywhite teeth. For a moment she seemed on the verge of panicky retreat,but little by little regained courage and self-poise. What was thereto fear in a sleeping soldier anyhow? She knew who it was at a glance.She could, if she would, whisper his name. Indeed, she had beenwhispering it many a time, day and night, these last two weeksuntil—until certain things about him had come to her ears that madeher shrink in spite of herself from this handsome, petted youngsoldier, this Adonis of her father's troop, Neil Blakely, lieutenantof cavalry.
"The Bugologist," they called him in cardroom circles at the "store,"where men were fiercely intolerant of other pursuits than poker, forwhich pastime Mr. Blakely had no use whatever—no more use than hadits votaries for him. He was a dreamy sort of fellow, with big blueeyes and a fair skin that were in themselves sufficient to stir therancor of born frontiersmen, and they of Arizona in the days of oldwere an exaggeration of the type in general circulation on the Plains.He was something of a dandy in dress, another thing they loathed;something of a purist in speech, which was affectation unpardonable;something of a dissenter as to drink, appreciative of "Cucumungo" andclaret, but distrustful of whisky—another thing to call down scornillimitable from the elect of the mining camps and packing "outfits."But all these disqualifications might have been overlooked had thelieutenant displayed even a faint preference for poker. "The Lordloveth a cheerful giver—or loser" was the creed of the cardroomcircle at the store, but beyond a casual or smiling peep at the gamefrom the safe distance of the doorway, Mr. Blakely had vouchsafed nointerest in affairs of that character. To the profane disgust of BillHyde, chief packer, and the malevolent, if veiled, criticism ofcertain "sporty" fellow soldiers, Blakely preferred to spend hisleisure hours riding up and down the valley, with a butterfly net overhis shoulders and a japanned tin box slung at his back, searching forspecimens that were scarce as the Scriptures among his commentators.
Even on this hot October afternoon he had started on his entomologicalwork, but, finding little encouragement and resting a while in theshade, he had dozed away on a sandy couch, his head on his arms, hisbroad-brimmed hat over his face, his shapely legs outstretched inlazy, luxurious enjoyment, his tall and slender form, arrayed in coolwhite blouse and trousers, really a goodly thing to behold. This day,too, he must have come afoot, but his net and box lay there besidehim, and his hunt had been without profit, for both were apparentlyempty. Possibly he had devoted but l