It was Saturday night again, a week from the
night Neil Blakely strove to see and say good-by to Angela Wren. It
was high time other runners came from Brewster, unless they, too, had
been cut off, as must have been the fate of their forerunners. All
drills had been suspended at Sandy; all duty subordinated to guard.
Cutler had practically abolished the daily details, had doubled his
sentries, had established outlying pickets, and was even bent on
throwing up intrenchments or at least digging rifle pits, lest the
Apaches should feel so "cocky" over their temporary successes as to
essay an attack on the post. Byrne smiled and said they would hardly
try that, but he approved the pickets. It was noted that for nearly a
week,--not since Blakely's start from the agency,--no signal fires had
been seen in the Red Rock country or about the reservation. Mr.
Truman, acting as post quartermaster, had asked for additional men to
protect his little herd, for the sergeant in charge declared that,
twice, long-distance shots had come from far away up the bouldered
heights to the west. The daily mail service had been abandoned, so
nervous had the carrier become, and now, twice each week, a corporal
and two men rode the rugged trail, thus far without seeing a sign of
Apaches. The wire, too, was undisturbed, but an atmosphere of alarm
and dread clung about the scattered ranches even as far as the Agua
Fria to the west, and the few officials left at Prescott found it
impossible to reassure the settlers, who, quitting their new homes,
had either clustered about some favored ranch for general defense or,
"packing" to Fort Whipple, were clamoring there for protection with
which to return to and occupy their abandoned roofs.
Pages:
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194