But midnight came without a sign. Long before that hour, as though by
common impulse, almost all the women of the garrison had gathered
about Truman's quarters, now the northernmost of the row and in plain
view of the confluence of the Sandy and the Beaver. Dr. Graham, who
had been swinging to and fro between the limits of the Shaughnessys'
and the hospital, stopped to speak with them a moment and gently drew
Angela to one side. His grave and rugged face was sweet in its
tenderness as he looked down into her brimming eyes. "Can you not be
content at home, my child?" he murmured. "You seem like one of my own
bairns, Angela, now that your brave father is afield, and I want to
have his bonnie daughter looking her best against the home-coming.
Surely Aunt Janet will bring you the news the moment any comes, and
I'll bid Kate Sanders bide with you!"
No, she would not--she could not go home. Like every other soul in all
Camp Sandy she seemed to long to be just there. Some few had even gone
out further, beyond the sentries, to the point of the low bluff, and
there, chatting only in whispers, huddled together, listening in
anxiety inexpressible for the muffled sound of galloping hoofs on soft
and sandy shore. No, she dare not, for within the four walls of that
little white room what dreams and visions had the girl not seen? and,
wakening shuddering, had clung to faithful Kate and sobbed her heart
out in those clasping, tender, loyal arms. No beauty, indeed, was
Kate, as even her fond mother ruefully admitted, but there was that in
her great, gentle, unselfish heart that made her beloved by one and
all. Yet Kate had pleaded with Angela in vain. Some strange, forceful
mood had seized the girl and steeled and strengthened her against even
Janet Wren's authority. She would not leave the little band of
watchers. She was there when, toward half-past twelve, at last the
message came. Plume's own horse came tearing through the flood, and
panting, reeking, trembling into their midst, and his rider, little
Fifer Lanigan, of Company "C," sprang from saddle and thrust his
dispatch into Truman's outstretched hand.
With women and children crowding about him, and men running to the
scene from every side, by the light of a lantern held in a soldier's
shaking hand, he read aloud the contents: "BIVOUAC AT PICACHO, 9 P. M.
"C. O. CAMP SANDY: "Reached this point after hard march, but no active
opposition, at 8 P. M. First party sent to build fire on
ledge driven in by hostiles. Corporal Welch shot through
left side--serious. Threw out skirmishers and drove them off
after some firing, and about 9.20 came suddenly upon Indian
boy crouching among rocks, who held up folded paper which I
have read and forward herewith. We shall, of course, turn
toward Snow Lake, taking boy as guide. March at 3 A. M. Will
do everything possible to reach Wren on time.