Then came the final blow. Byrne had gone to the agency, making every
effort through runners, with promises of immunity, to coax back the
renegades to the reservation, and so avert another Apache war. Plume,
in sore perplexity, was praying for the complete restoration of
Mullins--the only thing that could avert investigation--when, as he
entered his office the morning of this eventful day, Doty's young face
was eloquent with news.
One of the first things done by Lieutenant Blakely when permitted by
Dr. Graham to sit and speak, was to dictate a letter to the post
adjutant, the original of which, together with the archives of Camp
Sandy, was long since buried among the hidden treasures of the War
Department. The following is a copy of the paper placed by Mr. Doty in
the major's hands even before he could reach his desk: CAMP SANDY, A. T., October --, 187-LIEUTENANT J. J. DOTY, 8th U. S. Infantry, Post Adjutant.
Sir: I have the honor to submit for the consideration of
the post commander, the following: Shortly after retreat on the --th inst. I was suddenly
accosted in my quarters by Captain Robert Wren, ----th
Cavalry, and accused of an act of treachery to him;--an
accusation which called forth instant and indignant denial.
He had, as I now have cause to know, most excellent reason
for believing his charge to be true, and the single blow he
dealt me was the result of intense and natural wrath. That
the consequences were so serious he could not have foreseen.
As the man most injured in the affair, I earnestly ask that
no charges be preferred. Were we in civil life I should
refuse to prosecute, and, if the case be brought before a
court-martial it will probably fail--for lack of evidence.
Very Respectfully, Your Obedient Servant, NEIL D. BLAKELY, 1st Lieut., ----th Cavalry.
Now, Doty had been known to hold his tongue when a harmful story might
be spread, but he could no more suppress his rejoicing over this than
he could the impulse to put it in slang. "Say, aint this just a
corker?" said this ingenuous youth, as he spread it on his desk for
Graham's grimly gleaming eyes. Plume had read it in dull, apathetic,
unseeing fashion. It was the morning after the Apache emeute. Plume
had stared hard at his adjutant a moment, then, whipping up the sun
hat that he had dropped on his desk, and merely saying, "I'll
return--shortly," had sped to his darkened quarters and not for an
hour had he reappeared. Then the first thing he asked for was that
letter of Mr. Blakely's, which, this time, he read with lips
compressed and twitching a bit at the corners. Then he called for a
telegraph blank and sent a wire to intercept Byrne at the agency. "I
shall turn over command to Wren at noon. I'm too ill for further
duty," was all he said. Byrne read the rest between the lines.