Suspense

Sandy again. Four of the days stipulated by Lieutenant Blakely had run
their course. The fifth was ushered in, and from the moment he rode
away from the bivouac at the tanks no word had come from the
Bugologist, no further trace of Angela. In all its history the
garrison had known no gloom like this. The hospital was filled with
wounded. An extra surgeon and attendants had come down from Prescott,
but Graham was sturdily in charge. Of his several patients Wren
probably was now causing him the sorest anxiety, for the captain had
been grievously wounded and was pitiably weak. Now, when aroused at
times from the lassitude and despond in which he lay, Wren would
persist in asking for Angela, and, not daring to tell him the truth,
Janet, Calvinist that she was to the very core, had to do fearful
violence to her feelings and lie.

By the advice of bluff old Byrne and
the active connivance of the post commander, they had actually, these
stern Scotch Presbyterians, settled on this as the deception to be
practiced--that Angela had been drooping so sadly from anxiety and
dread she had been taken quite ill, and Dr. Graham had declared she
must be sent up to Prescott, or some equally high mountain resort,
there to rest and recuperate. She was in good hands, said these
arch-conspirators. She might be coming home any day. As for the troop
and the campaign, he mustn't talk or worry or think about them. The
general, with his big field columns, had had no personal contact with
the Indians. They had scattered before him into the wild country
toward the great Colorado, where Stout, with his hickory-built
footmen, and Brewster, with most of Wren's troop, were stirring up
Apaches night and day, while Sanders and others were steadily driving
on toward the old Wingate road.