WATERS PAYS THE PRICE

Months passed to a tune of fifes and drums.  Everywhere men were drilling.  At more or less regular intervals one saw them marching down Montgomery street, brave in their new uniforms, running a gauntlet of bunting, flags and cheers.  Then they passed from one’s ken.  Each fortnight the San Francisco papers published a column of Deaths and Casualties.

In due time a letter came from Herbert Waters, now a sergeant of his troop.  Benito promptly closed his office for the afternoon and ran home with it; he read the missive, while Alice, Robert and Po Lun listened, eager-eyed and silent: 

“We have marched over historic ground, the trail of d’Anza, which Benito’s forefathers broke in 1774.  They say it is the hardest march that volunteer troops ever made and I can well believe it.  There are no railroads; it was almost like exploring.  Sometimes water holes are ninety miles apart.  The desert is so hot that you in temperate San Francisco can’t imagine it unless you think of Hell; and in the mountains we found snow up to our waists; were nearly frozen.

“Apaches, Yumas, Navajos abound; they are cruel, treacherous fighters.  We had some lively skirmishes with them.  I received a poisoned arrow in my arm.  But I sucked the wound and very soon, to everyone’s surprise, it healed.  There comes to me oft-times a strange conceit that I cannot be killed or even badly hurt ... until I have met Terry.”

There was a postscript written on a later date, proceeding from Fort Davis, Texas.  Though the handwriting was less firm than the foregoing, there was a jubilance about the closing lines which even the Chinese felt.  His eyes glowed with a battle spirit as Benito read: 

“My prayer has been answered.  At least in part.  I have met and fought with Broderick’s assassin.  It was in the battle for Fort Davis, which we wrested from the enemy, that he loomed suddenly before me, a great hulk of a man in a captain’s uniform swinging his sword like a demon.  I saw one of our men go down before him and then the battle press brought us together.  It seemed almost like destiny.  His sword was red and dripping, his horse was covered with foam.  He looked at me with eyes that were insane—­mad with the lust of killing; tried to plunge the blade into my neck.  But I caught his wrist and held it.  I shouted at him, for the noise was hideous, ‘David Terry, I am Broderick’s friend.’  He went white at that.  I let his wrist go and drew my own saber.  I struck at him and the sparks flew from his countering weapon.  My heart was leaping with a kind of joy.  ‘No trick pistols this time,’ I cried.  And I spat in his face.

“But another’s ball came to his rescue.  I felt it, cold as ice and hot as fire in my lung.  I made a wild slash at him as I fell; saw him wince, but ride away....  So, now I lie in a camp hospital.  It has seemed a long time.  But it is the fortune of war.  Perhaps I shall see you soon.”