It was too dark to take in details, but I noticed Chiquita was utterly exhausted, and that she was covered with foam.  Following Clary to my room, I saw, when the light fell upon Henry’s face, that his right cheek and neck were bleeding, and that his left arm hung unnaturally limp by the bearer’s side.

We placed him upon the bed, and Surgeon Coues, who had now arrived and pronounced the boy to be simply in a faint from loss of blood and over-exertion, applied restoratives and brought him back to consciousness.  As Henry’s eyelids raised, and he recognized me, he said, weakly: 

“Oh, Mr. Duncan, tell Captain Bayard the Indians have attacked Mr. Arnold’s ranch, and that Mrs. Arnold is dead!”

“Indians attacked the ranch!  When?”

“About four o’clock.”

“How many?”

“Don’t know.  Seemed as if there were over a hundred.  And don’t stop to worry over me.  Don’t stop an instant—­these scratches are nothing—­but send the soldiers, quick, or Brenda and all will be killed!”

“How did you get away from the ranch?  But you are right, this is no time for talk.”

I aroused the other officers instantly, and sent Frank to his brother.  All assembled in my quarters, and, while the surgeon dressed the wounds in cheek and neck and set a fractured radius, orders for an expedition to Skull Valley were issued, and Henry told his story.

At the time this incident occurred the Californians had been mustered out of service and returned to their distant homes, and the garrison at Fort Whipple consisted of infantry only.  But there were many “dough-boys” who were good riders, and a number of excellent horses were kept by the quartermaster for emergencies which required speed and short service.

Captain Bayard gave orders for a sergeant, three corporals, and twenty-two privates to be got in readiness for mounted service, with rations for five days.  The command was given to me, and Private Tom Clary immediately applied to be relieved from guard in order to accompany me.  His request was granted.

Sergeant Frank concluded to remain with his brother.

“I know it is rough on you, Frankie,” said Henry, “not to have a chance to win a few scars, too; but I should be dreadfully worried if you were to go, and I’m worried enough about Brenda now.  You must stay with me.”

And so it was settled, and Frank remained behind, lending his pony Sancho to Private Clary.

During all this preparation, dressing of wounds, and setting of fractures, Henry had managed to give us an account of what had happened at Skull Valley before he left.  I will, however, repeat it a little more connectedly, with additions obtained later from other parties.

After I left Sergeant Henry in the valley, as I passed through there from the Xuacaxella, he had for three days devoted himself to the amusement of his young hostess, Brenda, and her cousins.