For a moment the general was silent. It was a grave question. In his eyes and those of his officers, 'Tonio stood attainted practically with treason. He had deserted in face of the enemy, joined forces with the enemy, shot as an enemy, conspired and acted as an enemy. He deserved to be hunted and shot down without trial, without mercy. Yet here was this young soldier, who had known him best and longest, full of boundless faith in him, demanding safe conduct for him on the honor of an officer and gentleman. If Archer gave his word it would be flying in the face of his entire command--what there was left of it, at least--and Archer's word was a thing not to be lightly given. "I must think of this awhile," said he. "It is a big proposition. You think _you_ can reach him?" "By night or day, sir, either; but it would have to be from the top of Squadron Peak." It was then late on Friday afternoon, the fifth day of what might he called the siege. Not a signal had come from without, not a sign from either command, not a symptom of surrounding Indian; yet a little party sent to search the rookery down stream, where Case declared he'd been entertaining the ghost of 'Patchie Sanchez, came back reporting that fresh moccasin and mule tracks were plainly visible about the premises and at the neighboring ford, also that the mule tracks led away back of the Picacho, as everybody persisted in calling the peak--in spite of the fact that from the north it presented no sharp point to the skies, but rather a bold and rounded poll. Squadron Peak was more "sonorous and appropriate," said the trooper who so named it, but now that troopers were scarce at Almy, there were none to do it that reverence. Old Sanchez--Jose--the former proprietor, had disappeared entirely, he and his brace of henchmen, after somewhere digging a treasure pit in the sand and therein "caching" their store of mescal, aguardiente, and certain other illicit valuables. It was conjectured that he had fled to the Verde Valley and taken refuge at McDowell until the storm blew over. But Craney was more than curious as to Case's guest, the ghost, and by Friday Case was sober and solemn and sick enough to be cross-questioned without show of resentment. Craney went so far as to ask Case wouldn't he like a little whiskey to steady his nerves--a cocktail to aid his appetite and stir his stomach? "Like it," said Case, "you bet I would--which is why I won't take it. Three days' liquor, two days' taper, one day suffer, then the water wagon for a spell. Thank you all the same, Mr. Craney. What can I do for you without the drink?" But when Craney mentioned Sanchez, the ghost and the drinking bout by night at the rookery, Case said he must have been nigher to jimjams than he'd got in a year. "I never saw any ghost," said he, and Craney had to give it up, and report his failure to the commanding officer. "Ever try threatening him with discharge?" asked Bucketts, by way of being helpful.