The Project Gutenberg eBook of Apache devil
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Apache devil

Author: Edgar Rice Burroughs

Release date: February 21, 2023 [eBook #70101]
                Most recently updated: April 15, 2023

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Gregg Press

Credits: Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APACHE DEVIL ***







                              Apache Devil
                          Edgar Rice Burroughs




        First published in New York by Grosset & Dunlap in 1933.

           Text copyright 1933 by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.




                                CHAPTERS

                                                            PAGE
                I GERONIMO GOES OUT                            9
               II SPOILS OF WAR                               30
              III “NO SABE!”                                  49
               IV GIAN-NAH-TAH RELENTS                        67
                V THE SNAKE LOOK                              82
               VI THE WAR TRAIL                               96
              VII HARD PRESSED                               113
             VIII GERONIMO AND CROOK                         129
               IX RED FOOLS AND WHITE SCOUNDRELS             144
                X TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR A HEAD            154
               XI A RED HERO                                 169
              XII “SHOZ-DIJIJI KNOWS!”                       188
             XIII BACK TO SONORA                             204
              XIV SKELETON CANYON                            226
               XV THE LAST OF THE RENEGADES                  238
              XVI THE JACK OF SPADES                         253
             XVII CHEETIM STRIKES                            272
            XVIII “THE APACHE DEVIL!”                        289
              XIX THE LAST WAR TRAIL                         304




                             ILLUSTRATIONS

                 Standing in his stirrups, he swung his
                   rope.
                 Again Gian-nah-tah flourished the red
                   blanket.
                 “How would you like to go home,
                   Nejeunee?”




                              APACHE DEVIL




                              Apache Devil




                              Chapter One


                           Geronimo Goes Out

=T=HE silver light of Klego-na-ay, the full moon, shone down from out
the star-lit heavens of an Arizona night upon the camp of the
Be-don-ko-he Apaches; shone upon sleek copper shoulders; shone upon high
cheek bones; softened the cruel lines of swart, savage faces—faces as
inscrutable as is the face of Klego-na-ay herself.

Shone the silver moonlight upon Nan-ta-do-tash, the izze-nantan of his
people, as he led them in the dance, as he prayed for rain to save their
parched crops. As he danced, Nan-ta-do-tash twirled his tzi-ditinidi
about his head, twirled it rapidly from front to rear, producing the
sound of a gust of rain-laden wind; and the warriors and the women,
dancing with Nan-ta-do-tash, listened to the tzi-ditinidi, saw the
medicine man cast hoddentin to the four winds, and knew that these
things would compel the wind and the rain to come to the aid of their
crops.

A little to one side, watching the dancers, sat Shoz-Dijiji, the Black
Bear, with Gian-nah-tah, friend of boyhood days, companion of the war
trail and the raid. Little more than a youth was Shoz-Dijiji, yet
already a war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, proven in many battles with the
soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee; terror of many a scattered hacienda of
Sonora and Chihuahua—the dread Apache Devil.

The old men beat upon the es-a-da-ded, the primitive drum of buckskin
stretched across a hoop; and to their cadence Nan-ta-do-tash led the
dancers, his naked body painted a greenish brown with a yellow snake
upon each arm; upon his breast, in yellow, a bear; and upon his back the
zig-zag lines of lightning.

His sacred izze-kloth, passing across his right shoulder, fell over his
left hip. Of a potency almost equal to this four strand medicine cord of
twisted antelope skin was the buckskin medicine hat of Nan-ta-do-tash by
means of which he was able to peer into the future, to foresee the
approach of an enemy, cure the sick, or tell who had stolen ponies from
other people.

The downy feathers and black-tipped plumes of the eagle added to the
efficacy and decoration of this potent head-dress, the value of which
was further enhanced by pieces of abalone shell, by duklij, and a
snake’s rattle which surmounted the apex, while in brownish yellow and
dirty blue there were depicted upon the body of the hat clouds, a
rainbow, hail, the morning star, the God of Wind, with his lungs, the
black Kan, and the great suns.

“You do not dance with the warriors and the women, Shoz-Dijiji,” said
Gian-nah-tah. “Why is it?”

“Why should I?” demanded the Black Bear. “Usen has forsaken the
Shis-Inday. No longer does He hear the prayers of His people. He has
gone over to the side of the pindah-lickoyee, who have more warriors and
better weapons.

“Many times went Shoz-Dijiji to the high places and made big medicine
and prayed to Usen; but He let Juh steal my little Ish-kay-nay, and He
let the bullet of the pindah-lickoyee slay her. Why should I dance to
the Kans if they are blind and deaf?”

“But did not Usen help you to find Juh and slay him?” urged
Gian-nah-tah.

“Usen!” The tone of the Black Bear was contemptuous. “No one helped
Shoz-Dijiji find Juh. No one helped Shoz-Dijiji slay him. Alone he found
Juh—alone, with his own hands, he killed him. It was Shoz-Dijiji, not
Usen, who avenged Ish-kay-nay.”

“But Usen healed the wound of your sorrow,” persisted Gian-nah-tah. “He
placed in your heart a new love to take the place of the old that was
become but a sad memory.”

“If Usen did that it was but to add to the sorrows of Shoz-Dijiji,” said
the Black Bear. “I have not told you, Gian-nah-tah.”

“You have not spoken of the white girl since you took her from our camp
to her home after you had saved her from Tats-ah-das-ay-go and the other
Chi-e-a-hen,” replied Gian-nah-tah; “but while she was with us I saw the
look in your eyes, Shoz-Dijiji, and it told me what your lips did not
tell me.”

“Then my eyes must have known what my heart did not know,” said
Shoz-Dijiji. “It would have been better had my heart not learned, but it
did.

“Long time have we been friends, Gian-nah-tah. Our tsochs, swinging from
the branches of the trees, swayed to the same breezes, or, bound to the
backs of our mothers, we followed the same trails across deserts and
mountains; together we learned to use the bow and the arrow and the
lance; and together we went upon the war trail the first time. To me you
are as a brother. You will not laugh at me, Gian-nah-tah; and so I shall
tell you what happened that time that I took the white-eyed girl,
Wichita, back to the hogan of her father that you may know why I am
unhappy and why I know that Usen no longer cares what becomes of me.”

“Gian-nah-tah does not laugh at the sorrow of his best friend,” said the
other.

“It was not in my heart to love the white-eyed girl,” continued the
Black Bear. “To Shoz-Dijiji she was as a sister. She was kind to me.
When the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee were all about, she brought me
food and water and gave me a horse to carry me back to my people. I knew
that she did that because I had once saved her from a white-eyed man who
would have harmed her. No thought of love was in my mind. How could it
have been? How could I think that Shoz-Dijiji, an Apache, a war chief of
the Be-don-ko-he, could love a girl of the pindah-lickoyee!

“But Usen deserted me. He let me look upon the face of the white-eyed
girl for many days, and every day He made her more beautiful in my eyes.
I tried not to think of love. I put it from my mind. I turned my
thoughts to other things, but I could not keep my eyes from the face of
the pindah-lickoyee girl.

“At last we came close to the hogan of her father; and there I stopped
and told her to go on, but she wanted me to come with her that her
father might thank me. I would not go. I dared not go. I, The Apache
Devil, was afraid of this white-eyed daughter of the pindah-lickoyee!

“She came close to me and urged me. She laid her two hands upon my
breast. The touch of those soft, white hands, Gian-nah-tah, was more
powerful than the will of Shoz-Dijiji; beneath it crumbled all the pride
and hate that are of the heritage of the Apaches. A flame burst forth
within me—the signal fire of love.

“I seized her and pressed her close; I put my mouth upon her mouth. And
then she struck at me and tried to push me away, and I saw fear in her
eyes; and something more terrible than fear—loathing—as though I were
unclean.

“Then I let her go; and I came away, but I left my heart and happiness
behind. Shoz-Dijiji has left to him only his pride and his hate—his
hate of the pindah-lickoyee.”

“If you hate the white-eyed girl now, it is well,” said Gian-nah-tah.
“The pindah-lickoyee are low born and fools. They are not fit for an
Apache!”

“I do not hate the white-eyed girl, Wichita,” said Shoz-Dijiji, sadly.
“If I did I should not be unhappy. I love her.”

Gian-nah-tah shook his head. “There are many pretty girls of the
Shis-Inday,” he said presently, “who look with bright eyes upon
Shoz-Dijiji.”

“I do not love them,” replied the Black Bear. “Let us talk no more of
these things. Gian-nah-tah is my friend. I have spoken. Let us go and
listen to the talk of Geronimo and the other old warriors.”

“That is better talk for men,” agreed Gian-nah-tah.

Together they strolled over and joined the group of warriors that
surrounded the old war chief of the Apaches. White Horse, Geronimo’s
brother, was speaking.

“There is much talk,” he said, “among the Indians at San Carlos that the
chiefs of the white-eyed soldiers are going to put Geronimo and many
other of our leaders in prison.”

“They put me in prison once before and kept me there for four months,”
said Geronimo. “They never told me why they kept me there or why they
let me out.”

“They put you in prison to kill you as they did Mangas Colorado,” said
Na-tanh; “but their hearts turned to water, so that they were afraid.”

“They will never get Geronimo in prison again,” said the old war chief.
“I am getting old; and I should like to have peace, but rather would I
take the war trail for the rest of my life than be again chained in the
prison of the pindah-lickoyee.

“We do not want to fight any more. We came in as
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en[1] asked us to. We planted crops, but the rain
will not come. Usen is angry with us; and The Great White Chief cannot
feed us because his Agent steals the beef that is meant for us, and lets
us starve. He will not let us hunt for food if we live at San Carlos.”

-----

[1] “Captain-with-the-brown-clothes”—Major-General George Crook, U. S.
A.

-----

“Who is this white-eyed thief that he may say where an Apache warrior
may make his kunh-gan-hay or where he shall hunt?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.
“The Black Bear makes his camp where he will, hunts where he will!”

“Those are the big words of a young man, my son,” said Geronimo. “It is
fine to make big talk; but when we would do these things the soldiers
come and kill us; every white-eyed man who meets our hunters upon the
trails shoots at them. To them we are as coyotes. Not content with
stealing the land that Usen gave to our forefathers, not content with
slaughtering the game that Usen put here to feed us, they lie to us,
they cheat us, they hunt us down like wild beasts.”

“And yet you, Geronimo, War Chief of the Apaches, hesitate to take the
war trail against them!” Shoz-Dijiji reproached him. “It is not because
you are afraid. No man may say that Geronimo is afraid. Then why is it?”

“The son of Geronimo speaks true words,” replied the old chief.
“Go-yat-thlay,[2] the son of Tah-clish-un, is not afraid to take the war
trail against the pindah-lickoyee even though he knows that it is
hopeless to fight against their soldiers, who are as many as the needles
upon the cedars, because Go-yat-thlay is not afraid to die; but he does
not like to see the warriors and the women and the children slain
needlessly, and so he waits and hopes—hopes that the pindah-lickoyee
will some day keep the words of the treaties they have made with the
Shis-Inday—the treaties that they have always been the first to break.

-----

[2] Geronimo.

-----

“If that day should come, the Shis-Inday could live in peace with the
pindah-lickoyee; our women and children would have food to eat; we
should have land to till and land to hunt upon; we might live as
brothers with the white-eyed men, nor ever again go upon the war trail.”

“I do not wish to live with the white-eyed men in peace or otherwise,”
cried the Black Bear. “I am an Apache! I was born to the war trail. From
my mother’s breasts I drew the strong milk that makes warriors. You, my
father, taught me to string a bow, to hurl a lance; from your lips my
childish ears heard the proud deeds of my ancestors, the great warriors
from whose loins I sprung; you taught me to hate the pindah-lickoyee,
you saw me take my first scalp, you have seen me kill many of the
warriors of the enemy, and always you approved and were proud. How then
may I believe that the words you have just spoken are true words from
your heart?”

“Youth speaks from the heart, Shoz-Dijiji, as you speak and as I spoke
to you when you were a child; but old age speaks from the head. My heart
would go upon the war trail, my son; my heart would kill the white-eyed
men wherever it found them, but my head tells me to suffer and be sad a
little longer in the hope of peace and justice for my people.”

For a time after Geronimo had spoken there was silence, broken only by
the beating of the es-a-da-ded and the mumbling of the medicine man, as
he led the dancers.

Presently a figure stepped into the outer rim of the circle of firelight
from the darkness beyond and halted. He gave the sign and spoke the
words of peace, and at the command of Geronimo approached the group of
squatting braves.

It was Klo-sen, the Ned-ni. He came and stood before the Be-don-ko-he
warriors and looked into the face of Geronimo.

“I bring word from the white-eyed chiefs at San Carlos,” he said.

“What message do they send?” asked Geronimo.

“They wish Geronimo and the other chiefs to come to Fort Thomas and hold
a council with them,” replied Klo-sen.

“Of what matters would they speak?” demanded the old war chief.

“There are many things of which they wish to speak to the chiefs of the
Apaches,” replied Klo-sen. “They have heard that we are dissatisfied,
and they have promised to listen to our troubles. They say that they
want to live in peace with us, and that if we come, they will have a
great feast for us, and that together we shall plan how the white-eyes
and the Shis-Inday may live together like brothers.”

Shoz-Dijiji grunted skeptically.

“They want to make reservation Indians of us forever,” said a warrior.

“Tell them we shall hold a council here and send word to them,” said
Geronimo.

“If you do not come,” said Klo-sen, “neither will the Ned-ni—this word
De-klu-gie sends to Geronimo and the Be-don-ko-he.”

With the coming of the messenger the dance had stopped and the warriors
had gathered to listen to his words, forming naturally and in accordance
with their rank in a circle about a small fire, so that they were all
present when Geronimo suggested that they hold a council to determine
what action they should take; and as Chief of the Be-don-ko-he he was
the first to speak.

“We, the Shis-Inday, are vanishing from the earth,” he said sadly, “yet
I cannot think we are useless, or Usen would not have created us. He
created all tribes of men, and certainly had a righteous purpose in
creating each.

“For each tribe of men Usen created He also made a home. In the land
created for any particular tribe He placed whatever would be best for
that particular tribe.

“When Usen created the Apaches, He also created their homes in the
mountains and the valleys of New Mexico, Arizona, Sonora, and Chihuahua.
He gave to them such grain, fruits, and game as they needed to eat. To
restore their health when disease attacked them, He made many different
herbs to grow. He taught them where to find these herbs and how to
prepare them for medicine. He gave them a pleasant climate, and all they
needed for clothing and shelter was at hand.

“Usen created, also, the white-eyed men; and for them He created a
country where they could live, but they are not satisfied. They want the
country that Usen created for them and also the country that He created
for the Apaches. They wish to live in the way that Usen intended that
they should live, but they are not satisfied that the Apaches should
live as Usen wished them to. They want the Apaches to live as the
white-eyes live.

“The Apaches cannot live as the white-eyed men live. They would not be
happy. They would sicken and die. They must have freedom to roam where
they will in their own country; they must be able to obtain the food to
which they are accustomed; they must have freedom to search for the
herbs that will cure them of sickness.

“These things they cannot do if they live upon the reservations set
aside by the white-eyed men for them. They cannot live their own lives
if their chiefs must take orders from an Indian Agent who knows little
about Indians and cares less.

“As I grow older my mind turns more to peace than to the war trail. I do
not wish to fight the pindah-lickoyee, but neither do I wish to be told
by the pindah-lickoyee how and where I shall live in my own country.”
The old man paused and looked around the circle of savage faces.

“I want peace. Perhaps there are wiser men sitting about this council
fire who can tell me how the Shis-Inday may have both peace and freedom.
Perhaps if we go to this council with the white-eyes they may tell us
how we may have peace with freedom.

“Geronimo would like to go; but always there is in his mind the
recollection of that day, long ago, when the chiefs of the white-eyed
soldiers invited the Be-don-ko-he to a council and a feast at Apache
Pass. Mangas Colorado was Chief then, and he went with many of his
warriors.

“Just before noon the soldiers invited the Be-don-ko-he into a tent
where, they were told, they would be given food to eat. When they were
all in the tent the soldiers attacked them. Mangas Colorado and several
other warriors, by cutting through the tent, escaped; but most of them
were killed or captured.

“I have spoken.”

A warrior at Geronimo’s right hand arose. “I, too, want peace,” he said,
“but I hear the spirit voices of Sanza, Kla-de-ta-he, Ni-yo-ka-he, Gopi,
and the other warriors who were killed that day by the soldiers at
Apache Pass. They tell me not to trust the white-eyed men. The spirit of
Kla-de-ta-he, my father, reminds me that the white-eyed men are all
liars and thieves. This they have proved to us many times. They make
treaties and break them; they steal the beef and the other provisions
that are intended for us. That, all men know. I do not think that we
should go to this council. I have spoken.”

Thus, one after the other, all who wished to speak spoke, some for and
some against attending the council; and when the final vote was taken
the majority had spoken against it.

That same night Klo-sen left to carry the word back to the white men and
to De-klu-gie, chief of the Ned-ni, and also to De-klu-gie an invitation
to him and his people to join the Be-don-ko-he on a hunting trip into
Mexico.

“You know,” said Geronimo to his warriors, “that this will mean war! The
white-eyed ones will not permit us to leave the reservation and hunt in
peace.”

“It is more manly to die on the war path than to be killed in prison,”
replied Shoz-Dijiji.

Two days later the Ned-ni Apaches joined the Be-don-ko-he, and that all
felt that their contemplated move meant war was evidenced by their
hurried preparations for departure and for the war trail. Disordered
hair was shampooed with tallow and slicked down; war bands were
adjusted; smaller, lighter ear-rings replaced the heavy pendants of
peace times; necklaces were discarded down to a single strand; many a
bronze forefinger was stained with color as each brave laid on the war
paint in accordance with his individual taste, ability, and imagination.

The squaws, with awl and deer sinew, sewed the final patches to worn war
moccasins, gathered together their few belongings, prepared for the
grueling marches, the days of hunger, of thirst, of battle.

From many an eminence, eagle eyed scouts watched the approaches to the
camp. In advance of these, other scouts ranged far in the direction from
which troops might be expected to advance. These scouts knew the hour at
which the Be-don-ko-hes and Ned-nis would start their southward march
toward Sonora; and, as the main body of the Apaches broke camp and moved
out along the selected route, the scouts fell slowly back; but always
they watched toward the north, and the eyes of the marching tribes were
turned often in the same direction.

So it was that, shortly after they had left camp, the Indians saw little
puffs of smoke arising in quick succession from the summit of a mountain
range far to the north. Those rapidly multiplied and repeated puffs of
smoke told them that a large, well armed, enemy party was approaching;
but it was still a long way off, and Geronimo had little fear that it
could overtake him.

On they moved, well armed, well mounted, secure in the belief that all
the white-eyed soldiers lay to the north of them. Shoz-Dijiji, astride
his pinto stallion, Nejeunee, rode in advance leading the way toward
Apache Pass.

Suddenly from a hill top close to the pass they were approaching a
column of smoke rose into the air—it broke into a puff—was followed by
another and another in quick succession. Another body of the enemy was
approaching Apache Pass from the opposite side!

Shoz-Dijiji reined about and raced Nejeunee back to Geronimo who, with
the balance of the Apaches, had already seen the smoke signal.

“Take ten warriors and ride through the pass,” instructed Geronimo. “If
the pindah-lickoyee are too close to permit us to get through send one
back with the word, and we will turn south through the mountains on this
side of the pass. With the other warriors you will hold them as long as
you can—until dark if possible—and then follow us. With stones we will
tell you which way we have gone.

“If they are not already too close, advance until you find a good place
to hold them. That will give us time to get through the pass and past
them on the trail toward Sonora. Go!”

Shoz-Dijiji asked Gian-nah-tah and nine other braves if they wished to
accompany him; and turned and raced off toward Apache Pass without
waiting for a reply, for he knew that they would all follow him. He had
little fear of meeting the soldiers unexpectedly in the pass, for he
knew that the scout who had sent up the smoke signal would never cease
to watch the enemy and that he would fall back before them, keeping
always between the soldiers and the Apaches.

Shoz-Dijiji and his ten reached the far end of the pass. There were no
soldiers in sight yet; but a half mile to the west they saw their scout
signalling them to hasten forward, and when they reached him he took
Shoz-Dijiji to the hill top and pointed toward the south.

Half a mile away Shoz-Dijiji saw three troopers in dusty blue riding
slowly in the direction of the pass. They were the point. Behind them,
but hidden by an intervening hill, was the main body, its position well
marked by the dust cloud hovering above it. That the soldiers had seen
the smoke signal was apparent by the extreme caution with which the
point advanced.

Now a small advance party came into view with flankers well out, but
Shoz-Dijiji did not wait to see more—the warriors of the
pindah-lickoyee were coming, and they were prepared.

The young War Chief of the Be-don-ko-he had fought against the soldiers
of the white-eyed men before, and he knew what they would do when
attacked. He thought that he could hold them long enough for the main
body of the Apaches to get through the pass, and so he sent one
messenger racing back to urge Geronimo to hasten; he sent a warrior to
the hill top to fire upon the point, and he sent two warriors with all
the ponies upon the new trail toward the south that the tribes would now
have to follow. Thus he burned his bridges behind him, but he was
confident of the result of his plan.

Counting himself, there were now nine warriors opposing the enemy; and
Shoz-Dijiji lost no time in disposing his little force to carry out the
strategy of his defense of Apache Pass.

The point, having uncovered the enemy, did what Shoz-Dijiji had known
that it would do—turned and raced back toward the advance party, which
now deployed. The main body halted and was dismounted to fight on foot,
the terrain not justifying mounted action.

This delay, which Shoz-Dijiji had counted on, was utilized by him and
six of his warriors in racing through the hills, just out of sight of
the enemy, toward a point where they could overlook the main body. Two
warriors he left upon the hill top that commanded the approach to the
pass.

When the seven painted warriors reached their stations they were spread
along the low hills looking down upon the enemy and at intervals of
about fifty yards. Shoz-Dijiji was farthest from the pass. It was his
rifle that spoke first from above and behind the troopers holding the
horses of those who were now slowly advancing in skirmish line on foot.

A struck horse screamed and lunged, breaking away from the trooper that
held it. Along the line of hills now the seven rifles were cracking
rapidly down upon the unprotected rear and flank of the enemy. Riderless
horses, breaking away from those who held them, ran, snorting, among the
dismounted troopers, adding to the confusion. The commanding officer,
steadying his men by word and example, ordered them to seek shelter and
lie down, forming them in a ragged line facing the hills. A lieutenant
directed the removal of the remaining horses to a place of safety.

The Apaches did not fire again after the first few disconcerting rounds.
Shoz-Dijiji had no wish to precipitate a charge that might reveal his
weakness, his sole aim being to delay the advance of the enemy toward
the pass until Geronimo should have come through with the two tribes.

The officer commanding the cavalry had no means of knowing that he was
not faced by the entire strength of the renegades; and in the lull that
followed the first attack he started withdrawing his men to a safer
position, and as this withdrawal took them away from the pass
Shoz-Dijiji made no effort to embarrass it but waited until the troopers
had found shelter. He watched them dig little trenches for their bodies
and pile rocks in front of their heads; and when he was sure that they
felt more secure, he passed the word along his line to fire an
occasional shot and that after each shot the warrior should change his
position before he fired again that an impression might be given the
enemy that it faced a long line of warriors.

The soldiers had formed their line some hundred yards from where their
horses were hidden in a dry wash; and at every effort that was made to
cross this space and reach the horses the Apaches concentrated their
fire upon this zone, effectually discouraging any considerable
enthusiasm in the project, since as long as they remained passive there
were no casualties.

The commanding officer was mystified by the tactics of the Apaches. He
hoped they were preparing to charge, and in that hope he hesitated to
order his own men up the steep hillside in the face of the fire of an
unknown number of savages. Then, too, he could afford to wait, as he was
suffering no losses and was momentarily expecting the arrival of the
infantry that was following with the baggage train.

And so the afternoon wore on. A messenger came to Shoz-Dijiji with word
that the two tribes had passed safely through the pass. Shoz-Dijiji
fired a shot at the line of dusty blue and sent two of his warriors to
join the main body of the Apaches. During the following half hour each
of the remaining braves fired once, and then two more left to overtake
the renegades. The next half hour was a busy one for the three remaining
warriors as each fired two or three rounds, changing his position after
each shot and thus giving the impression of undiminished strength. Then
two more warriors retired.

Now only Shoz-Dijiji remained. In the north rose a great dust cloud that
drew constantly nearer. The infantry was coming!

Shoz-Dijiji fired and scuttled to a new position nearer Apache Pass. The
troopers peppered away at the spot from which the smoke of his shot had
arisen, as they had all the long hot afternoon. Shoz-Dijiji fired again
and moved on.

The infantry was met by a messenger from the cavalry. All afternoon they
had heard the firing and had hastened forward. Hot, dusty, tired, they
were in bad humor. Spitting dust from swollen tongues, they cursed all
Indians in general and Apaches in particular as they deployed and
started up the hillside to flank the embattled reds. This time, by God,
they would get old Geronimo and all his dirty, sneaking Siwashes!

Simultaneously the dismounted troopers charged straight into the face of
the enemy. Fat chance the doughboys had of beating _them_ to it!

It was a race now to see which would reach the renegades first—cavalry
or infantry. The cavalry; having the advantage of propinquity, arrived
first, and they got something, too—when the infantry arrived, they got
the laugh. There was not an Indian in sight!

From a hill top a mile to the south of them a lone warrior watched them,
estimating the numbers of the infantry, the size of the wagon train.
Satisfied, he turned and trotted along the trail made by his fellows as
they moved southward.

Down into Sonora the long trail was leading, down to a camp in the
Sierra de Sahuaripa mountains.

Geronimo had gone out again!




                              Chapter Two


                             Spoils of War

=T=HE camp of Be-don-ko-he and Ned-ni Apaches lay in the Sierra de
Sahuaripa not far from Casa Grande, but the activities of the renegades
led them far afield in both Sonora and Chihuahua during the ensuing
year.

Shoz-Dijiji, restless, unhappy, filled with bitterness against all men
who were not Apaches, often brooding over the wrongs and injustices
inflicted upon his people, became a living scourge throughout the
countryside.

Sometimes alone, again with Gian-nah-tah and other young braves, he
raided shops and ranches and isolated cottages, or waylaid travellers
upon the road.

He affected a design in face painting that was distinctive and personal;
so that all who saw him knew him, even though they never had seen him
before. He laid a broad band of white from temple to temple across his
eyes—the remainder of his face, above and below the band, was blue.

Entering a small village alone, he would step into the little tienda and
stand silently upon the threshold for a moment watching the effect of
his presence upon the shop keeper and his customers. He derived pleasure
from seeing the pallor of fear overspread their faces and hearing their
mumbled prayers; he loved the terror in their voices as they voiced his
name, “The Apache Devil!”

If they ran he let them go, but if they offered resistance he shot them
down; then he took what he wanted and left. He did not kill women or
children, nor did he ever mutilate the dead or torture the living; but
others did—Apaches, Indians of other tribes, Mexicans—and The Apache
Devil was held responsible for every outrage that left no eye-witness
living to refute the charge.

In the year that they remained in Mexico the Apaches collected a
considerable herd of horses and cattle by similar means and according to
the same ethics that govern civilized troops in an enemy’s country. They
considered themselves at war with all mankind, nor was there any
sufficient reason why they should feel otherwise. For over three hundred
years they had been at war with the white men; for over three hundred
years they had been endeavoring to expel the invader from their domain.
In the history of the world no more courageous defense of a fatherland
against overwhelming odds is recorded, but the only accolade that
history will bestow upon them is that which ratifies the titles, thieves
and murderers, conferred upon them by those who ravished their land for
profit.

It was late summer. The growing herd of the Apaches was becoming
unwieldy. Scouts and raiding parties were almost daily reporting to
Geronimo the increasing activities of Mexican troops, proof to the old
War Chief that the Mexican government was inaugurating a determined
campaign against him, which he realized must assuredly result in the
eventual loss of their hard-earned flocks, since the tactics of Apache
warfare depend, for success, chiefly upon the marvelous mobility of the
savages.

From the summit of a mountain in the Sierra de Sahuaripa range rose a
tall, thin column of smoke. It scarcely wavered in the still air of
early morning. Fed by trained hands, its volume remained almost constant
and without break. From a distance it appeared a white pillar topped by
a white cloud that drifted, at last, lazily toward the north.

Fifty, a hundred miles away keen eyes might see it through the thin,
clear air of Sonora. Caballero and peon in little villages, in scattered
huts, in many a distant hacienda saw it and, cursing, looked to their
weapons, prepared the better to guard their flocks and their women, for
it told them that the Apaches were gathering; and when the Apaches
gathered, let honest folk beware!

Other eyes saw it, savage eyes, the eyes for which its message was
intended; and from plain and mountain painted warriors, scouting,
raiding, turned their ponies’ heads toward the soft, white beacon; and
thus the scattered members of the Be-don-ko-he and the Ned-ni joined
forces in the Sierra de Sahuaripa and started north with the spoils of
war safely ahead of the converging troops.

“For more than a year,” Geronimo had said to them during the council in
which they had determined to leave Mexico, “we have been absent from the
country of the pindah-lickoyee. In all this time we have not struck a
blow against them. We have shown them that we are not at war with them
but with the Mexicans. Let us return with our herds to our own country
and settle down in peace. With what we have won we can increase our
cattle and our horses to such an extent that we shall not have to go
upon the war trail again for a long time—possibly never again. Thus we
can live in peace beside the pindah-lickoyee. Let us not strike again at
them. If our young men must go upon the war trail, there is always
Mexico. The Mexicans are our natural enemies. They were our enemies
before the pindah-lickoyee came; I do not forget Kas-ki-yeh, where my
wife, my mother, and my children were treacherously slain. Let not the
young warriors forget Kas-ki-yeh either! Many were the women and the
children and the warriors killed there that day while most of the
fighting braves were peaceably trading in the nearby village.

“Perhaps now that we have obtained the means to guard against hunger we
may live in peace in our own country with the white-eyed men. I have
made big medicine and prayed to Usen that this thing may be. I am tired
of fighting. I am tired of seeing my people killed in the hopeless
struggle against the white-eyes.”

And so the two tribes came back to the reservation at San Carlos,
bringing their great herd with them, and there was feasting and dancing
and much tizwin was consumed.

The White Mountain Apaches, who had not gone out with Geronimo, profited
however, for they had furnished many of the rifles and much of the
ammunition that had aided in the success of the renegades; and they
received their reward in the division of the spoils of war.

After the freedom and excitement of the war trail it was difficult for
the young braves to settle down to the monotony of reservation life.
Herding cattle and horses was far from a thrilling occupation and
offered little outlet for active, savage spirits; and it could as well
be done by boys as by men.

The result was that they spent much time in gambling and drinking, which
more often than not led to quarreling. Shoz-Dijiji suffered in a way,
perhaps, more than the majority, for his was naturally a restless spirit
which had not even the outlet afforded by strong drink, since
Shoz-Dijiji cared nothing for this form of dissipation. Nausea and
headaches did not appeal to him as particularly desirable or profitable.
He found a certain thrill in gambling, but most of all he enjoyed
contests of skill and endurance.

He challenged other braves to wrestle, jump, or run. The stakes were
ornaments, ammunition, weapons, ponies; but as Shoz-Dijiji always won it
was not long before he was unable to find an antagonist willing to risk
a wager against him.

Perhaps his chief diversion was pony racing; and many a round of
ammunition, many a necklace of glass beads, magical berries, and roots,
bits of the valued duklij came into his possession because of the speed
of Nejeunee and other swift ponies of his string.

Shoz-Dijiji, gauged by the standards of Apachedom, was wealthy. He
possessed a large herd, fine raiment, the best of weapons and “jewelry”
that was the envy of all. Many a scheming mother and lovelorn maiden set
a cap for him, but the Black Bear was proof against all their wiles.

Sometimes his father, Geronimo, or his mother, Sons-ee-ah-ray,
reproached him, telling him that it was not fitting that a rich and
powerful war chief should be without women to wait upon him. They told
him that it was a reflection on them; but Shoz-Dijiji only shrugged his
shoulders and grunted, saying that he did not want to be bothered with
women and children. Only Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah knew the truth.

Just off the reservation was a place known locally as the Hog Ranch,
though the only swine that frequented it were human; and while a single
member of the family Suidæ would have tended to elevate its standing in
the community it was innocent of even this slight claim to decency.

Its proprietor was what is still known in the vernacular of the
Southwest as a tinhorn. “Dirty” Cheetim had tried prospecting and horse
stealing, but either of these vocations were dependent for success upon
a more considerable proportion of courage and endurance than existed in
his mental and physical endowment.

His profits were derived through the exploitation of the pulchritude of
several blondined ladies from the States and about an equal number of
dusky senoritas from below the border, from cheating drunken soldiers
and cowboys at cards, from selling cheap, adulterated whiskey to his
white patrons openly and to Indians surreptitiously. It was whispered
that he had other sources of revenue which Washington might have found
interesting had it been in any measure interested in the welfare of the
Indians, but how can one expect overworked Christian congressmen to
neglect their electorate in the interests of benighted savages who have
no votes?

However, it seemed strange to those who gave it any thought that such a
place as “Dirty” Cheetim’s Hog Ranch should receive even the passive
countenance of the Indian Agent.

Tall and straight, silently on moccasined feet, an Apache brave stepped
through the doorway of the Hog Ranch. Pausing within he let his quick,
keen glance pass rapidly over the faces of the inmates. The place was
almost deserted at this hour of the day. Two Mexicans, an American
cowboy, and a soldier were playing stud at a table in one corner of the
room. Two other soldiers and two girls were standing at the bar, behind
which one of “Dirty” Cheetim’s assistants was officiating. One of the
soldiers turned and looked at the Indian.

“Hello, Black Bear!” he called. “Have a drink?”

Shoz-Dijiji looked steadily at the soldier for a moment before replying.

“No sabe,” he said, presently, his eyes moving to a closed door that led
to a back room.

“He’s a damn liar,” said the soldier. “I’ll bet he savvies English as
good as me.”

“Gee!” exclaimed one of the girls; “he’s sure a good lookin’ Siwash.”
She looked up into Shoz-Dijiji’s face and smiled boldly as he approached
them on his way across the room toward the closed door; but the face of
the Indian remained expressionless, inscrutable.

“They don’t none of ’em look good to me,” said the other soldier. “This
guy was out with Geronimo, and every time I lamp one of their mugs I
think maybe it’s The Apache Devil. You can’t never tell.”

The first soldier took hold of Shoz-Dijiji’s arm as he was passing and
stopped him; then from the bar he picked up a glass filled with whiskey
and offered it to the Apache.

Shoz-Dijiji grunted, shook his head and passed on. The girl laughed.

“I reckon he’s got more sense than we have,” she said; “he knows enough
not to drink ‘Dirty’s’ rot-gut.”

“You must be stuck on the Siwash, Goldie,” accused the first soldier.

“I might have a mash on a lot o’ worse lookin’ hombres than him,” she
shot back, with a toss of her faded, golden curls.

Shoz-Dijiji heard and understood the entire conversation. He had not for
nothing spent the months of Geronimo’s imprisonment at San Carlos in the
post school, but not even by the quiver of an eyelid did he acknowledge
that he understood.

At the closed door, unembarrassed by the restrictions of an etiquette
that he would have ignored had he been cognizant of it, he turned the
knob and stepped into the room beyond without knocking.

Two men were there—a white man and an Indian. They both looked up as
Shoz-Dijiji entered. This was the first time that Shoz-Dijiji had been
in “Dirty” Cheetim’s Hog Ranch. It was the first time that he had seen
the proprietor or known who “Dirty” Cheetim was; but he had met him
before, and he recognized him immediately.

Instantly there was projected upon the screen of memory a sun scorched
canyon, bowlder strewn, through which wound a dusty wagon road. At the
summit of the canyon’s western wall a young Apache brave crouched hidden
beneath a grey blanket that, from the canyon’s bottom, looked but
another bowlder. He was watching for the coming of the soldiers of the
pindah-lickoyee that he might carry the word of it back to Geronimo.

Presently three bearded men rode into view. The Apache gazed down upon
them with contempt. His fingers, resting upon his rifle, twitched; but
he was scouting and must forego this Usen-given opportunity. The men
were not soldiers; so they were of no concern to Shoz-Dijiji, the scout.

Suddenly the Apache’s attention was attracted by a sound coming from the
south, a rhythmical sound that announced the approach of a loping horse.
Two of the three men drew quickly behind a great bowlder, the third
behind another upon the opposite side of the road. Silence once more
enveloped the seemingly deserted canyon.

The Apache waited, watching. The loping horse drew nearer. It entered
the lower end of the canyon and presently came within range of
Shoz-Dijiji’s vision. Its rider was a girl—a white girl. As she came
abreast of the three whites they rode directly into the trail and barred
her passage, and as she sought to wheel her horse one of them reached
out and seized her bridle rein.

The girl reached for a six-shooter that hung at her hip, but another of
the three had slipped from his saddle and run to her side. Now he
grasped her wrist, tore the weapon from its holster, and dragged the
girl to the ground. It was all done very quickly. Shoz-Dijiji watched.
His hatred of the men mounted.

He heard the conversation that passed between the men and the girl and
understood it—understood that the men were going to take the girl away
by force. He saw one of them—the one that he was facing now in the back
room of the Hog Ranch—jerk the girl roughly and order her to remount
her horse.

Then the barrel of a rifle slid quietly from beneath the edge of a grey
bowlder at the top of the canyon’s wall, there was a loud report that
resounded thunderously, and the man whose hand lay upon Wichita Billings
dropped in his tracks.

From that moment to this Shoz-Dijiji had thought “Dirty” Cheetim dead,
yet here he was in the flesh, looking him straight in the eye and
smiling. Shoz-Dijiji knew that Cheetim would not be smiling if he had
recognized Shoz-Dijiji.

“How, John!” exclaimed the white man. “Mebby so you want red-eye, eh?”

In no slightest degree did Shoz-Dijiji register by any changed
expression the surprise he felt at seeing this man alive, nor the hatred
that he felt for him, nor the terrific urge he experienced to kill him.
He looked at him just once, briefly, and then ignored him as he did his
greeting and his question. Instead he turned to the Apache standing
behind Cheetim.

It was Gian-nah-tah. In one hand he held a glass of whiskey, in the
other a bottle. Shoz-Dijiji looked straight into the eyes of his friend
for a moment, and those of Gian-nah-tah wavered and dropped beneath the
steady, accusing gaze of the Black Bear; then the latter spoke in the
language of the Shis-Inday.

“Gian-nah-tah, you are a fool!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “Of all the things
that the white-eyed men have to offer the Apache only their weapons and
their ammunition are of any value to us—all else is vile. And you,
Gian-nah-tah, choose the vilest. You are a fool!

“Our own tizwin and the mescal of the Mexicans is bad medicine, but this
fire-water of the white-eyed men is poison. To drink it is the madness
of a fool, but even worse is the drinking of it in friendship with the
white-eyed dogs.

“You are a fool to drink it—you are a traitor to drink with the enemies
of your people. Put down the glass and the bottle, and come with me!”

Gian-nah-tah looked up angrily now. Already he had had a couple of
drinks of the vile concoction, and they had had their effect upon him.

“Gian-nah-tah is a warrior!” he exclaimed, “not a child. Who are you to
tell Gian-nah-tah to do this, or not to do that, or to come or go?”

“I am his best friend,” said Shoz-Dijiji, simply.

“Then go away and mind your own business!” snapped Gian-nah-tah, and he
raised the glass to his lips.

With the swift, soft sinuosity of a cat Shoz-Dijiji stepped forward and
struck the glass from his friend’s hand and almost in the same movement
seized the bottle and hurled it to the floor.

“Here, you damn Siwash!” cried Cheetim; “what the hell you think you’re
doin’?” He advanced belligerently. Shoz-Dijiji turned upon the white
man. Towering above him he gave the fellow one look that sent him
cowering back. Perhaps it was fortunate for the peace of San Carlos that
“Dirty” Cheetim had left his gun behind the bar, for he was the type of
bad-man that shoots an unarmed adversary.

But Gian-nah-tah, Be-don-ko-he warrior, was not thus a coward; and his
finer sensibilities were numbed by the effects of the whiskey he had
drunk. He did not shrink from Shoz-Dijiji. Instead, he whipped his knife
from its scabbard and struck a savage blow at the breast of his best
friend.

Shoz-Dijiji had turned away from Cheetim just in time to meet
Gian-nah-tah’s attack. Quickly he leaped aside as the knife fell and
then sprang close again and seized Gian-nah-tah’s knife wrist with the
fingers of his left hand. Like a steel vise his grip tightened.
Gian-nah-tah struck at him with his free hand, but Shoz-Dijiji warded
the blow.

“Drop it!” commanded the Black Bear and struck Gian-nah-tah across the
face with his open palm. The latter struggled to free himself, striking
futilely at the giant that held him.

“Drop it!” repeated Shoz-Dijiji. Again he struck Gian-nah-tah—and
again, and again. His grasp tightened upon the other’s wrist, stopping
the circulation—until Gian-nah-tah thought that his bones were being
crushed. His fingers relaxed. The knife clattered to the floor.
Shoz-Dijiji stooped quickly and recovered it; then he released his hold
upon Gian-nah-tah.

“Go!” commanded the Black Bear, pointing toward the doorway.

For an instant Gian-nah-tah hesitated; then he turned and walked from
the room. Without even a glance in the direction of Cheetim, Shoz-Dijiji
followed his friend. As they passed the bar the girl called Goldie
smiled into the face of Shoz-Dijiji.

“Come down and see me sometime, John,” she said.

Without a word or a look the Apache passed out of the building, away
from the refining influences of white man’s civilization.

Sullenly, Gian-nah-tah walked to where two ponies were tied. From the
tie-rail he unfastened the hackamore rope of one of them and vaulted to
the animal’s back. In silence Shoz-Dijiji handed Gian-nah-tah his knife.
In silence the other Apache took it, wheeled his pony, and loped away
toward the Be-don-ko-he village. Astride Nejeunee Shoz-Dijiji followed
slowly—erect, silent, somber; only his heart was bowed, in sorrow.

As Shoz-Dijiji approached the village he met Geronimo and two warriors
riding in the direction of the military post. They were angry and
excited. The old War Chief beckoned Shoz-Dijiji to join them.

“What has happened?” asked the Black Bear.

“The soldiers have come and driven away our herd,” replied Geronimo.

“Where are you going?”

“I am going to see Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” replied Geronimo, “and ask
him why the soldiers have stolen our horses and cattle. It is always
thus! When we would live at peace with the white-eyed men they will not
let us. Always they do something that arouses the anger of the
Shis-Inday and makes the young braves want to go upon the war trail.
Now, if they do not give us back our cattle, it will be difficult to
keep the young men in peace upon the reservation—or the old men
either.”

At the post Geronimo rode directly to headquarters and demanded to see
General Crook, and a few minutes later the four braves were ushered into
the presence of the officer.

“I have been expecting you, Geronimo,” said Crook.

“Then you knew that the soldiers were going to steal our herds?”
demanded the War Chief.

“They have not stolen them, Geronimo,” replied the officer. “It is you
who stole them. They do not belong to you. The soldiers have taken them
away from you to return them to their rightful owners. Every time you
steal horses or cattle they will be taken away from you and returned.
You promised me once that you would not steal any more, but yet you went
out and killed and stole.”

“We did not go upon the war trail against the white-eyed men,” replied
Geronimo. “We were going down into Mexico, and your soldiers attacked us
and tried to stop us.”

“It was the Apaches who started the fight at Apache Pass,” Crook
reminded him.

“It was the Apaches who fired the first shot,” corrected Geronimo, “but
they did not start the fight. You started it by sending troops to stop
us. We are neither fools nor children. We knew why those troops were
marching to Apache Pass. Had they seen us first they would have fired
the first shot. You cannot say that we started the fight just because
our chiefs and our warriors are better soldiers than yours. You would
have been glad enough to have surprised us, but you were not wise
enough.”

Crook smiled. “You say you are not a fool nor a child, Geronimo,” he
said. “Well, neither am I. You went out with a bad heart to kill
innocent people and rob them. It got too hot for you in Mexico, and so
you came back here and brought your stolen herds with you. You are no
fool, Geronimo, and so I know you were not foolish enough to think that
we would let you keep these cattle. I do not know why you did it, unless
you just wanted to make more trouble.”

“I did not want to make trouble,” replied the chief. “We were at war
with the Mexicans. We took the horses and cattle as spoils of war. They
belong to us. They do not belong to you. They were not taken from your
people but from Mexicans. Your own country has been at war with Mexico
in the past. Did you return everything that you took from them at that
time?”

“But we are not at war with them now. We are friends. You cannot steal
from our friends. If we let you they will say that we are not their
friends.”

“That is not true,” replied Geronimo. “The Mexicans are not fools,
either. They know the difference between Apaches and white-eyed men.
They know that it was the Apaches, with whom they are at war, who took
their herds. They do not think that it was you. If you take the herds
from us and return them to the Mexicans, both the Mexicans and the
Apaches will think that you are fools. If you took them and kept them,
that would be different. That is precisely what we did and what we would
do again. You say that you do not want to be at war with the
Apaches—that we are good friends! How then can you make me believe that
it is right to take cattle from your friends?”

Crook shook his head. “It’s no use, Geronimo,” he said.

“How can we live if you take our herds from us?” demanded the Apache.
“With these cattle and horses we were rich. We did not intend to kill
them. We were going to breed them and thus become richer, so that we
would not have to go out raiding again. It was our chance to live
comfortably and in peace with the white-eyed men. Now you have taken
this chance from us. We cannot live here and starve.”

“You do not have to starve,” replied Crook. “The government rations are
ample to take care of you.”

“We do not get them. You know that we do not get them. The Agent robs
us. Every man knows that. Now you rob us. I told you that I wished to
live in peace with the white-eyed men, but I cannot control the young
men when they learn that you will not return their cattle and horses. If
they make trouble do not blame me. I did not do it. You did it. I have
spoken!”

“There will be no trouble, Geronimo,” said Crook, “if you do not start
it. I cannot give you back the cattle. Go back to your camp and tell
your people that. Tell them that the next time they go out and kill and
steal I shall not be as easy with them. The next time they will be
punished, just as any murderers are. Do you hear?”

“Geronimo hears, but he does not understand,” replied the War Chief.
“Usen seems to have made one set of laws for the Apaches and another for
the white-eyed men. It is right for the white-eyed men to come into the
country of the Apaches and steal their land and kill their game and shut
the Apaches up on reservations and shoot them if they try to go to some
other part of their own country; but it is wrong for the Apaches to
fight with the Mexicans who have been their natural enemies since long
before the white-eyed men came to the country. It is wrong for the
Apaches to profit by their victories against their enemies.

“Yes, Geronimo hears; but he does not understand.”




                             Chapter Three


                               “No Sabe!”

=A=S Shoz-Dijiji followed Geronimo and the two braves from General
Crook’s office a white girl chanced to be passing in front of
headquarters. Her eyes and the eyes of Shoz-Dijiji met, and into the
eyes of the girl leaped the light of recognition and pleasure.

“Shoz-Dijiji!” she exclaimed. “I am so glad to see you again.” The brave
stopped and looked gravely into her face, listening to her words. “I am
visiting with Mrs. Cullis. Won’t you come and see me?”

“No sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji and brushed past her to rejoin his fellows.

A flush of mortification colored the face of Wichita Billings; and the
fire of anger and resentment lighted her eyes, but the flush quickly
faded and, as quickly, an expression of sorrow supplanted that of
displeasure. For a moment she stood looking after the tall, straight
form of the Apache as he walked toward his pony; and then, with a sigh,
she resumed her way.

A white man, coming from the canteen, had witnessed the meeting between
Shoz-Dijiji and Wichita Billings. He had recognized the girl immediately
and the Indian as the same that had, a short time before, spoiled a sale
for him and smashed a bottle of whiskey upon the floor of his back room.

He was surprised to see Wichita Billings at the post, and as she turned
again in his direction he stepped quickly behind the corner of a
building and waited there until she had passed.

The natural expression that mirrored in the face of “Dirty” Cheetim
whatever atrophied thing may have done questionable duty as his soul,
was evil; but peculiarly unclean was the look in his eyes as he watched
the girl walking briskly along the path that led to the officers’
quarters.

Presently his eyes wandered to the figure of the Apache brave riding
across the parade on the pinto stallion, and his brows contracted in
thought. Where had he seen that buck before?—a long time before. There
was something mighty familiar about him—something that Cheetim had not
noticed until he saw the Indian talking with Wichita Billings; but even
so he failed to connect the associated ideas that had subconsciously
aroused the suggestion of previous familiarity, and so, dismissing the
matter from his mind, he went on about his affairs.

Geronimo rode back to the camp of the Be-don-ko-he in silence. It was as
impossible for him to get the viewpoint of the white man as it was for
the white man to get the viewpoint of the Apache. He felt that he had
been treated with rank injustice and treachery. Geronimo was furious,
yet his stern, inscrutable face gave no evidence of what was passing in
his savage brain. He did not rant nor rave, raising his voice in loud
oaths, as might a white man under stress of similar circumstance.

Geronimo dismounted before his hogan and turned to Shoz-Dijiji and the
others who had accompanied him. “Tell the braves of the Be-don-ko-he
that Geronimo is going away from San Carlos,” he said. “Perhaps they
would like to come and talk with Geronimo before he goes.”

As the three braves rode away through the village Geronimo sat down
before the entrance to his hogan. “Geronimo cannot live in peace with
thieves and liars, Morning Star,” he said to his wife. “Therefore we
shall go away and live as Usen intended that we should live. He never
meant that we should live with the white-eyed men.”

“We are going on the war trail again?” asked Sons-ee-ah-ray.

Geronimo shook his head. “No,” he replied. “If they will leave Geronimo
alone he will not fight the pindah-lickoyee again. Geronimo wishes only
to lead his own life in his own way far from any pindah-lickoyee. In
that way only lies peace.”

“Sons-ee-ah-ray will be glad to leave San Carlos,” said the squaw. “She
will be glad to go anywhere to get away from the white-eyed men. They
are bad. Their women are bad, and they think because their women are bad
that the Apache women are bad. The white-eyed men make bad talk to
Sons-ee-ah-ray when she passes them on her way to the Agency. She will
be glad not to hear this talk any more.

“Geronimo knows that Sons-ee-ah-ray, the mother of his children, is a
good woman. Why, then, do the white-eyed men talk thus to her?”

The War Chief shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “I do not
understand the white-eyed men.”

When the warriors of the Be-don-ko-he gathered, many of the older men
appeared apprehensive. They looked sad and worried but the young men
were excited and gay. Many of the latter were already painting their
faces, but when Geronimo saw this he frowned and shook his head.

“Geronimo is going away,” he said, “because he can no longer live under
the conditions that the white-eyed men impose and still maintain his
self-respect; but he does not mean, as some of the young men seem to
think, that he is going to take the war trail against the
pindah-lickoyee.

“With his family he is going up somewhere around Fort Apache and live in
the mountains where he will not have to see any white-eyes.”

“We will go with you!” said many of the Be-don-ko-he.

“No,” remonstrated Geronimo. “If you go with me the Agent will say that
Geronimo has gone out again with his warriors, but if only Geronimo and
his own family go the Agent cannot say that Geronimo has gone upon the
war trail.

“If you come with me they will send soldiers after us; and then there
will be war, and already there have been enough of us killed. Therefore
Geronimo goes alone.

“Shoz-Dijiji, my son, will remain here for a while and learn if the
white-eyed men are going to make trouble because Geronimo has left San
Carlos. If they do, he will bring the word to me; and then I shall know
what next to do; but I shall not return to San Carlos to be treated like
a fool and a child—no, not I, Geronimo, War Chief of all the Apaches!”

And so that night Geronimo, with all his family except Shoz-Dijiji, rode
silently northward toward Fort Apache; and at San Carlos the Indians,
the Agent, and the soldiers slept in peaceful ignorance of this event
that was so soon to lead to the writing of one of history’s bloodiest
pages.

After Geronimo had left, Shoz-Dijiji sought out Gian-nah-tah with whom
he had had no opportunity to speak since the moment of their altercation
in the Hog Ranch. In the heart of the Black Bear was only love for this
friend of his childhood; and while he knew that Gian-nah-tah had been
very angry with him at the time, he attributed this mostly to the effect
of the whiskey he had drunk, believing that when this had worn off, and
Gian-nah-tah had had time to reflect, he would harbor no ill will.

Shoz-Dijiji found his friend sitting alone over a tiny fire and came and
squatted down beside him. Neither spoke, but that was nothing unusual.
Near by, before her hogan, a squaw was praying to the moon. “Gun-ju-le,
klego-na-ay,” she chanted.

At a little distance a warrior cast hoddentin into the air and prayed:
“Gun-ju-le, chil-jilt, si-chi-zi, gun-ju-le, inzayu, ijanale,”—“Be
good, O Night; Twilight, be good; do not let me die.” Peace and quiet
lay upon the camp of the Be-don-ko-he.

“Today,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “I recognized the white-eyed man who sells
fire-water to the Apaches. He is the man who tried to steal the
white-eyed girl that day that Gian-nah-tah and Shoz-Dijiji were scouting
near the hogan of her father.

“I thought that I killed him that day; but today I saw him again,
selling fire-water to Gian-nah-tah. He is a very bad man. Some day I
shall kill him; but I shall do it when no one is around to see, for the
white-eyed fools would put me in prison as quickly for killing a bad man
as a good.”

Gian-nah-tah made no reply. Shoz-Dijiji turned and looked into the face
of his friend. “Is Gian-nah-tah still angry?” he asked.

Gian-nah-tah arose, turned around, and squatted down again with his back
toward Shoz-Dijiji. The Black Bear shook his head sadly; then he stood
up. For a moment he hesitated as though about to speak; but instead he
turned, drew his blanket more closely about him, and walked away. His
heart was heavy. During his short life he had seen many of his friends
killed in battle; he had seen little Ish-kay-nay, his first love, die in
his arms, slain by the bullet of a white man; he had seen the look of
horror in the eyes of the white girl he had grown to love, when he had
avowed that love; he had just seen his father and his mother driven by
the injustices of the white conqueror from the society of their own
kind; and now he had lost his best friend. The heart of Shoz-Dijiji, the
Black Bear, was heavy indeed.

Wichita Billings was visiting in the home of Margaret Cullis at the
post. The two were sitting in the modest parlor, the older woman sewing,
the younger reading. Presently Wichita closed her book and laid it on
the table.

“I can’t seem to get interested,” she said. “I don’t feel very
‘literary’ tonight.”

“You haven’t been yourself all day,” said Mrs. Cullis. “Aren’t you
feeling well?”

“I feel all right, physically,” replied the girl; “but I’m blue.”

“About what?”

“O, nothing—I just feel blue. Didn’t you ever feel that way when there
wasn’t any reason for it?”

“There usually is a reason.”

“I suppose so. Perhaps it’s in the air.” There was a silence that lasted
a minute or two. “Lieutenant King’s calling this evening.”

“I’m sure that shouldn’t make you blue, my dear girl,” exclaimed
Margaret Cullis, laughing.

“Well, it doesn’t cheer me up much, because I know what he’s going to
say; and I know what I’m going to answer. It’s always the same thing.”

“I can’t see why you don’t love him, Wichita. It would be a wonderful
match for you.”

“Yes, for me; but not for him. His people would be ashamed of me.”

“Don’t be silly! There isn’t any man or any family too good for you—I
doubt if there is any good enough for you.”

“You’re a dear, but the fact remains that they are stiff-backed
Bostonians with more culture than there is in the whole state that I
came from and a family tree that started as a seedling in the Garden of
Eden, while I got most of my education out of a mail order catalog; and
if I ever had a family tree it must have been blown away by a Kansas
cyclone while my folks were fighting Indians.

“And speaking of Indians, whom do you think I saw today?”

“Who?”

“Shoz-Dijiji!”

Margaret Cullis looked up quickly. Was it the intonation of the girl’s
voice as she spoke the name? The older woman frowned and looked down at
her work again. “What did he have to say?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, you didn’t see him to talk with?”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t talk to me—just fell back on that maddening ‘No
sabe’ that they use with strangers.”

“Why do you suppose he did that?” asked Mrs. Cullis.

“I hurt him—the last time I saw him,” replied Wichita.

“Hurt one of Geronimo’s renegades! Child, it can’t be done.”

“They’re human,” replied the girl. “I learned that in the days that I
spent in Geronimo’s camp while Chief Loco was out with his hostiles.
Among themselves they are entirely different people from those we are
accustomed to see on the reservation. No one who has watched them with
their children, seen them at their games, heard them praying to Dawn and
Twilight, to the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars as they cast their sacred
hoddentin to the winds would ever again question their possession of the
finer instincts of sentiment and imagination.

“Because they do not wear their hearts upon their sleeves, because they
are not blatant in the declaration of their finer emotions, does not
mean that they feel no affection or that they are incapable of
experiencing spiritual suffering.”

“Perhaps,” said Margaret Cullis; “but you, who have lived in Indian
country all your life, who have seen the heartless cruelties they
inflict upon their helpless victims, who know their treachery and their
dishonesty, cannot but admit that whatever qualities of goodness they
possess are far outweighed by those others which have made them hated
and feared the length and breadth of the Southwest.”

“For every wrong that they have committed,” argued Wichita, “they can
point out a similar crime perpetrated upon them by the whites. O,
Margaret, it is the old case again of the pot calling the kettle black.
We have tortured them and wronged them even more than they have tortured
and wronged us.

“We esteem personal comfort and life as our two most sacred possessions.
When the Apaches torture and kill us we believe that they have committed
against us the most hideous of conceivable crimes.

“On the other hand the Apaches do not esteem personal comfort and life
as highly as do we and consequently, by their standards—and we may
judge a people justly only by their own standards—we have not suffered
as much as they, who esteem more highly than life or personal comfort
the sanctity of their ancient rites and customs and the chastity of
their women. From the time of the white man’s first contact with the
Apaches he has ridiculed the one and defiled the other.

“I have talked with Shoz-Dijiji, and Geronimo, with Sons-ee-ah-ray, and
many another Be-don-ko-he man and woman; they have laid bare their
hearts to me, and never again can anyone convince me that we have not
tortured the Apaches with as malignant cruelty as they have tortured
us.”

“Why you are a regular little Apache yourself, Wichita,” cried Margaret
Cullis. “I wonder what your father would say if he could hear you.”

“He has heard me. Don’t think for a minute that I am afraid to express
my views to anyone.”

“Did he enjoy them and agree with you?”

“He did not. He did everything but tear his hair and take me out to the
woodshed. You know Mason was killed about two months ago, and it had all
the ear-marks of an Apache killing. Mason was one of Dad’s best friends.
Now, every time he thinks or hears Apache he sees red.”

“I don’t blame him,” said Margaret Cullis.

“It’s silly,” snapped Wichita, “and I tell him so. It would be just as
logical to hate all French-Canadians because Guiteau assassinated
President Garfield.”

“Well, how in the world, feeling toward the Apaches as you do, could you
have found it in your heart to so wound Shoz-Dijiji that he will not
speak to you?”

“I did not mean to,” explained the girl. “It—just happened. We had been
together for many days after the Chi-e-a-hen attacked the Pringe ranch
and Shoz-Dijiji got me away from them. The country was full of hostiles,
and so he took me to the safest place he could think of—the
Be-don-ko-he camp. They kept me there until they were sure that all the
hostiles had crossed the border into Mexico. He was lovely to me—a
white man could have been no more considerate—but when he got me home
again and was about to leave me he told me that he loved me.

“I don’t know what it was, Margaret—inherited instinct, perhaps—but
the thought of it revolted me, and he must have seen it in my face. He
went away, and I never saw him again until today—three years.”

The older woman looked up quickly from her work. There had been a note
in the girl’s voice as she spoke those last two words that aroused
sudden apprehension in the breast of Margaret Cullis.

“Wichita,” she demanded, “do you love this—this Apache?”

“Margaret,” replied the girl, “you have been like a sister to me, or a
mother. No one else could ask me that question. I have not even dared
ask myself.” She paused. “No, I cannot love him!”

“It would be unthinkable that you would love an Indian, Wichita,” said
the older woman. “It would cut you off forever from your own kind and
would win you only the contempt of the Indians. A white girl had better
be dead than married to an Indian.”

Wichita nodded. “Yes, I know,” she whispered, “and yet he is as fine as
any man, white or red, that I have ever known.”

“Perhaps, but the fact remains that he is an Apache.”

“I wish to God that he were white!” exclaimed the girl.

A knock on the door put an end to their conversation, and Wichita arose
from her chair and crossed the room to admit the caller. A tall, good
looking subaltern stood smiling on the threshold as the door swung in.

“You’re prompt,” said Wichita.

“A good soldier always is,” said Mrs. Cullis.

“That is equivalent to a medal of honor, coming from the wife of my
troop commander,” laughed King as he stepped into the room.

“Give me your cap,” said Wichita, “and bring that nice easy chair up
here beside the table.”

“I was going to suggest that we take a walk,” said King, “that is if you
ladies would care to. It’s a gorgeous night.”

“Suits me,” agreed Wichita. “How about you, Margaret?”

“I want to finish my sewing. You young folks run along and have your
walk, and perhaps Captain Cullis will be here when you get back. If he
is we’ll have a game of euchre.”

“I wish you’d come,” said Wichita.

“Yes, do!” begged King, but Mrs. Cullis only smiled and shook her head.

“Run along, now,” she cried gaily, “and don’t forget the game.”

“We’ll not be gone long,” King assured her. “I wish you’d come with us.”

“Sweet boy,” thought Margaret Cullis as the door closed behind them
leaving her alone. “Sweet boy, but not very truthful.”

As Wichita and King stepped out into the crisp, cool air of an Arizona
night the voice of the sentry at the guard house rang out clearly
against the silence: “Number One, eight o’clock!” They paused to listen
as the next sentry passed the call on: “Number Two, eight o’clock. All’s
well!” Around the chain of sentries it went, fainter in the distance,
growing again in volume to the final, “All’s well!” of Number One.

“I thought you said it was a gorgeous night,” remarked Wichita Billings.
“There is no moon, it’s cloudy and dark as a pocket.”

“But I still insist that it is gorgeous,” said King, smiling. “All
Arizona nights are.”

“I don’t like these black ones,” said Wichita; “I’ve lived in Indian
country too long. Give me the moon every time.”

“They scarcely ever attack at night,” King reminded her.

“I know, but there may always be an exception to prove the rule.”

“Not much chance that they will attack the post,” said King.

“I know that, but the fact remains that a black night always suggests
the possibility to me.”

“I’ll admit that the sentries do suggest a larger assurance of safety on
a night like this,” said King. “We at least know that we shall have a
little advance information before any Apache is among us.”

Numbers Three and Four were mounted posts, and at the very instant that
King was speaking a shadowy form crept between the two sentries as they
rode slowly in opposite directions along their posts. It was
Shoz-Dijiji.

Though the Apache had demonstrated conclusively that Wichita Billings’
intuitive aversion to dark nights might be fully warranted, yet in this
particular instance no danger threatened the white inhabitants of the
army post, as Shoz-Dijiji’s mission was hostile only in the sense that
it was dedicated to espionage.

Geronimo had charged him with the duty of ascertaining the attitude of
the white officers toward the departure of the War Chief from the
reservation, and with this purpose in view the Black Bear had hit upon
the bold scheme of entering the post and reporting Geronimo’s departure
in person that he might have first hand knowledge of
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en’s reaction.

He might have come in openly in the light of day without interference,
but it pleased him to come as he did as a demonstration of the
superiority of Apache cunning and of his contempt for the white man’s
laws.

He moved silently in the shadows of buildings, making his way toward the
adobe shack that was dignified by the title of Headquarters. Once he was
compelled to stop for several minutes in the dense shadow at the end of
a building as he saw two figures approaching slowly. Nearer and nearer
they came. Shoz-Dijiji saw that one was an officer, a war chief of the
pindah-lickoyee, and the other was a woman. They were talking earnestly.
When they were quite close to Shoz-Dijiji the white officer stopped and
laid a hand upon the arm of his companion.

“Wait, Wichita,” he said. “Before we go in can’t you give me some hope
for the future? I’m willing to wait. Don’t you think that some day you
might care for me a little?”

The girl walked on, followed by the man. “I care for you a great deal,
Ad,” Shoz-Dijiji heard her say in a low voice just before the two passed
out of his hearing; “but I can never care for you in the way you wish.”
That, Shoz-Dijiji did not hear.

“You love someone else?” he asked.

In the darkness he did not see the hot flush that overspread her face as
she replied. “I am afraid so,” she said.

“Afraid so! What do you mean?”

“It is something that I cannot tell you, Ad. It hurts me to talk about
it.”

“Does he know that you love him?”

“No.”

“Is it any one I know?”

“Please, Ad, I don’t like to talk about it.”

Lieutenant Samuel Adams King walked on in silence at the girl’s side
until they reached Mrs. Cullis’ door. “I’m going to wait—and hope,
Chita,” he said just before they entered the house.

Captain Cullis had not returned, and the three sat and chatted for a few
minutes; but it was evident to Margaret Cullis that something had
occurred to dash the spirits of her young guests, nor was she at a loss
to guess the truth. Being very fond of them both, believing that they
were eminently suited to one another, and, above all, being a natural
born match-maker, Margaret Cullis was determined to leave no stone
unturned that might tend toward a happy consummation of her hopes.

“You know that Chita is leaving us in the morning?” she asked King, by
way of inaugurating her campaign.

“Why, no,” he exclaimed, “she did not tell me.”

“I should have told you before you left,” said the girl. “I wouldn’t go
without saying good-bye, you know.”

“I should hope not,” said King.

“She really should not take that long ride alone,” volunteered Mrs.
Cullis.

“It is nothing,” exclaimed Wichita. “I’ve been riding alone ever since I
can recall.”

“Of course she shouldn’t,” said King. “It’s not safe. I’ll get leave to
ride home with you. May I?”

“I’d love to have you, but really it’s not necessary.”

“I think it is,” said King. “I’ll go over to headquarters now and
arrange it. I think there’ll be no objections raised.”

“I’m leaving pretty early,” warned Wichita.

“What time?”

“Five o’clock.”

“I’ll be here!”




[Illustration: Standing in his stirrups, he swung his rope.]




                              Chapter Four


                          Gian-nah-tah Relents

=“I= CARE for you a great deal, Ad!” Shoz-Dijiji heard these words and
recognized the voice of the girl who had spurned his love. Now he
recognized her companion also.

Wounded pride, racial hatred, the green eyed monster, jealousy, clamored
at the gates of his self-restraint, sought to tear down the barriers and
loose the savage warrior upon the authors of his misery. His hand crept
to the hunting knife at his hip, the only weapon that he carried; but
Shoz-Dijiji was master of his own will; and the two passed on, out of
his sight, innocent of any faintest consciousness that they had paused
within the shadow of the Apache Devil.

A half hour later a tall, straight figure loomed suddenly before the
sentry at Headquarters. The cavalryman, dismounted, snapped his carbine
to _port_ as he challenged: “Halt! Who is there?”

“I have come to talk with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” said Shoz-Dijiji in
Apache.

“Hell!” muttered the sentry; “if it ain’t a damned Siwash,” and shouted
for the corporal of the guard. “Stay where you are, John,” he cautioned
the Indian, “until the corporal comes, or I’ll have to make a good
Indian of you.”

“No sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

“You’d better savvy,” warned the soldier.

The corporal of the guard appeared suddenly out of the darkness. “Wot
the hell now?” he demanded. “Who the hell’s this?”

“It’s a God damn Siwash.”

“How the hell did he get inside the lines?”

“How the hell should I know? Here he is, and he don’t savvy United
States.”

The corporal addressed Shoz-Dijiji. “Wot the hell you want here, John?”
he demanded.

Again the Apache replied in his own tongue.

“Try Mex on him,” suggested the sentry. “Some of ’em savvy that lingo
all right.”

In broken, badly broken Spanish, the corporal of the guard repeated his
questions.

“No sabe,” lied Shoz-Dijiji again.

“Hadn’t you better shove him in the guard house?” suggested the sentry.
“He ain’t got no business inside the post at night.”

“I think he wants to talk to the Old Man—he keeps sayin’ that fool
Siwash name they got for Crook. You hold him here while I goes and
reports to the O.D. And say, if he ain’t good don’t forget that it costs
Uncle Sam less to bury a Injun than to feed him.”

It chanced that the Officer of the Day was one of the few white men in
the southwest who understood even a little of the language of the
Apaches, and when he returned with the corporal he asked Shoz-Dijiji
what he wanted.

“I have a message for Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” replied the Apache.

“You may give it to me,” said the officer. “I will tell General Crook.”

“My message is for General Crook, not for you,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.

“General Crook will be angry if you bother him now with some matter that
is not important. You had better tell me.”

“It is important,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.

“Come with me,” directed the officer, and led the way into the
headquarters building.

“Please inform General Crook,” he said to the orderly in the outer
office, “that Captain Crawford has an Apache here who says that he
brings an important message for the General.”

A moment later Shoz-Dijiji and Captain Crawford stepped into General
Crook’s presence. Captain Cullis was sitting at one end of the table
behind which Crook sat, while Lieutenant King stood facing the
commanding officer from whom he had just requested leave to escort
Wichita Billings to her home.

“Just a moment King,” said Crook. “You needn’t leave.

“Well, Crawford,” turning to the Officer of the Day, “what does this man
want?”

“He says that he has an important message for you, sir. He refuses to
deliver it to any one else; and as he apparently neither speaks nor
understands English I came with him to interpret, if you wish, sir.”

“Very good! Tell him that I say you are to interpret his message. Ask
him who he is and what he wants.”

Crawford repeated Crook’s words to Shoz-Dijiji.

“Tell Nan-tan-des-la-par-en that I am Shoz-Dijiji, the son of Geronimo.
I have come to tell him that my father has left the reservation.”

Shoz-Dijiji saw in the faces of the men about him the effect of his
words. To announce that Geronimo had gone out again was like casting a
bomb into a peace meeting.

“Ask him where Geronimo has gone and how many warriors are with him,”
snapped Crook.

“Geronimo has not gone on the war trail,” replied Shoz-Dijiji after
Crawford had put the question to him, waiting always for the
interpretation of Crook’s words though he understood them perfectly in
English. “There are no warriors with Geronimo other than his son. He has
taken his wife with him and his small children. He wishes only to go
away and live in peace. He cannot live in peace with the white-eyed men.
He does not wish to fight the white-eyed soldiers any more.”

“Where has he gone?” asked Crook again.

“He has gone toward Sonora,” lied Shoz-Dijiji, that being the opposite
of the direction taken by Geronimo; but Shoz-Dijiji was working with the
cunning of an Apache. He knew well that Geronimo’s absence from the
reservation might well come to the attention of the authorities on the
morrow; and he hoped that by announcing it himself and explaining that
it was not the result of warlike intentions they might pass it over and
let the War Chief live where he wished, but if not then it would give
Geronimo time to make good his escape if the troops were sent upon a
wild goose chase toward Sonora, while it would also allow Shoz-Dijiji
ample time to overhaul his father and report the facts.

Furthermore, by bringing the message himself and by assuming ignorance
of English, he was in a position where he might possibly learn the plans
of the white-eyed men concerning Geronimo. All-in-all, Shoz-Dijiji felt
that his strategy was not without merit.

Crook sat in silence for a moment, tugging on his great beard. Presently
he turned to Captain Cullis.

“Hold yourself in readiness to march at daylight, Cullis, with all the
available men of your troop. Proceed by the most direct route to Apache
Pass and try to pick up the trail. Bring Geronimo back, alive if you
can. If he resists, kill him.

“Crawford, I shall have you relieved immediately. You also will march at
dawn. Go directly south. You will each send out detachments to the east
and west. Keep in touch with one another. Whatever else you do, bring
back Geronimo!”

He swung back toward Shoz-Dijiji. “Crawford, give this man some tobacco
for bringing me this information, and see that he is passed through the
sentries and sent back to his camp. Tell him that Geronimo had no
business leaving the reservation and that he will have to come back, but
do not let him suspect that we are sending troops after him.”

The corporal of the guard escorted Shoz-Dijiji through the line of
sentries, and as they were about to part the Apache handed the soldier
the sack of tobacco that Captain Crawford had given him.

“You’re not such a bad Indian, at that,” commented the corporal; “but,”
he added, scratching his head, “I’d like to know how in hell you got
into the post in the first place.”

“Me no sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

Mrs. Cullis arose early the following morning and went directly to
Wichita’s room, where she found her guest already dressed in flannel
shirt, buckskin skirt, and high heeled boots, ready for her long ride
back to the Billings’ ranch.

“I thought I’d catch you before you got dressed,” said the older woman.

“Why?”

“You can’t go today. Geronimo has gone out again. ‘B’ Troop and Captain
Crawford’s scouts have started after him already. Both Captain Cullis
and Mister King have gone out with ‘B’ Troop; but even if there were
anyone to go with you, it won’t be safe until they have Geronimo back on
the reservation again.”

“How many went out with him?” asked the girl.

“Only his wife and children. The Indians say he has not gone on the war
path, but I wouldn’t take any chances with the bloodthirsty old
scoundrel.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Wichita. “As long as it’s only Geronimo I’m in no
danger even if I meet him, which I won’t. You know we are old friends.”

“Yes, I know all about that; but I know you can’t trust an Apache.”

“I trust them,” said Wichita. She stooped and buckled on her spurs.

“You don’t mean that you are going anyway!”

“Why of course I am.”

Margaret Cullis shook her head. “What am I to do?” she demanded
helplessly.

“Give me a cup of coffee before I leave,” suggested Wichita.

The business at the Hog Ranch had been good that night. Two miners and a
couple of cattlemen, all well staked, had dropped in early in the
evening for a couple of drinks and a few rounds of stud. They were still
there at daylight, but they were no longer well staked. “Dirty” Cheetim
and three or four of his cronies had annexed their bank rolls. The four
guests were sleeping off the effects of their pleasant evening on the
floor of the back room.

“Dirty” and his pals had come out on the front porch to inhale a breath
of fresh air before retiring. An Indian, lithe, straight, expressionless
of face, was approaching the building.

“Hello, John!” said “Dirty” Cheetim through a wide yawn. “What for you
want?”

“Whiskey,” said the Apache.

“Le’me see the color of your dust, John.”

A rider coming into view from the direction of the post attracted
Cheetim’s attention. “Wait till we see who that is,” he said. “I don’t
want none of those damn long hairs catchin’ me dishin’ red-eye to no
Siwash.”

They all stood watching the approaching rider.

“Why it’s a woman,” said one of the men.

“Durned if it ain’t,” admitted another.

“Hell!” exclaimed Cheetim. “It’s Billings’ girl—the dirty——!”

“What you got agin’ her?” asked one of the party.

“Got against her? Plenty! I offered to marry her, and she turned me down
flat. Then her old man run me offen the ranch. It was lucky for him that
they was a bunch of his cow-hands hangin’ around.”

The girl passed, her horse swinging along in an easy, running walk—the
gait that eats up the miles. Down the dusty trail they passed while the
five white men and the Apache stood on the front porch of the Hog Ranch
and watched.

“Neat little heifer,” commented one of the former.

“You fellers want to clean up a little dust?” asked Cheetim.

“How?” asked the youngest of the party, a puncher who drank too much to
be able to hold a job even in this country of hard drinking men.

“Help me c’ral that critter—she’d boom business in the Hog Ranch.”

“We’ve helped you put your iron on lots of mavericks, ‘Dirty,’” said the
young man. “Whatever you says goes with me.”

“Bueno! We’ll just slap on our saddles and follow along easy like till
she gets around Pimos Canyon. They’s a old shack up there that some dude
built for huntin’, but it ain’t ben used since the bronchos went out
under Juh in ’81—say, that just natch’rly scairt that dude plumb out o’
the country. I’ll keep her up there a little while in case anyone raises
a stink, and after it blows over I’ll fetch her down to the Ranch. Now
who’s this a-comin’?”

From the direction of the post a mounted trooper was approaching at a
canter. He drew rein in front of the Hog Ranch.

“Hello, you dirty bums!” he greeted them, with a grin. “You ain’t worth
it, but orders is orders, and mine is to notify the whites in this neck
o’ the woods that Geronimo’s gone out again. I hope to Christ he gets
you,” and the messenger spurred on along the trail.

Cheetim turned to the Apache. “Is that straight, John?” he asked. “Has
Geronimo gone out?”

The Indian nodded affirmatively.

“Now I reckon we got to hang onto our scalps with both hands for another
couple months,” wailed the young puncher.

“Geronimo no go on war trail,” explained the Apache. “Him just go away
reservation. Him no kill.”

“Well, if he ain’t on the war path we might as well mosey along after
the Billings heifer,” said Cheetim, with a sigh of relief. He turned to
the Indian. “I ain’t got no time now,” he said. “You come round
tomorrow—maybe so I fix you up then, eh?”

The Apache nodded. “Mebbe so, mebbe not,” he replied, enigmatically; but
Cheetim, who had already started for the corral, failed to note any
hidden meaning in the words of the Indian. Perhaps none had been
intended. One seldom knows what may be in the mind of an Apache.

As the five men saddled and prepared to ride after Wichita Billings the
Indian started back toward the reservation. He had not understood every
word that the white men had spoken; but he had understood enough,
coupled with his knowledge of the sort of men they were, to fully
realize their purpose and the grave danger that threatened the white
girl.

In the heart of Gian-nah-tah was no love for her. In the breast of
Gian-nah-tah burned sullen resentment and anger against Shoz-Dijiji.
When Cheetim’s purpose with the girl had first dawned upon him it had
not occurred to him that he might interfere. The girl had spurned
Shoz-Dijiji. Perhaps it would be better if she were out of the way. But
he knew that Shoz-Dijiji loved her and that even though she did not love
the war chief of the Be-don-ko-he he would protect her from injury if he
could.

He recalled how Shoz-Dijiji had struck the whiskey from his hand the
previous day; he felt the blows upon his face as Shoz-Dijiji slapped
him; he burned at recollection of the indignities that had been put upon
him before the eyes of the white-eyed man; but he kept on in the
direction of the Be-don-ko-he camp.

They say that an Apache is never moved by chivalry or loyalty—only by
self-interest; but this day Gian-nah-tah gave the lie to the author of
this calumny.

As Wichita Billings was about to pass the mouth of Pimos Canyon she
heard the sound of galloping hoofs behind her. In effete society it is
not considered proper for a young lady to turn and scrutinize chance
wayfarers upon the same road; but the society of Arizona in the ’80’s
was young and virile—so young and so virile that it behooved one to
investigate it before it arrived within shooting distance.

Impelled, therefore, by a deep regard for Nature’s first law Wichita
turned in her saddle and examined the approaching horsemen. Instantly
she saw that they were five and white. It occurred to her that perhaps
they had seen her pass and were coming to warn her that Geronimo was
out, for she knew that word of it would have passed quickly throughout
the country.

As the riders neared she thought that she recognized something vaguely
familiar in the figure and carriage of one of them, for in a country
where people go much upon horseback individual idiosyncrasies of seat
and form are quickly and easily observable and often serve to identify a
rider at considerable distances.

Cheetim rode with an awkward forward hunch and his right elbow higher
than his left. It was by these that Wichita recognized him even before
she saw his face; though she was naturally inclined to doubt her own
judgment, since she had believed “Dirty” Cheetim dead for several years.

An instant later she discerned his whiskered face. While she did not
know that these men were pursuing her, she was quite confident that
there would be trouble the instant that Cheetim recognized her; and so
she spurred on at a faster gait, intending to keep ahead of the five
without actually seeming to be fleeing them.

But that was to be more easily planned than executed, for the instant
that she increased her speed they spurred after her at a run, shouting
to her to stop. She heard them call that Geronimo was out, but she was
more afraid of Cheetim than she was of Geronimo.

So insistent were they upon overtaking her that presently her horse was
extended at full speed, but as it is seldom that a horse that excels in
one gait is proportionally swift at others it was soon apparent that she
would be overhauled.

Leaning forward along her horse’s neck, she touched him again with her
spurs and spoke encouraging words in his back-laid ears. The incentive
of spur and spoken word, the lesser wind resistance of her new position,
had their effects, with the result that for a short time she drew away
from her pursuers; but presently the young cow-puncher, plying long
rowels, wielding pliant, rawhide quirt that fell with stinging blows
alternately upon either flank of his wiry mount, edged closer.

“Hold on, Miss!” he called to her. “You gotta come back—Geronimo’s
out!”

“You go back and tell ‘Dirty’ Cheetim to lay off,” she shouted back over
her shoulder. “If I’ve got to choose between him and Geronimo, I’ll take
the Apache.”

“You better stop and talk to him,” he urged. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt you
none.”

“You’re damn tootin’ cow-boy,” she yelled at him; “he sure ain’t if I
know it.”

The young puncher urged his horse to greater speed. Wichita’s mount was
weakening. The man drew closer. In a moment he would be able to reach
out and seize her bridle rein. The two had far outdistanced the others
trailing in the dust behind.

Wichita drew her six-shooter. “Be careful, cow-boy!” she warned. “I
ain’t got nothin’ agin’ you, but I’ll shore bore you if you lay ’ary
hand on this bridle.”

Easily Wichita lapsed into the vernacular she had spent three years
trying to forget, as she always and unconsciously did under stress of
excitement.

“Then I’ll run that cayuse o’ yourn ragged,” threatened the man. “He’s
just about all in now.”

“Yours is!” snapped Wichita, levelling her six-shooter at the horse of
her pursuer and pulling the trigger.

The man uttered an oath and tried to rein in to avoid the shot.
Wichita’s hammer fell with a futile click. She pulled the trigger again
and again with the same result. The man voiced a loud guffaw and closed
up again. The girl turned her horse to one side to avoid him. Again he
came on in the new direction; and when he was almost upon her she
brought her mount to its haunches, wheeled suddenly and spurred across
the trail to the rear of the man and rode on again at right angles to
her former direction, but she had widened the distance between them.

Once more the chase began, but now the man had taken down his rope and
was shaking out the noose. He drew closer. Standing in his stirrups,
swinging the great noose, he waited for the right instant. Wichita tried
to turn away from him, but she saw that he would win that way as easily,
since she was turning back toward the other four who were already
preparing to intercept her.

Her horse was heavier than the pony ridden by the young puncher and that
fact gave Wichita a forlorn hope. Wheeling, she spurred straight toward
the man with the mad intention of riding him down. If her own horse did
not fall too, she might still have a chance.

The puncher sensed instantly the thing that was in her mind; and just
before the impact he drove his spurs deep into his pony’s sides, and as
Wichita’s horse passed behind him he dropped his noose deftly to the
rear over his left shoulder, and an instant later had drawn it tight
about the neck of the girl’s mount.

She reached forward and tried to throw off the rope, but the puncher
backed away, keeping it taut; and then “Dirty” Cheetim and the three
others closed in about her.




                              Chapter Five


                             The Snake Look

=G=IAN-NAH-TAH entered the hogan of Shoz-Dijiji. The young war chief,
awakening instantly, sprang to his feet when he saw who it was standing
in the opening.

“Does Gian-nah-tah come to the hogan of Shoz-Dijiji as friend or enemy?”
he asked.

“Listen, Shoz-Dijiji, and you will know,” replied Gian-nah-tah.
“Yesterday my heart was bad. Perhaps the fire-water of the white-eyed
man made it so, but it is not of that that Gian-nah-tah has come to
speak with Shoz-Dijiji. It is of the girl, Wichita.”

“Shoz-Dijiji does not wish to speak of her,” replied the war chief.

“But he will listen while Gian-nah-tah speaks,” said the other,
peremptorily. “The white-eyed skunk that sells poisoned water has ridden
with four of his braves to capture the white-eyed girl that Shoz-Dijiji
loves,” continued Gian-nah-tah. “They follow her to Pimos Canyon, and
there they will keep her in the hogan that the white fool with the
strange clothing built there six summers ago. Shoz-Dijiji knows the
place?”

The Black Bear did not reply. Instead he seized the cartridge belt to
which his six-shooter hung and buckled it about his slim hips, took his
rifle, his hackamore, ran quickly out in search of his hobbled pony.

Gian-nah-tah hastened to his own hogan for weapons. Warriors, eating
their breakfasts, noted the haste of the two and questioned them.
Nervous, restless, apprehensive of the results that might follow
Geronimo’s departure from the reservation, smarting under the injustice
of the white-eyed men in taking their herds from them, many of the
braves welcomed any diversion, especially one that might offer an outlet
to their pent wrath against the enemy; and so it was that by the time
Shoz-Dijiji had found and bridled Nejeunee he discovered that instead of
riding alone to the rescue of the white girl he was one of a dozen
savage warriors.

Wrapped in blankets they rode slowly, decorously, until they had passed
beyond the ken of captious white-eyes, six-shooters and rifles hidden
beneath the folds of their blankets; then the blankets fell away, folded
lengthways across the withers of their ponies, and a dozen warriors,
naked but for G strings, quirted their ponies into swinging lope.

Knowing that the troops were out, the Indians followed no beaten road
but rode south across the Gila and then turned southeast through the
hills toward Pimos Canyon.

“Dirty” Cheetim, with a lead rope on Wichita’s horse, rode beside the
girl.

“Thought you was too high-toned for ‘Dirty’ Cheetim, eh?” he sneered.
“You was too damn good to be Mrs. Cheetim, eh? Well, you ain’t a-goin’
to be Mrs. Cheetim. You’re just a-goin’ to be one o’ ‘Dirty’ Cheetim’s
girls down at the Hog Ranch. Nobody don’t marry them.”

Wichita Billings made no reply. She rode in silence, her eyes straight
to the front. Hicks, the young puncher who had roped the girl’s horse,
rode a few paces to the rear. In his drink muddled brain doubts were
forming as to the propriety of the venture into which Cheetim had led
him. Perhaps he was more fool than knave; perhaps, sober, he might have
balked at the undertaking. After all he was but half conscious of
vaguely annoying questionings that might eventually have crystallized
into regrets had time sufficed, but it did not.

They were winding up Pimos Canyon toward the deserted shack. “Your old
man kicked me out,” Cheetim was saying to the girl. “I reckon you’re
thinking that he’ll get me for this, but he won’t. After you bin to the
Ranch a spell you won’t be advertising to your old man, nor nobody else,
where you be. They’s other girls there as good as you be, an’ they ain’t
none of ’em sendin’ out invites to their folks to come an’ see ’em.
You—Hell! Look! Injuns!”

Over the western rim of Pimos Canyon a dozen yelling Apaches were
charging down the steep hillside.

“Geronimo!” screamed Cheetim and, dropping the lead rope, wheeled about
and bolted down the canyon as fast as spur and quirt and horse flesh
could carry him.

The four remaining men opened fire on the Apaches, and in the first
exchange of shots two had their horses shot from under them. Hicks’
horse, grazed by a bullet, became unmanageable and started off down the
canyon after Cheetim’s animal, pitching and squealing, while a third
man, realizing the futility of resistance and unhampered by sentiments
of chivalry, put spur and followed.

One of the dismounted men ran to the side of Wichita’s horse, seized her
arm and dragged her from the saddle before she realized the thing that
was in his mind; then, vaulting to the horse’s back, he started after
his fellows while the girl ran to the shelter of a bowlder behind which
the sole remaining white man had taken up a position from which he might
momentarily, at least, wage a hopeless defense against the enemy.

Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah, racing toward the girl, saw her dragged
from her horse, saw her take refuge behind the bowlder, and the latter,
knowing that the girl was safe, raced after the white man who had stolen
her horse and left her, as he thought, to the merciless attentions of a
savage enemy.

Shoz-Dijiji, calling his warriors together, circled away from the
bowlder behind which the two were crouching. The white man looked from
behind the bowlder. Slowly he raised his rifle to take aim. The girl
raised her eyes above the level of the bowlder’s top. She saw the Apache
warriors gathered a hundred yards away, she saw the rifle of the white
man leveled upon them, and then she recognized Shoz-Dijiji.

“Don’t shoot!” she cried to her companion. “Wait!”

“Wait, hell!” scoffed the man. “We ain’t got no more chanct than a
snowball in Hell. W’y should I wait?”

“One of those Indians is friendly,” replied the girl. “I don’t think
he’ll hurt us or let the others hurt us when he knows I’m here.”

Gian-nah-tah, riding fast, had pulled alongside his quarry. With clubbed
rifle he knocked the white man from the saddle and in a dozen more
strides had seized the bridle rein of the riderless horse.

The man behind the bowlder drew a fine sight on the buck who appeared to
be the leader of the renegades. It was Shoz-Dijiji. Wichita Billings
snatched the white man’s six-shooter from its holster and shoved the
muzzle against his side.

“Drop that gun!” she cautioned; “or I’ll bore you.”

The man lowered his rifle to the accompaniment of lurid profanity.

“Shut up,” admonished Wichita, “and look there!”

Shoz-Dijiji had tied a white rag to the muzzle of his rifle and was
waving it to and fro above his head. Wichita stood up and waved a hand
above her head. “Stand up!” she commanded, addressing the white man
behind the bowlder. The fellow did as he was bid and, again at her
command, accompanied her as she advanced to meet Shoz-Dijiji, who was
walking toward them alone.

As they met, the Black Bear seized the white man’s rifle and wrenched it
from his grasp. “Now I kill him,” he announced.

“No! Oh, no!” cried Wichita, stepping between them.

“Why not?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “He steal you, eh?”

“Yes, but you mustn’t kill him,” replied the girl. “He came forward
under the protection of your white flag.”

“White flag for you—not for dirty coyote,” the Black Bear assured her.
“I give him his rifle, then. Him go back. Then I get him.”

“No, Shoz-Dijiji, you must let him go. He doesn’t deserve it, I’ll
admit; but it would only bring trouble to you and your people. The
troops are already out after Geronimo. If there is a killing here there
is no telling what it will lead to.”

“No sabe white-eyed men,” said Shoz-Dijiji disgustedly. “Kill good
Indian, yes; kill bad white-eye, no.” He shrugged. “Well, you say no
kill, no kill.” He turned to the white man. “Get out, pronto! You sabe?
Get out San Carlos. Shoz-Dijiji see you San Carlos again, kill. Get!”

“Gimme my rifle and six-gun,” growled the white, sullenly.

Shoz-Dijiji laid his hand on Wichita’s arm as she was about to return
the man’s six-shooter. “Shut up, and hit the trail, white man,” he
snapped.

The other hesitated a moment, as though about to speak, looked into the
savage face of the Apache, and then started down Pimos Canyon toward the
main trail just as Gian-nah-tah rode up leading the girl’s horse.

“Gian-nah-tah,” said the Black Bear, “Shoz-Dijiji, the Be-don-ko-he
Apache, rides with the white-eyed girl to the hogan of her father to see
that she is not harmed by white-eyed men upon the way.” There was the
trace of a smile in the eyes of the Indian as he spoke. “Perhaps,” he
continued, “Gian-nah-tah will ride to the camp of my father and tell him
that Nan-tan-des-la-par-en has sent troops _toward the south_ to bring
Geronimo in, dead or alive.

“When the white-eyed girl is safe Shoz-Dijiji will join his father.
Perhaps other Apache warriors will join him. Who knows, Gian-nah-tah?”

“I shall join him,” said Gian-nah-tah.

The other warriors, who had slowly drawn near, had overheard the
conversation and now, without exception, each assured Shoz-Dijiji that
he would join Geronimo at once or later.

As Wichita mounted her horse and looked about her at the half circle of
savage warriors partially surrounding her it seemed incredible that
yesterday these men were, and perhaps again tomorrow would be, the
cruel, relentless devils of the Apache war-trail.

Now they were laughing among themselves and poking fun at the white man
plodding down the canyon and at the other whom Gian-nah-tah had knocked
from Wichita’s horse and who was already regaining consciousness and
looking about him in a dazed and foolish manner.

It seemed incredible that she should be safe among them when she had
been in such danger but a moment before among men of her own race. Many
of them smiled pleasantly at her as she tried to thank them for what
they had done for her; and they waved friendly hands in adieu as they
rode off with Gian-nah-tah toward the north, leaving her alone with
Shoz-Dijiji.

“How can I ever thank you, Shoz-Dijiji?” she said. “You are the most
wonderful friend that a girl could have.”

The war chief of the Be-don-ko-he looked her straight in the eyes and
grunted.

“Me no sabe,” he said, and wheeled his pinto down toward the main trail,
beckoning her to follow.

Wichita Billings looked at the man at her side in astonishment. She
opened her lips to speak again but thought better of it and remained
silent. They passed the two habitues of the Hog Ranch trudging
disgustedly through the dust. The Apache did not even deign to look at
them. They came to the main trail, and here Shoz-Dijiji turned southeast
in the direction of the Billings ranch. San Carlos lay to the northwest.
Wichita drew rein.

“You may go back to the reservation,” she said. “I shall be safe now the
rest of the way home.”

Shoz-Dijiji looked at her. “Come!” he said, and rode on toward the
southeast.

Wichita did not move. “I shall not let you ride with me,” she said. “I
appreciate what you have done for me, but I cannot permit myself to be
put under further obligations to you.”

“Come!” said Shoz-Dijiji, peremptorily.

Wichita felt a slow flush mounting her cheek, and it embarrassed and
angered her.

“I’ll sit here forever,” she said, “before I’ll let you ride home with
me.”

Shoz-Dijiji reined Nejeunee about and rode back to her side. He took
hold of her bridle rein and started leading her horse in the direction
he wished it to go.

For an instant Wichita Billings was furious. Very seldom in her life had
she been crossed. Being an only child in a motherless home she had had
her own way more often than not. People had a habit of doing the things
that Wichita Billings wanted done. In a way she was spoiled; and, too,
she had a bit of a temper. Shoz-Dijiji had humiliated her and now he was
attempting to coerce her. Her eyes flashed fire as she swung her heavy
quirt above her head and brought it down across the man’s naked
shoulders.

“Let go of my bridle, you—” but there she stopped, horrified at what
she had done. “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji! How could I?” she cried, and burst into
tears.

The Apache gave no sign that he had felt the stinging blow, but the ugly
welt that rose across his back testified to the force with which the
lash had fallen.

As though realizing that she had capitulated the Apache dropped her
bridle rein; and Wichita rode on docilely at his side, dabbing at her
eyes and nose with her handkerchief and struggling to smother an
occasional sob.

Thus in silence they rode as mile after mile of the dusty trail unrolled
behind them. Often the girl glanced at the rugged, granitic profile of
the savage warrior at her side and wondered what was passing through the
brain behind that inscrutable mask. Sometimes she looked at the welt
across his shoulders and caught her breath to stifle a new sob.

They were approaching the Billings ranch now. In a few minutes Wichita
would be home. She knew what Shoz-Dijiji would do. He would turn and
ride away without a word. Battling with her pride, which was doubly
strong because it was composed of both the pride of the white and the
pride of the woman, she gave in at last and spoke to him again.

“Can you forgive me, Shoz-Dijiji?” she asked. “It was my ugly temper
that did it, not my heart.”

“You only think that,” he said, presently. “The thing that is deep down
in your heart, deep in the heart of every white, came out when you lost
control of yourself through anger. If Shoz-Dijiji had been white you
would not have struck him!”

“Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, how can you say such a thing?” she cried. “There is no
white man in the world that I respect more than I do you.”

“That is a lie,” said the Apache, quite simply. “It is not possible for
a white-eyes to respect an Apache. Sometimes they think they do,
perhaps, but let something happen to make them lose their tempers and
the truth rises sure and straight, like a smoke signal after a storm.”

“I do not lie to you—you should not say such a thing to me,” the girl
reproached.

“You lie to yourself, not to me; for you only try to deceive yourself.
In that, perhaps, you succeed; but you do not deceive me. Shoz-Dijiji
knows—you tell him yourself, though you do not mean to. Shoz-Dijiji
will finish the words you started when you struck him with your quirt,
and then you will understand what Shoz-Dijiji understands: ‘Let go of my
bridle, you—’ dirty Siwash!”

Wichita gasped. “Oh, I didn’t say that!” she cried.

“It was in your heart. The Apache knows.” There was no rancor in his
voice.

“Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, I _couldn’t_ say that to you—I couldn’t mean it.
Can’t you see that I couldn’t?”

They had reached the ranch gate and stopped. “Listen,” said the Apache.
“Shoz-Dijiji saw the look in the white girl’s eyes when he kissed her.
Shoz-Dijiji has seen that look in the eyes of white women when a snake
touched them. Shoz-Dijiji understands.”

“You do not understand!” cried the girl. “God! you do not understand
anything.”

“Shoz-Dijiji understands that white girl is for white man—Apache for
Apache. If not, you would not have looked that way when Shoz-Dijiji took
you in his arms. Cheetim wanted you. He is a white man.” There was a
trace of bitterness in his tone. “Why did not you go with him? He is no
Apache to bring the snake-look to your eyes.”

The girl was about to reply when they were interrupted by the sound of a
gruff voice and looking up saw Billings striding angrily toward them.

“Get in here, Chita!” he ordered, roughly, and then turned to
Shoz-Dijiji. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded.

“Father!” exclaimed the girl. “This is my friend. You have no right——”

“No dirty, sneaking, murdering Siwash can hang around my ranch,” shouted
Billings angrily. “Now get the hell out of here and stay out!”

Shoz-Dijiji, apparently unmoved, looked the white man in the eyes. “She
my friend,” he said. “I come when I please.”

Billings fairly danced about in rage. “If I catch you around here
again,” he spluttered, “I’ll put a bullet in you where it’ll do the most
good.”

“Pindah-lickoyee,” said the Apache, “you make big talk to a war chief of
the Be-don-ko-he. When Shoz-Dijiji comes again, then may-be-so you not
talk so big about bullets any more,” and wheeling his little pinto
stallion about he rode away.

Attracted by the loud voice of Billings a cow-hand, loitering near the
bunk house, had walked down to the gate, arriving just as Shoz-Dijiji
left.

“Say,” he drawled, “why that there’s the Injun that give me water that
time an’ tol’ me how to git here.”

“So he’s the damn skunk wot stole the ewe-neck roan!” exclaimed
Billings.

“Yes,” snapped Wichita, angrily, “and he’s the ‘damn skunk’ that saved
Luke’s life that time. He’s the ‘damn skunk’ that kept ‘Dirty’ Cheetim
from gettin’ me three years ago. He’s the ‘damn skunk’ that saved me
from Tats-ah-das-ay-go down at the Pringe ranch. He’s the ‘damn skunk’
that heard this mornin’ that Cheetim was after me again with a bunch of
his bums and rode down to Pimos Canyon from San Carlos and took me away
from them and brought me home. You ought to be damn proud o’ yourself,
Dad!”

Billings looked suddenly crestfallen and Luke Jensen very much
embarrassed. He had never heard the boss talked to like this before, and
he wished he had stayed at the bunk house where he belonged.

“I’m damned sorry,” said Billings after a moment of silence. “If I see
that Apache again I’ll tell him so, but ever since they got poor Mason I
see red every time I drops my eyes on one of ’em. I’m shore sorry,
Chita.”

“He won’t ever know it,” said the girl. “Shoz-Dijiji won’t ever come
back again.”




                              Chapter Six


                             The War Trail

=S=HOZ-DIJIJI, riding cross-country, picked up the trail of Geronimo
where it lay revealed to Apache eyes like a printed message across the
open pages of Nature’s book of hieroglyphs, and in the evening of the
second day he came to the camp of the War Chief.

Gian-nah-tah and several of the warriors who had accompanied Shoz-Dijiji
in the pursuit of Cheetim and his unsavory company were already with
Geronimo, and during the next two days other warriors and many women
came silent footed into the camp of the Be-don-ko-he.

The Apaches were nervous and irritable. They knew that troops were out
after them, and though the cunning of Shoz-Dijiji had sent the first
contingent upon a wild goose chase toward Sonora the Indians were well
aware that it could be but a matter of days before their whereabouts
might be discovered and other troops sent to arrest them.

Among those that urged upon them the necessity of immediately taking the
war trail was Mangas, son of the great dead chief, Mangas Colorado; but
Geronimo held back. He did not wish to fight the white men again, for he
realized, perhaps better than any of them, the futility of continued
resistance; but there were two forces opposing him that were to prove
more potent than the conservatism of mature deliberation. They were
Sago-zhu-ni, the wife of Mangas, and the tizwin she was brewing.

It was in the early evening of May 16, 1885 that Shoz-Dijiji rode into
the camp of Geronimo. The sacred hoddentin had been offered up with the
prayers to Evening, and already the Be-don-ko-he had gathered about the
council fire. Tizwin was flowing freely as was evidenced by the
increasing volubility of the orators.

Mangas spoke forcefully and definitely for war, urging it upon
Na-chi-ta, son of old Cochise and chief of the Chihuicahui Apaches and
ranking chief of all those gathered in the camp of Geronimo; but
Na-chi-ta, good-natured, fonder of tizwin and pretty squaws than he was
of the war-trail and its hardships, argued, though halfheartedly, for
peace.

Chihuahua, his fine head bowed in thought, nodded his approval of the
moderate counsel of Na-chi-ta; and when it was his turn to speak he
reminded them of the waste of war, of the uselessness and hopelessness
of fighting against the soldiers of the white men; and old Nanáy sided
with him; but Ulzanna, respected for his ferocity and his intelligence,
spoke for war, as did Kut-le, the bravest of them all.

Stinging from the insults of the father of Wichita Billings, Shoz-Dijiji
was filled with bitterness against all whites; and when Kut-le had
spoken, the young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he arose.

“Geronimo, my father,” he said, “speaks with great wisdom and out of
years filled with experience, but perhaps he has forgotten many things
that have happened during the long years that the Shis-Inday have been
fighting to drive the enemy from the country that Usen made for them.
Shoz-Dijiji, the son of Geronimo, has not forgotten the things that he
has seen, nor those of which his father has told him; they are burned
into his memory.

“Geronimo is right when he says that peace is better than war for those
who may no longer hope to win, and I too would speak against the
war-trail if the pindah-lickoyee would leave us in peace to live our own
lives as Usen taught us to live them. But they will not. They wish us to
live in their way which is not a good way for Apaches to live. If we do
not wish to they send soldiers and arrest us. Thus we are prisoners and
slaves. Shoz-Dijiji cannot be happy either as a prisoner or as a slave,
and so he prefers the war-trail and death to these things.

“Na-chi-ta speaks against the war-trail because there will be no tizwin
there but, instead, many hardships. Shoz-Dijiji knew well the great
Cochise, father of Na-chi-ta. Cochise would be angry and ashamed if he
could have heard his son speak at the council fire tonight.

“Chihuahua speaks against war. Chihuahua thinks only of the little farm
that the pindah-lickoyee are permitting him to use and forgets all the
wide expanse of country that the pindah-lickoyee have stolen from him.
Chihuahua is a brave warrior. I do not think that Chihuahua will long be
happy working like a slave for the Indian Agent who will rob him of the
sweat of his brow as he robs us all.

“Nanáy is old and lives in memories of past war-trails when he fought
with glory at the side of Victorio and Loco. His day is done, his life
has been lived. Why should we young men, who have our own lives to live,
be content to live upon the memories of old men. We want memories of our
own and freedom, if only for a short time, to enjoy them as our fathers
did before us.

“Ulzanna and Kut-le are brave men. They do honor to the proud race from
which we all spring. They know that it would be better to die in freedom
upon the war-trail against the hated pindah-lickoyee than to live like
cattle, herded upon a reservation by the white-eyes.

“They think of the great warriors, of the women, of the little children
who have been murdered by the lies and treachery of the pindah-lickoyee.
They recall the ridicule that is heaped upon all those things which we
hold most sacred. They do not forget the insults that every white-eyed
man hurls at the Shis-Inday upon every occasion except when the
Shis-Inday are on the war-trail. Then they respect us.

“Shall we wait here until they come and arrest and kill our chiefs, as
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en has ordered them to do, or shall we take to the
war-trail and teach them once more to respect us? I, Shoz-Dijiji, war
chief of the Be-don-ko-he, speak for the war-trail. I have spoken.”

An old man arose. “Let us wait,” he said. “Perhaps the soldiers of the
pindah-lickoyee will not come. Perhaps they will let us live in peace if
we do not go upon the war-trail. Let us wait.”

The tizwin had not as yet spoken its final word, and there were more who
spoke against the war-trail than for it, and before the council was
concluded many had spoken. Among the last was Sago-zhu-ni—Pretty
Mouth—the wife of Mangas, for the voice of woman was not unknown about
the council fires of the Apaches. And why should it be? Did not they
share all the hardships of the war-trail with their lords and masters?
Did they not often fight, and as fiercely and terribly as the men? Were
they not as often the targets for the rifles of the pindah-lickoyee?
Who, then, had better right to speak at the councils of the Apaches than
the wives and mothers of their warriors.

Sago-zhu-ni spoke briefly, but to the point. “Are you men, old women, or
children?” she cried fiercely. “If you are old women and children, you
will stay here and wait to receive your punishment; but if you are
warriors, you will take the war-trail, and then Nan-tan-des-la-par-en
must catch you before he can punish you. May-be-so, you go to Sonora, he
no catch you. I have spoken.”

Now Na-chi-ta, encouraged by tizwin and goaded by the reproaches of
Shoz-Dijiji spoke for war. Geronimo, his savage brain inflamed by the
fumes of the drink, applauded Sago-zhu-ni and demanded the blood of
every pindah-lickoyee.

With fiery eloquence he ranged back through the history of the
Shis-Inday for more than three hundred years and reminded them of every
wrong that white men had committed against them in all that time. He
spoke for more than an hour, and while he spoke Sago-zhu-ni saw that no
warrior suffered from lack of tizwin. Of all who spoke vehemently for
the war-trail Shoz-Dijiji alone spoke out of a clear mind, or at least a
mind unclouded by the fumes of drink, though it was dark with bitter
hatred and prejudice.

When Geronimo sat down they voted unanimously for the war-trail; and the
next morning they broke camp and headed south—thirty-four warriors,
eight boys, and ninety-one women. Hair was slicked down with tallow,
swart faces streaked with war paint, weapons looked to. Hoddentin was
sprinkled on many a tzi-daltai of lightning riven pine or cedar or fir
as copper warriors prayed to these amulets for protection against the
bullets of the pindah-lickoyee, for success upon the war-trail.

Shoz-Dijiji, with Gian-nah-tah and two other warriors, rode in advance
of the main party, scouting far afield, scanning the distances from
every eminence. No creature stirred in the broad landscape before them
that was not marked by those eagle eyes, no faintest spoor beneath their
feet was passed unnoted.

The young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he was again the Apache Devil. His
face was painted blue but for the broad band of white across his eyes
from temple to temple; around his head was wound a vivid yellow bandana
upon the front of which was fastened a silver disc in the center of
which was mounted a single turquoise; small rings of silver, from each
of which depended another of these valued gems, swung from the lobes of
his ears; other bits of this prized duklij were strung in the yard-long
necklace of glass beads and magical berries and roots that fell across
the front of his brown, print shirt, which, with his heavy buckskin war
moccasins and his G-string, completed his apparel.

About his waist and across one shoulder were belts filled with
ammunition for the revolver at his hip and the rifle lying across the
withers of Nejeunee, and at his left side hung a pair of powerful field
glasses that he had taken in battle from a cavalry officer several years
before. From below the skirts of his shirt to the tops of his moccasins
the Apache Devil’s bronzed legs were naked, as he seldom if ever wore
the cotton drawers affected by many of his fellows. The bracelets of
silver and brass that adorned his muscular arms were hidden by the
sleeves of his shirt, a shirt that he probably soon would discard, being
ever impatient of the confining sensation that clothing imparted.

Down into the mountains of southwestern New Mexico the Apaches marched,
following trails known only to themselves, passing silently through
danger zones by night, and established themselves among caves and
canyons inaccessible to mounted troops.

Striking swiftly, raiding parties descended upon many an isolated ranch
house both in Arizona and New Mexico, leaving behind horrid evidence of
their ferocity as they rode away upon stolen horses from the blazing
funeral pyres that had once been homes.

Scouts kept Geronimo informed of the location of the troops in the field
against him; and the shrewd old war chief successfully avoided
encounters with any considerable body of enemy forces, but scouting
parties and supply trains often felt the full force of the strategy and
courage of this master general of guerilla warfare and his able
lieutenants.

It was during these days that the blue and white face of the Apache
Devil became as well known and as feared as it was in Sonora and
Chihuahua, for, though relentless in his war against the men of the
pindah-lickoyee, Shoz-Dijiji killed neither women nor children, with the
result that there were often survivors to describe the boldness and
ferocity of his attacks.

Scouting far north for information relative to the movement of troops,
Shoz-Dijiji one day came upon an Indian scout in the employ of the
enemy; and having recognized him as an old friend he hailed him.

“Where are the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.

“They cannot catch you,” replied the scout, grinning, “and so they are
sending Apaches after you. Behind me are a hundred White Mountain and
Cho-kon-en braves. They are led by one white-eyed officer, Captain
Crawford. Tell Geronimo that he had better come in, for he cannot escape
the Shis-Inday as he has escaped the pindah-lickoyee.”

“Why do you and the others go upon the war-trail against your own
people?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “Why do you fight as brothers at the side
of the enemy?”

“We take the war-trail against you because you are fools and we are
not,” replied the scout. “We have learned that it is useless to fight
against the pindah-lickoyee. We do not love them more than you; and if
we could kill them all we would, but we cannot kill them all—they are
as many as the weeds that grow among our corn and beans and
pumpkins—for though we cut them down they come again in greater numbers
than before, flourishing best in soil that is wet with blood.

“When you go upon the war-trail against the white-eyed men it only makes
more trouble for us. Geronimo is a great trouble maker. Therefore we
fight against him that we may live in peace.”

“Either your mouth is full of lies or your heart has turned to water,”
said Shoz-Dijiji. “No Apache wants peace at the price of slavery, unless
he has become a coward and is afraid of the pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji
has the guts of a man. He would rather die on the war-trail than be a
reservation Indian. You have not even the guts of a coyote, which snarls
and snaps at the hand of his captor and risks death to regain his
freedom.”

“Be a coyote then,” sneered the scout, “and I will put your pelt on the
floor of my hogan.”

“Here it is, reservation Indian,” replied the Black Bear. “Take it.”

Both men had dismounted when they met and were standing close and face
to face. The scout reached quickly for his six-shooter, but the Apache
Devil was even quicker. His left hand shot out and seized the other’s
wrist, and with his right he drew from its scabbard the great butcher
knife that hung at his hip.

The scout warded the first blow and grasped Shoz-Dijiji’s arm; and at
the same instant tore his right arm free, but as he did so the renegade
snatched the other’s gun from its holster and tossed it aside, while the
scout, profiting by the momentary freedom of his right hand, drew his
own knife, and the two closed in a clinch, each striving to drive his
blade home in the body of his adversary.

At the time that their altercation had reached the point of physical
encounter each of the men had dropped his hackamore rope with the result
that Shoz-Dijiji’s horse, recently stolen from a raided ranch, took
advantage of this God-given opportunity to make a break for freedom and
home, while the scout’s pony, lured by the call of consanguinity,
trotted off with the deserter.

Each of the combatants now held the knife arm of the other and the
struggle had resolved itself into one of strength and endurance, since
he who could hold his grip the longer stood the greater chance for
victory, the other the almost certain assurance of death.

They struggled to and fro, pushing one another here and there about the
sandy dust of a parched canyon bottom. The painted face of the Apache
Devil remained almost expressionless, so well schooled in inscrutability
were his features, nor did that of the scout indicate that he was
engaged in a duel to the death.

Two miles to the north a detachment of twenty White Mountain Apaches
from Crawford’s Indian Scouts were following leisurely along the trail
of their comrade. In twenty minutes, perhaps, they would come within
sight of the scene of the duel.

It is possible that the scout engaged with Shoz-Dijiji held this hope in
mind, for when it became obvious to him that he was no match in physical
strength for his adversary he dropped his own knife and grasped the
knife arm of his foe in both hands.

It was a foolish move, for no sooner did the Apache Devil regain the
freedom of his left hand than he transferred his weapon to it and before
his unfortunate antagonist realized his danger Shoz-Dijiji plunged the
blade between his ribs, deep into his heart.

Stooping over the body of his dead foe Shoz-Dijiji tore the red band
that proclaimed the government scout from his brow and with a deft
movement of his knife removed a patch of scalp. Then he appropriated the
ammunition and weapons of his late adversary and turned to look for the
two ponies. Now, for the first time, he realized that they were gone and
that he was afoot far from the camp of Geronimo, probably the sole
possessor of the information that a hundred scouts were moving upon the
stronghold of the War Chief.

A white man might doubtless have been deeply chagrined had he found
himself in a similar position, but to the Apache it meant only a little
physical exertion to which he was already inured by a lifetime of
training. The country through which he might pass on foot by the most
direct route to Geronimo’s camp was practically impassable to horses but
might be covered by an Apache in less time than it would have required
to make the necessary detours on horseback. However, Shoz-Dijiji would
have preferred the easier method of transportation, and so he regretted
that he had ridden the new pony instead of Nejeunee, who would not have
run away from him.

Knowing that other scouts might be near at hand, Shoz-Dijiji placed an
ear to the ground and was rewarded by information that sent him quickly
toward the south. Clambering up the side of the canyon, he adjusted the
red band of the dead scout about his own head as he climbed, for he knew
that eyes fully as keen as his own were doubtless scanning the horizon
through powerful field glasses at no great distance and that if they
glimpsed the red band they would not hasten in pursuit.

He grinned as he envisaged the anger of the scouts when they came upon
the dead body of their scalped comrade, and the vision lightened the
dreary hours as he trotted southward beneath the pitiless sun of New
Mexico.

Late in the afternoon Shoz-Dijiji approached a main trail that led west
to Fort Bowie and which he must cross, but with the caution of the
Apache he reconnoitered first.

From the top of a low hill the trail was in sight for a mile or two in
each direction and to this vantage point the Black Bear crept. Only his
eyes and the top of his head were raised above the summit of the hill,
and these were screened by a small bush that he had torn from the ground
and which he held just in front of him as he wormed his way to the hill
top.

Below him the trail led through a defile in which lay scattered huge
fragments of rock among which the feed grew thick and rank, suggesting
water close beneath the surface; but it was not these things that caught
the eyes and interest of the Apache Devil, who was already as familiar
with them as he was with countless other square miles of New Mexico,
Arizona, Chihuahua, and Sonora, or with the wrinkles upon the face of
his mother, Sons-ee-ah-ray.

That which galvanized his instant attention and interest was a
cavalryman sitting upon a small rock fragment while his horse, at the
end of a long riata, cropped the green feed. Shoz-Dijiji guessed that
here was a military messenger riding to or from Fort Bowie. Here, too,
was a horse, and Shoz-Dijiji was perfectly willing to ride the rest of
the way to the camp of Geronimo.

A shot would dispose of the white-eyed soldier, but it would, doubtless,
also frighten the horse and send him galloping far out of the reach of
Apache hands; but Shoz-Dijiji was resourceful.

He quickly cached the rifle of the scout, for the possession of two
rifles might raise doubts that two six-shooters would not; he adjusted
the red scout band and with a bandana carefully wiped from his face the
telltale war paint of the Apache Devil. Then he arose and walked slowly
down the hillside toward the soldier, who sat with his back toward him.
So silently he moved that he was within four or five feet of the man
when he halted and spoke.

The soldier wheeled about as he sprang to his feet and drew his pistol,
but the sight of the smiling face of the Indian, the extended hand and
the red band of the government scout removed his fears instantly.

“Nejeunee, nejeunee,” Shoz-Dijiji assured him, using the Apache word
meaning friend, and stepping forward grasped the soldier’s hand.

Smiling pleasantly, Shoz-Dijiji looked at the horse and then at the
riata approvingly.

“You belong Crawford’s outfit?” inquired the soldier.

“Me no sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji. He picked up the riata and examined it.
“Mucho bueno!” he exclaimed.

“You bet,” agreed the cavalryman. “Damn fine rope.”

The Apache examined the riata minutely, passing it through his hands,
and at the same time walking toward the horse slowly. The riata, a
braided hair “macarthy,” was indeed a fine specimen, some sixty feet in
length, of which the soldier was pardonably proud, a fact which threw
him off his guard in the face of the Indian’s clever simulation of
interest and approval.

When Shoz-Dijiji reached the end of the rope which was about the horse’s
neck he patted the animal admiringly and turned to the soldier, smiling
enthusiastically. “Mucho bueno,” he said, nodding toward the horse.

“You bet,” said the trooper. “Damn fine horse.”

With his back toward the white man, Shoz-Dijiji drew his knife and
quickly severed the rope, holding the two ends concealed in his left
hand. “Mucho bueno,” he repeated, turning again toward the soldier, and
then, suddenly and with seeming excitement, he pointed up the hill back
of the trooper. “Apache on dahl!” he shouted—“The Apaches are coming!”

Quite naturally, under the circumstances, the soldier turned away to
look in the direction from which the savage enemy was supposed to be
swooping upon him, and as he did so the Apache Devil vaulted into the
saddle and was away.

The great bowlders strewing the floor of the canyon afforded him an
instant screen and though the soldier was soon firing at him with his
pistol he offered but a momentary and fleeting target before he was out
of range, carrying away with him the cavalryman’s carbine, which swung
in its boot beneath the off stirrup of the trooper’s McClellan.

Shoz-Dijiji was greatly elated. He knew that he might have knifed the
unsuspecting pindah-lickoyee had he preferred to; but a victory of wits
and cunning gave him an even greater thrill of satisfaction, for, Apache
to the core though he was, the Black Bear killed not for the love of it
but from a sense of duty to his people and loyalty to the same cause
that inspired such men as Washington and Lincoln—freedom.




                             Chapter Seven


                              Hard Pressed

=R=EMOUNTED, and richer by a carbine, a six-shooter and many rounds of
ammunition, Shoz-Dijiji rode into the camp of Geronimo late at night.
When he had awakened the War Chief and reported the approach of the
hundred scouts under Crawford, preparations were immediately started to
break camp; and within an hour the renegades were moving silently
southward.

Down into Sonora they went, raiding and killing as they passed through
the terror stricken country, but moving swiftly and avoiding contact
with the enemy. In the mountains west of Casa Grande Geronimo went into
camp again, and from this base raiding parties took relentless toll
throughout the surrounding country.

In the mountains above Casa Grande Pedro Mariel, the woodchopper, felled
trees, cut them into proper lengths which he split and loaded upon the
backs of his patient burros. This he did today as he had done for many
years. With him now was Luis, his nineteen year old son. Other
woodchoppers, joining with the Mariels for company and mutual
protection, camped and worked with them. In all there were a dozen
men—hardy, courageous descendants of that ancient race that built
temples to their gods upon the soil of the Western Hemisphere long
before the first show-boat stranded on Ararat.

As the sound of their axes rang in the mountains, a pair of savage eyes
set in a painted face looked down upon them from the rim of the canyon
in which they labored. The eyes were the eyes of Gian-nah-tah, the
Be-don-ko-he Apache. They counted the number of the men below, they took
in every detail of the nearby camp, of the disposal of the men engaged
in felling new trees or cutting those that had been felled. For a half
hour they watched, then Gian-nah-tah withdrew, silently as a shadow. The
Mexicans, unsuspecting, continued at their work, stopping occasionally
to roll a cigaret or pass some laughing remark. Luis Mariel, young and
light hearted, often sang snatches of songs which usually concerned
senoritas with large, dark eyes and red lips, for Luis was young and
light hearted.

An hour passed. Gian-nah-tah returned, but not alone. With him, this
time, were a dozen painted warriors, moving like pumas—silently,
stealthily. Among them was Shoz-Dijiji, the Apache Devil. Down the
canyon side they crept and into the bottom below the woodchoppers.
Spreading out into a thin line that crossed the canyon’s floor and
extended up either side they advanced slowly, silently, hiding behind
trees, crawling across open spaces upon their bellies. They were
patient, for they were Apaches—the personification of infinite
patience.

Luis Mariel sang of a castle in Spain, which he thought of vaguely as a
place of many castles and beautiful senoritas somewhere across a sea
that was also “somewhere.” Close beside him worked his father, Pedro,
thinking proudly of this fine son of his.

Close to them cruel eyes looked through a band of white out of a blue
face. The Apache Devil, closest to them, watched the pair intently.
Suddenly a shot rang above the ringing axes. Manuel Farias clutched his
breast and crumpled to the ground. Other shots came in quick succession,
and then the air was rent by wild Apache war-whoops as the savages
charged the almost defenseless woodchoppers.

Luis Mariel ran to his father’s side. Grasping their axes they stood
shoulder to shoulder, for between them and whatever weapons they had
left in camp were whooping Apaches. Some of the other men tried to break
through and reach their rifles, but they were shot down. Three
surrendered. A huge warrior confronted Pedro and Luis.

“Pray,” said Pedro, “for we are about to die.” He was looking at the
face of the warrior. “It is the Apache Devil!”

“Who is that?” demanded the Indian, pointing to the lad.

“He is my oldest son,” replied Pedro, wondering.

“Put down your axes and come here,” ordered the Apache. “You will not be
harmed.”

Pedro was not surprised to hear the Indian speak in broken Spanish, as
most Apaches understood much and spoke a little the language of their
ancient enemies; but he was surprised at the meaning of the words he
heard, surprised and skeptical. He hesitated. Luis looked up at him,
questioningly.

“If we lay down our axes we shall be wholly unarmed,” said Pedro.

“What difference does it make?” asked Luis. “He can kill us whether we
have axes in our hands or not—they will not stop his bullets.”

“You are right,” said Pedro and threw down his axe. Luis did likewise
and together they approached the Apache Devil. “May the Holy Mary
protect us!” whispered the father.

The other Mexicans, having been killed or captured, Gian-nah-tah and the
balance of the braves came running toward Pedro and Luis; but
Shoz-Dijiji stepped in front of them and raised his hand.

“These are my friends,” he said. “Do not harm them.”

“They are enemies,” cried one of the warriors, excited by blood and
anticipation of torture. “Kill them!”

“Very well,” said Shoz-Dijiji quietly. “You may kill them, but first you
must kill Shoz-Dijiji. He has told you that they are his friends.”

“Why does Shoz-Dijiji protect the enemy?” demanded Gian-nah-tah.

“Listen,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “Many years ago Shoz-Dijiji was hunting in
these mountains. He was alone. He often saw this man felling trees, but
he did not harm him because the Apaches were not upon the war-trail at
that time. A tree fell upon the man in such a way that he could not free
himself. He must have died if no one came to help him. There was no one
to come but Shoz-Dijiji.

“Shoz-Dijiji lifted the tree from him. The man’s leg was broken.
Shoz-Dijiji placed him upon one of his burros and took him to Casa
Grande, where he lived.

“You-all remember the time when we made the treaty of peace with the
people of Casa Grande and while we were celebrating it the Mexican
soldiers came and attacked us. They made us prisoners and were going to
shoot us.

“This man came to look at the captives and recognized Shoz-Dijiji. He
begged the war chief of the Mexicans to let me go, and he took me to his
home and gave me food and set me free. It was Shoz-Dijiji who was able
to release all the other Apache prisoners because of what this man did.
The other here is his son.

“Because of what his father did for Shoz-Dijiji neither of them shall be
killed. We shall let them take their burros and their wood and go back
in safety to their home. I have spoken.”

“Shoz-Dijiji speaks true words when he says that these two shall not be
harmed,” said Gian-nah-tah. “Let them go in peace.”

“And look at them well,” added Shoz-Dijiji, “that you may know them and
spare them if again you meet them.” He turned to Pedro. “Get your burros
and your wood and go home quickly with your son. Do not come again to
the mountains while the Apaches are on the war-trail, for Shoz-Dijiji
may not be always near to protect you. Go!”

Bewildered, stammering their thanks, Pedro and Luis hastened to obey the
welcome mandate of the savage while Shoz-Dijiji’s companions fell to
with savage ardor upon the hideous business that is the aftermath of an
Apache victory.

Uninterested, Shoz-Dijiji stood idly by until the Mariels had hastily
packed their few belongings and departed, leaving their wood behind
them. No longer did his fellows ridicule or taunt Shoz-Dijiji for his
refusal to join them in the torture of their captives or the mutilation
of the dead. His courage had been proved upon too many fields of battle,
his hatred of the enemy was too well known to leave any opening for
charges of cowardice or disloyalty. They thought him peculiar and let it
go at that. Perhaps some of the older braves recalled the accusation of
the dead Juh that Shoz-Dijiji was no Apache but a white-eyed man by
birth; but no one ever mentioned that now since Juh was dead, and it was
well known that he had died partly because he had made this charge
against the Black Bear.

Back in the camp of the renegades Gian-nah-tah and the others boasted
loudly of their victory, exhibited the poor spoils that they had taken
from the camp of the woodchoppers, while the squaws cooked the flesh of
one of the burros for a feast in celebration. Perhaps they were off
their guard, but then, even Homer is charged with carelessness.

Just as a bullet had surprised the camp of the woodchoppers earlier in
the day, so a bullet surprised the camp of the renegades. A little
Indian boy clutched his breast and crumpled to the ground. Other shots
came in quick succession, and then the air was rent by wild Apache
war-whoops. Apache had surprised Apache. Perhaps no other could have
done it so well.

As Crawford’s Scouts charged the camp of Geronimo, the renegades, taken
completely off their guard, scattered in all directions. Pursued by a
part of the attacking force, Geronimo’s warriors kept up a running fight
until all the fighting men and a few of the women and children had
escaped; but a majority of the latter were rounded up by the scouts and
taken back to Crawford’s camp, prisoners of war. Only the dead body of a
little boy remained to mark the scene of happy camp, of swift, fierce
battle. In the blue sky, above the silent pines, a vulture circled upon
static wings.

That night the renegades gathered in a hidden mountain fastness, and
when the last far flung scout had come they compared notes and took
account of their losses. They found that nearly all of their women and
children had been captured. Of Geronimo’s family only Shoz-Dijiji
remained to the old War Chief. Sons-ee-ah-ray was a captive.

When their brief council was concluded, Geronimo arose. “Above the water
that falls over the red cliff in the mountains south of Casa Grande
there is a place that even the traitors who hunt us for the
pindah-lickoyee may find difficult to attack. If you start now you will
be almost there before the rays of chigo-na-ay light the eastern sky and
reveal you to the scouts of the enemy. If Geronimo has not returned to
you by the second darkness he will come no more. Pray to Usen that he
may guide and protect you. I have spoken.” The War Chief turned and
strode away into the darkness.

Shoz-Dijiji sprang to his feet and ran after him. “Where do you go,
Geronimo?” he demanded.

“To fetch Sons-ee-ah-ray from the camp of the enemy,” replied Geronimo.

Two other braves who had followed Shoz-Dijiji overheard. One of them was
Gian-nah-tah.

“Shoz-Dijiji goes with Geronimo to the camp of the enemy,” announced the
Black Bear.

Gian-nah-tah and the other warrior also announced their intention of
accompanying the War Chief, and in silence the four started off single
file down the rugged mountains with Geronimo in the lead. There was no
trail where they went; and the night was dark, yet they skirted the edge
of precipice, descended steep escarpment, crossed mountain stream on
slippery bowlders as surely as man trods a wide road by the light of
day.

They knew where Crawford’s camp lay, for Gian-nah-tah had been one of
the scouts who had followed the victorious enemy; and they came to it
while there were yet two hours before dawn.

Crawford had made his camp beside that of a troop of United States
Cavalry that had been scouting futilely for Geronimo for some time, and
in addition to the Indian Scouts and the cavalrymen in the combined
camps there were a number of refugees who had sought the protection of
the troops. Among them being several Mexican women and one American
woman, the wife of a freighter.

Never quite positive of the loyalty of the Indian scouts, Crawford and
the troop commander had thought it advisable to post cavalrymen as
sentries; and as these rode their posts about the camp the four Apaches
crept forward through the darkness.

On their bellies, now, they wormed themselves forward, holding small
bushes in front of their heads. When a sentry’s face was turned toward
them they lay motionless; when he passed on they moved forward.

They had circled the camp that they might approach it up wind, knowing
that were their scent to be carried to the nostrils of a sentry’s horse
he might reveal by his nervousness the presence of something that would
warrant investigation.

Now they lay within a few paces of the post toward which they had been
creeping. The sentry was coming toward them. There was no moon, and it
was very dark. There were bushes upon either side of him, low sage and
greasewood. That there were four more now upon his left than there had
been before he did not note, and anyway in ten minutes he was to be
relieved. It was this of which he was thinking—not bushes.

He passed. Four shadowy patches moved slowly across his post. A moment
later he turned to retrace his monotonous beat. This time the four
bushes which should now have been upon his right were again upon his
left. His horse pricked up his ears and looked in the direction of the
camp. The horse had become accustomed to the scent of Indians coming
from the captives within the camp, but he knew that they were closer
now. However, he was not startled, as he would have been had the scent
come from a new direction. The man looked casually where the horse
looked—that is second nature to a horseman—then he rode on; and the
four bushes merged with the shadows among the tents.

The American woman, the wife of the freighter, had been given a tent to
herself. She was sleeping soundly, secure in the knowledge of absolute
safety, for the first time in many weeks. As she had dozed off to sleep
the night before she had hoped that her husband was as comfortable as
she; but, knowing him as she had, her mind had been assailed by doubts.
He had been killed by Apaches a week previously.

She was awakened by a gentle shaking. When she opened her eyes she saw
nothing as it was dark in the tent; but she felt a hand upon her arm,
and when she started to speak a palm was slapped across her mouth.

“Make noise, gettum killed,” whispered a deep voice. “Shut up, no gettum
killed.”

The hand was removed. “What do you want?” whispered the woman. “I’ll
keep shet up.”

“Where is the wife of Geronimo?” pursued the questioner.

“I dunno,” replied the woman, sullenly. “Who are you—one o’ them Injun
Scouts? Why don’t you go ask some other Injun? I dunno.”

“May-be-so you find out pronto. Me Apache Devil. She my mother. You
tellum damn pronto or Apache Devil cut your damn fool throat. Sabe?”

The woman felt the edge of a knife against the flesh at her throat.
“She’s in the next tent,” she whispered hastily.

“You lie me come back and kill,” he said, then he bound her hands and
feet and tied a gag in her mouth, using strips torn from her own
clothing for these purposes.

In the next tent they found Sons-ee-ah-ray, and a few minutes later five
bushes crossed the post that four had previously crossed.

In the new camp south of Casa Grande the renegades found peace but for a
few days, and then came Mexican troops one morning and attacked them.
The skirmishing lasted all day. A few Mexican soldiers were killed; and
at night the Apaches, having sustained no loss, moved eastward into the
foothills of the Sierra Madres.

A few more days of rest and once again the Mexican troops, following
them, attacked; but the Apaches had not been caught unawares. Their
women and children were sent deeper into the mountains, while the
warriors remained to hold the soldiers in check.

During a lull in the fighting Geronimo gathered several of his followers
about him. “The Mexicans now have a large army against us,” he said. “If
we stand and fight them many of us will be killed. We cannot hope to
win. It is senseless to fight under such circumstances. Let us wait
until our chance of victory is greater.”

The others agreed with the War Chief, and the renegades withdrew.
Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah were sent to ascertain the strength of the
troops against them and their location, while the main body of the
renegades followed the squaws to the new camp.

It was very late when Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah rejoined their
fellows. They came silently into camp after having been challenged and
passed by savage sentries. They wore grave faces as they approached
Geronimo. The War Chief had been sleeping; but he arose when he learned
that his scouts had returned, and when he had had their report he
summoned all the warriors to a council.

“Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah, with the speed of the deer, the cunning
of the fox, and the vision of the eagle, have gone among the enemy and
seen much. Let Shoz-Dijiji tell you what he told Geronimo.”

“For many days,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “we have been pressed closely by the
enemy. First by the Scouts of the pindah-lickoyee, then by the warriors
of the Mexicans. Wherever we go, they follow. We have had no time to
hunt or raid. We are almost without food. Usen has put many things in
the mountains and upon the plains for Apaches to eat. We can go on thus
for a long time, but I do not think we can win.

“These things you should know. We are but a few warriors, and against us
are the armies of two powerful nations. Shoz-Dijiji thinks that it would
be wise to wait a little until they forget. In the past they have
forgotten. They will forget again. Then the Apaches may take up the
war-trail once more or remain in peaceful ways, hunting and trading.

“Today Gian-nah-tah and Shoz-Dijiji saw soldiers in many places all
through the mountains. There were soldiers of the Mexicans, there were
soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee, there were the Apache Scouts of
Crawford. They are all waiting to kill us. Perhaps we can escape them,
perhaps we cannot. It would be foolish to attack them. We are too few,
and our brothers have turned against us.”

“How many soldiers did you see?” asked Na-chi-ta.

“Perhaps two thousand, perhaps more,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “There are
infantry and cavalry, and cannon mounted on the backs of mules.”

“Chihuahua thought Shoz-Dijiji wished only to fight against the
pindah-lickoyee,” said Chihuahua. “He made big talk before we went on
the war-trail after we left San Carlos. Has Shoz-Dijiji’s heart turned
to water?”

“I do not know,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “I think it has not turned to water,
but it is very sad. Shoz-Dijiji learned at his mother’s breast to love
nothing better than fighting the enemies of the Shis-Inday, but he did
not learn to love to fight his own people. I think it made his heart
sick that day that he saw White Mountain firing upon White Mountain,
Cho-kon-en upon Cho-kon-en. That is not war, that is murder.

“Every man’s hand is against us, but that Shoz-Dijiji did not mind. What
he does mind is to know that our own hands are against us, too.”

“Shoz-Dijiji has spoken true words,” said Kut-le. “It sickens the heart
in the breast of a warrior to see brother and cousin fighting against
him at the side of his enemies.

“We know that we are surrounded by many soldiers. We cannot fight them.
Perhaps we can escape them, but they will follow us. It will be hard to
find food and water, for these things they will first try to deprive us
of.

“I think that we should make peace with our enemies. I have spoken.”

Thus spoke Kut-le, the bravest of the renegades. Savage heads nodded
approval.

“Let us go to the camp of the white-eyed soldiers in the morning,”
suggested one, “and lay down our weapons.”

“And be shot down like coyotes,” growled Geronimo. “No! Geronimo does
not surrender. He makes peace. He does not stick his head in a trap,
either. We will send a messenger to Crawford to arrange a parley with
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en. The heart of Crawford is good. He does not lie to
the Shis-Inday. By the first light of Chigo-na-ay Shoz-Dijiji shall go
to the kunh-gan-hay of the scouts and carry the message of Geronimo to
Crawford. If he promises to protect us from the soldiers of the
pindah-lickoyee and the Mexicans, we will accompany him north and hold a
peace parley with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en.” He turned toward Shoz-Dijiji.
“You have heard the words of Geronimo. When dawn comes go to Crawford.
You will know what to say to him.”




                             Chapter Eight


                           Geronimo and Crook

=C=RAWFORD’S Scouts were preparing to ride with the coming of the new
day when there appeared upon a little eminence near their camp the
figure of an Indian. Silent and erect it stood—a bronze statue touched
by the light of the rising sun. Slowly, to and fro, it waved a white rag
that was attached to the muzzle of a rifle. A scout called Crawford’s
attention to the flag of truce; and the cavalry officer, bearing a
similar emblem, went out alone and on foot toward the messenger, who now
came slowly forward until the two met a couple of hundred yards from the
camp.

Crawford recognized the Black Bear and nodded, waiting for him to speak.

“Shoz-Dijiji brings a message from Geronimo,” said the Apache.

“What message does Geronimo send me?” asked the officer. Both men spoke
in the language of the Shis-Inday.

“Geronimo has heard that Nan-tan-des-la-par-en wishes to hold a parley
with him,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.

“Nan-tan-des-la-par-en wishes only that Geronimo surrenders with all his
warriors, women, and children,” said Crawford. “There is no need for a
parley. Tell Geronimo that if he will come to my camp with all his
people, bringing also all his horses and mules, and lay down his arms, I
will take him to Nan-tan-des-la-par-en in safety.”

“That is surrender,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “Geronimo will not surrender.
He will make peace with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en, but he will not
surrender.”

“Black Bear,” said Crawford, “you are a great warrior among your people,
you are an intelligent man, you know that we have you surrounded by a
greatly superior force, you are worn by much fighting and marching, you
are short of food, you cannot escape us this time. I know these things;
you know them; Geronimo knows them.

“It will be better for you and your people if you come in peaceably now
and return with me. Nan-tan-des-la-par-en will not be hard on you if you
surrender now, but if you cause us any more trouble it may go very hard
indeed with you. Think it over.”

“We have thought it over,” replied the Black Bear. “We know that a
handful of braves cannot be victorious over the armies of two great
nations, but we also know that we can keep on fighting for a long time
before we are all killed and that in the meantime we shall kill many
more of our enemies than we lose. You know that these are true words.
Therefore it would be better for you to arrange for a parley with
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en than to force us back upon the war trail.

“Geronimo is a proud man. The thing that you demand he will never
consent to, but a peace parley with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en might bring
the same results without so greatly injuring the pride of Geronimo.

“These things I may say to you because it is well known that your heart
is not bad against the Apaches. Of all the pindah-lickoyee you are best
fitted to understand. That is why Geronimo sent me to you. He would not
have sent this message to any white-eyed man but you or Lieutenant
Gatewood. Him we trust also. We do not trust Nan-tan-des-la-par-en any
more; but if we have your promise that no harm shall befall us we will
go with you and talk with him, but we must be allowed to keep our
weapons and our live-stock. I have spoken.”

“I get your point,” said Crawford after a moment of thought. “If
Geronimo and the warriors in his party will give me their word that they
will accompany us peaceably I will take them to General Crook and
guarantee them safe escort, but I cannot promise what General Crook will
do. Geronimo knows that I have no authority to do that.”

“We shall come in and make camp near you this afternoon,” said
Shoz-Dijiji. “Tell your scouts not to fire upon us.”

“When you come stop here, and I will tell you where to camp,” replied
Crawford. “Geronimo and two others may come into my camp to talk with
me, but if at any time more of you enter my camp armed I shall consider
it a hostile demonstration. Do you understand?”

Shoz-Dijiji nodded and without more words turned and retraced his steps
toward the camp of the renegades, while Crawford stood watching him
until he had disappeared beyond a rise of ground. Not once did the
Apache glance back. The cavalry officer shook his head. “It is
difficult,” he mused, “not to trust a man who has such implicit
confidence in one’s honor.”

That afternoon, January 11, 1886, promised to witness the termination of
more than three hundred years of virtually constant warfare between the
Apaches and the whites. Captain Crawford and Lieutenant Maus were
jubilant—they were about to succeed where so many others had failed.
The days of heat and thirst and gruelling work were over.

“Geronimo is through,” said Crawford. “He is ready to give up and come
in and be a good Indian. If he wasn’t he’d never have sent the Black
Bear with that message.”

“I don’t trust any of them,” replied Maus, “and as for being a good
Indian—there’s only one thing that’ll ever make Geronimo that”—he
touched the butt of his pistol.

“That doctrine is responsible to a greater extent than any other one
thing for many of the atrocities and the seeming treachery of the
Apaches,” replied Crawford. “They have heard that so often that they do
not really trust any of us, for they believe that we all hold the same
view. It makes them nervous when any of us are near them, and as they
are always suspicious of us the least suggestion of an overt act on our
part frightens them onto the war trail and goads them to reprisals.

“It has taken months of the hardest kind of work to reach the point
where Geronimo is ready to make peace—a thoughtless word or gesture now
may easily undo all that we have accomplished. Constantly impress upon
the scouts by word and example the fact that every precaution must be
taken to convince the renegades that we intend to fulfill every promise
that I have made them.”

Shoz-Dijiji came and stood before Geronimo. “What did the white-eyed
chief say to you?” demanded the old war chief.

“He said that if we lay down our arms and surrender he will take us to
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.

“What did Shoz-Dijiji reply?”

“Shoz-Dijiji told the white-eyed man that Geronimo would not surrender,
but that he would hold a parley with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en. At last the
white-eyed chief agreed. We may retain our arms, and he promises that we
shall not be attacked if we accompany him peaceably to the parley with
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en.”

“What did you reply?”

“That we would come and make camp near him this afternoon. He has
promised that his scouts will not fire upon us.”

“Good!” exclaimed Geronimo. “Let us make ready to move our camp, and let
it be understood that if the word made between Shoz-Dijiji and the
white-eyed chief be broken and shots fired in anger the first shot shall
not be fired by a member of my band. I have spoken!”

As the renegades broke camp and moved slowly in the direction of
Crawford’s outfit a swart Mexican cavalryman, concealed behind the
summit of a low hill, watched them, and as he watched a grim smile of
satisfaction played for an instant about the corners of his eyes. Ten
minutes later he was reporting to Captain Santa Anna Perez.

“They shall not escape me this time,” said Perez, as he gave the command
to resume the march in pursuit of the illusive enemy.

A short distance from Crawford’s camp Geronimo halted his band and sent
Shoz-Dijiji ahead to arrange a meeting between Geronimo and Crawford for
the purpose of ratifying the understanding that Shoz-Dijiji and the
officer had arrived at earlier in the day.

With a white rag fastened to the muzzle of his rifle the Black Bear
approached the camp of the scouts and, following the instructions of
Crawford to his men, was permitted to enter. Every man of Crawford’s
command Shoz-Dijiji knew personally. With many of them he had played as
a boy; and with most of them he had gone upon the war trail, fighting
shoulder to shoulder with them against both Mexicans and
pindah-lickoyee; but today he passed among them with his head high, as
one might pass among strangers and enemies.

Crawford, waiting to receive him, could not but admire the silent
contempt of the tall young war chief for those of his own race whom he
must consider nothing short of traitors; and in his heart the courageous
cavalry officer found respect and understanding for this other
courageous soldier of an alien race.

“I am glad that you have come, Shoz-Dijiji,” he said. “You bring word
from Geronimo? He will go with me to General Crook?”

“Geronimo wishes to come and make talk with you,” replied the Black
Bear. “He wishes his own ears to hear the words you spoke to Shoz-Dijiji
this morning.”

“Good!” said Crawford. “Let Geronimo—” His words were cut short by a
fusilade of shots from the direction of the renegades’ position.
Crawford snatched his pistol from its holster and covered Shoz-Dijiji.

“So that is the word Geronimo sends?” he exclaimed. “Treachery!”

The Apache wheeled about and looked in the direction of his people. The
scouts were hastily preparing to meet an attack. Every eye was on the
renegades—in every mind was the same thought that Crawford had
voiced—treachery!

Shoz-Dijiji pointed. “No!” he cried. “Look! It is not the warriors of
Geronimo. Their backs are toward us. They are firing in the other
direction. They are being attacked from the south. There! See! Mexican
soldiers!”

The renegades, firing as they came, were falling back upon the scouts’
camp; and, following them, there now came into full view a company of
Mexican regulars.

“For God’s sake, stop firing!” cried Crawford. “These are United States
troops.”

Captain Santa Anna Perez saw before him only Apaches. It is true that
some of them wore portions of the uniform of the soldiers of a sister
republic; but Captain Santa Anna Perez had fought Apaches for years, and
he well knew that they were shrewd enough to take advantage of any form
of deception of which they could avail themselves, and he thought this
but a ruse.

Two of his officers lay dead and two privates, while several others were
wounded, and now the Apaches in uniform, as well as those who were not,
were firing upon him. How was he to know the truth? What was he to do?
One of his subordinates ran to his side. “There has been a terrible
mistake!” he cried. “Those are Crawford’s scouts—I recognize the
captain. In the name of God, give the command to cease firing!”

Perez acted immediately upon the advice of his lieutenant, but the
tragic blunder had not as yet taken its full toll of life. In the front
line a young Mexican soldier knelt with his carbine. Perhaps he was
excited. Perhaps he did not hear the loudly shouted command of his
captain. No one will ever know why he did the thing he did.

The others on both sides had ceased firing when this youth raised his
carbine to his shoulder, took careful aim, and fired. Uttering no sound,
dead on his feet, Captain Emmet Crawford fell with a bullet in his
brain.

Shoz-Dijiji, who had been standing beside him, had witnessed the whole
occurrence. He threw his own rifle to his shoulder and pressed the
trigger. When he lowered the smoking muzzle Crawford had been avenged,
and that is why no one will ever know why the Mexican soldier did the
thing he did.

With difficulty Perez and Maus quieted their men, and it was with equal
difficulty that Geronimo held his renegades in check. They were gathered
in a little knot to one side, and Shoz-Dijiji had joined them.

“It was a ruse to trap us!” cried a brave. “They intended to get us
between them and kill us all.”

“Do not talk like a child,” exclaimed Shoz-Dijiji. “Not one of us has
been killed or wounded, while they have lost several on each side. The
Mexicans made a mistake. They did not know Crawford’s scouts were near,
nor did Crawford know that the Mexican soldiers were approaching.”

The brave grunted. “Look,” he said, pointing; “the war chiefs of the
Mexicans and the pindah-lickoyee are holding a council. If they are not
plotting against us why do they not invite our chiefs to the council? It
is not I who am a child but Shoz-Dijiji, if he trusts the
pindah-lickoyee or the Mexicans.”

“Perhaps they make bad talk about us,” said Geronimo, suspiciously.
“Maus does not like me; and, with Crawford dead, there is no friend
among them that I may trust. The Mexicans I have never trusted.”

“Nor does Shoz-Dijiji trust them,” said the Black Bear. “The battle they
just fought was a mistake. That, I say again; but it does not mean that
I trust them. Perhaps they are plotting against us now, for Crawford is
dead.”

“Maus and the Mexican could combine forces against us,” suggested
Geronimo, nervously. “Both the Mexicans and pindah-lickoyee have tricked
us before. They would not hesitate to do it again. We are few, they are
many—they could wipe us out, and there would be none left to say that
it happened through treachery.”

“Let us attack them first,” suggested a warrior. “They are off their
guard. We could kill many of them and the rest would run away. Come!”

“No!” cried Geronimo. “Our women are with us. We are very few. All would
be killed. Let us withdraw and wait. Perhaps we shall have a better
chance later. Only fools attack when they know they cannot win. Perhaps
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en will come and we shall make peace. That will be
better. I am tired of fighting.”

“Let us go away for a while, at least until the Mexicans have left,”
counselled Shoz-Dijiji. “Then, perhaps, we can make terms with Maus. If
not we can pick our own time and place to fight.”

“That is good talk,” said Geronimo. “Come! We shall move away slowly.”

Maus and Perez, engaged in arranging terms for the removal of Crawford’s
body and exchanging notes that would relieve one another of
responsibility for the tragic incident of the battle between the troops
of friendly nations, paid little attention to the renegades; and once
again Geronimo slipped through the fingers of his would-be captors, and
as Maus’ and Perez’ commands marched away together toward Nacori the
scouts of the old war chief watched them depart and carried the word to
Geronimo.

“They have marched away together—the Mexicans and the pindah-lickoyee?”
demanded Geronimo. “That is bad. They are planning to join forces
against us. They will return, but they will not find us here.”

Again the renegades changed camp; this time to a still more remote and
inaccessible position. The days ran into weeks, the weeks to months. The
band scattered, scouting and hunting. At all times Geronimo knew the
location of Maus’ command; and when he became reasonably convinced that
Maus was waiting for the arrival of Crook and was not planning a hostile
move against the renegades he made no further attempt to conceal his
location from the white officer, but he did not relax his vigilance.

It was late in March. Geronimo, Shoz-Dijiji, Gian-nah-tah, and several
others were squatting in the shade of a sycamore, smoking and chatting,
when two Apaches entered the camp and approached them. One was one of
Geronimo’s own scouts, the other wore the red head-band of a government
scout. When the two halted before Geronimo the war chief arose.

“What do you want in the camp of Geronimo?” he asked, addressing the
government scout as though he had been a total stranger.

“I bring a message from Maus,” replied the other. “Nan-tan-des-la-par-en
has come. He is ready to hold a parley with you. What answer shall I
take back?”

“Tell Nan-tan-des-la-par-en that Geronimo will meet him tomorrow in the
Canyon of Los Embudos.”

When the morning came Geronimo set out with a party of chiefs and
warriors for the meeting place. Mangas was with him and Na-chi-ta, and
there were Shoz-Dijiji, Gian-nah-tah, Chihuahua, Nanáy, and Kut-le in
the party. General Crook was awaiting them in the Canyon of Los Embudos.
The two parties exchanged, salutations and then seated themselves in a
rough circle under the shade of large sycamore and cottonwood trees.

General Crook addressed Geronimo almost immediately. “Why did you leave
the reservation?” he demanded.

“You told me that I might live in the reservation the same as white
people live,” replied Geronimo, “but that was not true. You sent
soldiers to take my horses and cattle from me. I had a crop of oats
almost ready to harvest, but I could not live in the reservation after
the way you had treated me. I went away with my wife and children to
live in peace as my own people have always lived. I did not go upon the
war trail, but you told your soldiers to find me and put me in prison
and if I resisted to kill me.”

“I never gave any such orders,” snapped Crook.

Geronimo glanced at Shoz-Dijiji but did not reply.

“But,” continued Crook, “if you left the reservation for that reason,
why did you kill innocent people, sneaking all over the country to do
it? What did those innocent people do to you that you should kill them,
steal their horses, and slip around in the rocks like coyotes?

“You promised me in the Sierra Madre that _that_ peace should last, but
you have lied about it. When a man has lied to me once I want some
better proof than his own word before I can believe him again.”

“So does Geronimo,” interrupted the war chief.

“You must make up your mind,” continued Crook, “whether you will stay
out on the war path or surrender unconditionally. If you stay out I’ll
keep after you and kill the last one if it takes fifty years.”

“I do not want to fight the white man,” replied Geronimo; “but I do not
want to return to the reservation and be hanged, as many of the white
people have said that I should be. People tell bad stories about me. I
do not want that any more. When a man tries to do right, people should
not tell bad stories about him. I have tried to do right. Does the white
man try to do right? I am the same man. I have the same feet, legs, and
hands; and the sun looks down upon me, a complete man.

“The Sun and the Darkness and the Winds are all listening to what we say
now. They know that Geronimo is telling the truth. To prove to you that
I am telling the truth, remember that I sent you word that I would come
from a place far away to speak to you here; and you see me now. If I
were thinking bad, or if I had done bad, I would never have come here.”

He paused, waiting for Crook to reply.

“I have said all that I have to say,” said the General; “you had better
think it over tonight and let me know in the morning.”

For two more days the parley progressed; and at last it was agreed that
Geronimo and his band should accompany Lieutenant Maus and his battalion
of scouts to Fort Bowie, Arizona. The northward march commenced on the
morning of March 28th and by the night of the 29th the party had reached
the border between Mexico and Arizona.




                              Chapter Nine


                     Red Fools and White Scoundrels

=I=N the camp of the Apaches, which lay at a little distance from that
of the troops, there was an atmosphere of nervousness and suspicion.

“I do not like the way in which Nan-tan-des-la-par-en spoke to me,” said
Geronimo. “I know that he did not speak the truth when he said that he
had not ordered the soldiers to catch me and to kill me if I resisted.
Perhaps he is not telling me the truth now.”

“They have lied to us always before,” said Na-chi-ta. “Now, if we go
back with them to Fort Bowie, how do we know that they will not put us
in prison. We are chiefs. If they wish to frighten our people they may
kill us. The white-eyed men are crying for the blood of Geronimo.”

“If they kill Geronimo they will kill Na-chi-ta also,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

“I have thought of that,” replied Na-chi-ta.

“They will not kill us,” said Chihuahua. “They will be content to know
that we are no longer on the war trail. We have taught them a lesson
this time. Now, maybe, they will let us alone.”

“Chihuahua thinks only of the little farm the white-eyes let him
work—like a woman,” scoffed Shoz-Dijiji. “I hate them. I shall not go
back to live upon a reservation. I shall not go back to be laughed at by
white-eyed men, to hear them call me a damn Siwash, to listen while they
make fun of my gods and insult my mother and my sisters.”

“Shoz-Dijiji will go upon the war-trail alone and do battle with all the
soldiers of two great nations?” sneered Chihuahua.

“Then Shoz-Dijiji will at least die like a man and a warrior,” replied
the Black Bear.

“Have we not troubles enough without quarrelling among ourselves?”
demanded Geronimo.

“And now Gian-nah-tah is bringing more trouble into our camp,” said
Chihuahua. “Look!” and he pointed toward the young warrior, who was
walking toward them.

In each hand Gian-nah-tah carried a bottle of whiskey, and his slightly
unsteady gait was fair evidence that he had been drinking. He approached
the group of men, women, and children and extended one of the bottles
toward Geronimo. The old chief took a long drink and passed the bottle
to Na-chi-ta.

Shoz-Dijiji stood eyeing them silently. By no changed expression did he
show either disapproval or its opposite; but when Na-chi-ta passed the
whiskey on to him, after having drunk deeply, he shook his head and
grinned.

“Why do you smile?” demanded Na-chi-ta.

“Because now I shall not turn back into Mexico alone,” replied the Black
Bear.

“Why do you say that?” asked Geronimo.

The bottle went the rounds, though all did not drink. Chihuahua was one
who did not.

“Where did you get this, Gian-nah-tah?” asked Geronimo.

“A white-eyed man is selling it just across the border in Mexico. He is
selling it to the soldiers too. He says that they are boasting about
what they are going to do to Geronimo and his band. They make much bad
talk against you.”

“What do they say they are going to do to us?” demanded Geronimo, taking
another drink.

“They are going to shoot us all as soon as we are across the border.”

Chihuahua laughed. “The foolish talk of drunken men,” he said.

“Many of the white-eyed soldiers are drunk,” continued Gian-nah-tah.
“When they are drunk they may kill us. Let us turn back. If we must be
killed let us be killed in battle and not shot down from behind by
drunken white-eyes.”

“Now would be a good time to attack them,” said Na-chi-ta, “while they
are drunk.”

“If we do not kill them they will kill us,” urged Gian-nah-tah. “Come!”

“Shut up, Gian-nah-tah!” commanded Shoz-Dijiji. “The strong water of the
white-eyed men does not make you a war chief to lead the braves of the
Shis-Inday into battle—it only makes you a fool.”

“Shoz-Dijiji calls Gian-nah-tah a fool?” demanded the young warrior
angrily. “Shoz-Dijiji does not want to fight the pindah-lickoyee because
Shoz-Dijiji is a coward and himself a pindah-lickoyee.”

Shoz-Dijiji’s eyes narrowed as he took a step toward Gian-nah-tah. The
latter drew his great butcher knife, but he retreated. Then it was that
Geronimo stepped between them. “If you want to kill,” he said, “there is
always the enemy.”

“I do not want to kill Gian-nah-tah, my best friend,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
“Perhaps it was the strong water of the pindah-lickoyee that spoke
through the mouth of Gian-nah-tah. Tomorrow, when he is sober,
Shoz-Dijiji will ask him; but no man may call Shoz-Dijiji a white-eyes
and live. Juh learned that when Shoz-Dijiji killed him.”

“Shut up, Gian-nah-tah,” advised Na-chi-ta; “and go to the white-eyed
fool who sold you this strong water and buy more. Here!” He handed
Gian-nah-tah several pieces of silver money. “Get plenty.”

Many of the braves already felt the effects of the adulterated, raw
spirits that Tribollet was selling them at ten dollars a gallon, and
most of those that had been drinking were daubing their faces with war
paint and boasting of what they would do to the soldiers of the
pindah-lickoyee.

They greeted Gian-nah-tah with shouts of savage welcome when he returned
with more whiskey, and as they drank they talked loudly of killing all
the white soldiers first and then taking the war trail in a final
campaign that would wipe out the last vestige of the white race from the
land of the Shis-Inday.

Shoz-Dijiji looked on in sorrow—not because they were drunk or because
they talked of killing the white-eyed people; but because he knew that
if they were not stopped they would soon be so drunk that they could not
even defend themselves in the event that the soldiers of the
pindah-lickoyee set upon them, as persistent rumors from Tribollet’s
ranch suggested might occur before dawn.

He went to Geronimo and urged him to make some effort to stop the
drinking; but Geronimo, himself inflamed by drink, would do nothing. As
a matter of fact there was really nothing that he could do since the
Apache is a confirmed individualist who resents receiving orders from
anyone.

Shoz-Dijiji considered the advisability of taking a few of the warriors
who had not drunk to excess and leading them in a raid upon Tribollet’s
ranch, but he had to abandon the idea because he knew that it would lead
to killing and that that would bring the soldiers down upon their camp.

In the end he hit upon another plan; and, shortly after, he was in the
camp of the Apache scouts where he aroused Alchise and Ka-e-ten-na.

“Listen,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “to the sounds you can hear coming from the
camp of Geronimo.”

“We hear them,” said Alchise. “Are you fools that you do not sleep when
tomorrow you must march all day in the hot sun?”

“They are all drunk upon the tizwin of the white-eyes,” said
Shoz-Dijiji. “If more of it is brought into the camp of Geronimo there
will be trouble. Already many of the braves have put on the war paint.
Shoz-Dijiji has come to you to ask that you go to Nan-tan-des-la-par-en
and tell him that he must send soldiers to prevent the white-eyed fool
from selling more fire water to the Apaches and to stop the stories that
are being told to our people. Otherwise there will be trouble.”

“When did Shoz-Dijiji begin to fear trouble with the white-eyed men?”
demanded Ka-e-ten-na.

“When he saw the warriors of his people getting so drunk that soon they
will be unable to defend themselves, though not so drunk but that some
one of them, who may be a bigger fool than the others, will certainly
fire upon the first pindah-lickoyee he sees when dawn comes. That is
when Shoz-Dijiji began to fear—not war but certain defeat.”

“Did Na-chi-ta send you with this message?” asked Alchise.

“Na-chi-ta is so drunk that he cannot stand upon his feet,” replied
Shoz-Dijiji.

“We will go to Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” said Ka-e-ten-na, “and ask him to
let us take some scouts and stop the sale of this stuff to all Apaches.”

“Shoz-Dijiji will wait here until you return,” said the Black Bear.

As Shoz-Dijiji waited, the sounds that came to his ears indicated
restlessness and activity in the camp of the white soldiers that lay at
no great distance from that of the scouts; and these sounds aroused his
suspicions, for at this hour of the night the camp should have been
quiet. He read in them preparation for attack—treachery. He could not
know that they were caused by a few drunken soldiers and portended
nothing more serious than a few days in the guard house for the culprits
when they reached the Post.

The false rumors that Tribollet and his men had spread among the
renegades were working in the mind of Shoz-Dijiji, and he was already
upon the point of returning to his own camp when Ka-e-ten-na and Alchise
came back from their interview with Crook.

“Has Nan-tan-des-la-par-en told you to take warriors and stop the sale
of fire water to the Apaches?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.

“No,” replied Alchise.

“He is going to send white-eyed soldiers instead?” asked the Black Bear.

“He will send no one,” said Ka-e-ten-na.

“Why not?”

“We do not know.”

Shoz-Dijiji was worried when he came again to the camp of the renegades.
Na-chi-ta was lying helpless upon the ground. Geronimo was drunk, though
he still could walk. Most of the braves were asleep. Shoz-Dijiji went at
once to Geronimo.

“I have just come from the camp of the scouts,” he said. “I could hear
the white-eyed soldiers preparing for battle. Perhaps they will attack
us before dawn. Look at your warriors, Geronimo. They are all drunk.
They cannot fight. All will be killed. You would not listen to
Shoz-Dijiji then, but now you must. I am war chief of the Be-don-ko-he.
You are war chief of all the Apaches, but you are too drunk to lead them
in battle or to counsel them with wisdom. Therefore you shall listen to
Shoz-Dijiji and do what he says. Only thus may we save our people from
being wiped out by the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee before
chigo-na-ay has risen above the tree tops.”

The words of Shoz-Dijiji had a slightly sobering effect upon Geronimo.
He looked about him. By the flickering light of dying fires he saw the
flower of his fighting force lying in drunken stupor, prone upon the
ground, like beasts.

Shoz-Dijiji stood with a sneer upon his lip. “The pindah-lickoyee want
the Shis-Inday to come out of the mountains and live as they live,” he
said. “They want the poor Apache to be like them. Here is the result. We
have come out of the mountains, and already we are like the
pindah-lickoyee. If we live among them long our women will be like their
women; and then you will not see an Apache woman whose nose has not been
cut off or an Apache man who is not always lying in the dirt, drunk.

“But that will not be for those of us who are here, Geronimo, if we stay
here until after Tapida brings the new day, for we shall all be dead.
The soldiers of the white-eyes are already preparing to attack us. How
may drunken men defend their families and themselves? We shall all be
killed if we do not go at once. I have spoken.”

Slowly Geronimo gathered his muddled wits. The words of Shoz-Dijiji took
form within his brain. He saw the condition of his warriors, and he
recalled not only the rumors that had come from Tribollet’s but also the
treacherous attacks that had been made upon his people by the white-eyed
soldiers in the past.

“There is yet time,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “The night is dark. If we leave
at once and in silence we can be far away before they know that we have
left. Another day, when our warriors are sober, we can fight them but
not today.”

“Awake them all,” said Geronimo. “Gather the women and children. Tell
them that we are going back into the mountains of Mexico. Tell them that
we are not going to remain here to be murdered by our enemies or taken
back to Bowie to be hanged.”

They did not all answer the summons of Geronimo. Na-chi-ta went but he
did not know that he was going or where. They threw him across the back
of a mule; and Shoz-Dijiji loaded Gian-nah-tah upon another, and
Geronimo rode silently out through the night with these and eighteen
other warriors, fourteen women, and two boys, down into the mountains of
Mexico; and the results of months of the hardest campaign that,
possibly, any troops in the history of warfare ever experienced were
entirely nullified by one cheap white man with a barrel of cheap
whiskey.




                              Chapter Ten


                    Two Thousand Dollars for a Head

=D=OWN into the rugged mountain fastnesses of Sonora the remnants of
Geronimo’s band of renegades hurried from the menace of the white man’s
justice. Suffering from the after effects of Tribollet’s whiskey they
marched in sullen silence, thinking only of escape, for the fighting
spirit of a sick man is not wont to rise to any great heights.

For sixteen hours they marched with but a single brief rest, and it was
again dark when they went into camp.

Water and a little food revived their spirits. There was even laughter,
low pitched lest it reach across the night to the ears of an enemy.

Shoz-Dijiji squatted upon his haunches chewing upon a strip of jerked
venison that was both dirty and “high” and that not only pleased his
palate but gave him strength, renewing the iron tissue of his iron
frame. Less fastidious, perhaps, than a civilized epicure in the
preparation and serving of his food, yet, savage though he was, he
appreciated the same delicate flavor of partial decay.

As he ate, a tall warrior came and stood before him. It was
Gian-nah-tah. Shoz-Dijiji continued eating, in silence.

“At the kunh-gan-hay beside the soldiers of Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,”
commenced Gian-nah-tah, presently, “the poisoned water of the
pindah-lickoyee spoke through the mouth of Gian-nah-tah, saying words
that Gian-nah-tah would not have said.” He stopped, waiting.

“Shoz-Dijiji knew that Gian-nah-tah, his best friend, did not speak
those words,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “It was the bad spirits that the
white man puts into his strong water to make trouble between men.
Gian-nah-tah is a fool to be tricked thus by the pindah-lickoyee.”

“Yes,” agreed Gian-nah-tah, “I am a fool.”

Shoz-Dijiji scratched some criss-cross lines upon the ground where he
squatted. With a bit of stick he scratched them. “These,” he said, “are
the troubles that have come between Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah—the
bad talk—the bad thoughts.” With his palm he smoothed the ground. “Now
they are gone,” he said. “Let us forget them.” He offered Gian-nah-tah a
piece of venison, and his friend squatted beside him.

“Do you think the soldiers of the white-eyed men will follow us?” asked
Gian-nah-tah.

Shoz-Dijiji shook his head. “I do not know,” he replied. “I offered
hoddentin to the winds and to the night, and I prayed that Usen would
make the hearts of the pindah-lickoyee good that they might return to
their own country and leave us in peace.

“I asked the tzi-daltai that Nan-ta-do-tash blessed for me if the
white-eyed soldiers were pursuing us, but I have received no answer.”

“Nan-tan-des-la-par-en said that if we did not come with him he would
follow us and kill us all if it took fifty years,” reminded
Gian-nah-tah.

Shoz-Dijiji laughed. “That is just talk,” he said. “Anyone can make big
talk. For over three hundred years we have been fighting the
pindah-lickoyee; and they have not killed us all, yet. Some day they
will, but it will take more than fifty years. You and I shall have
plenty of fighting before the last of the Shis-Inday is killed.”

“I do not know,” said Gian-nah-tah. “A spirit came to me while I slept
the first night that we camped near the soldiers of
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en. It was the spirit of my father. He said that he
had waited a long time for me. He said that pretty soon I would come. I
asked him when; but just then I awoke, and that frightened him away.
Perhaps it will be tomorrow—who knows?”

“Do not say that, Gian-nah-tah,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “Already have I seen
too many of my friends go. One hundred and thirty-four we were when we
went out from San Carlos less than twelve moons ago. Today we are thirty
eight. The others are dead, or prisoners of the pindah-lickoyee. The
heart of Shoz-Dijiji is sad, as are the hearts of all Apaches. The hand
of every man is against us—even the hands of our brothers. We must not
think of death. Gian-nah-tah and Shoz-Dijiji must live for one another.
Surely Usen will not take everything that we love from us!”

“Usen has forgotten the Apache,” said Gian-nah-tah, sadly.

For a month the renegades rested and recuperated in the high sierras,
and then one day a scout brought word to Geronimo that he had sighted
three troops of United States Cavalry as they were going into camp a
day’s march to the north.

Geronimo shook his head. “They are always talking of peace,” he said,
“and always making war upon us. They will not leave us alone.” He turned
to Shoz-Dijiji. “Go to the camp of the pindah-lickoyee and try to talk
with some of their scouts. Take Gian-nah-tah with you. Do not trust too
much in the honor of the scouts, but learn all that you can without
telling them anything.”

Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah arose. “That is all?” asked the young war
chief of the Be-don-ko-he.

“That is all,” replied Geronimo.

The soft rustle of their war moccasins faded into silence. The night
swallowed them. Geronimo sat with bowed head, his eyes upon the ground.
A girl looked after them and sighed. Then she cast hoddentin in the
direction they had gone and whispered prayers for the safety of one of
them. Also she prayed that some day she would be the mother of warriors
and that Gian-nah-tah would be their father.

In four hours the two warriors covered the distance that it would take a
troop of cavalry all of the following day to cover; but they travelled
where no horse might travel, over trails that no cavalryman knew. They
trod in places where only mountain sheep and Apaches had trod before.

Quiet lay upon the camp of ——th Cavalry. Three weary sentries, softly
cursing because they must walk their posts to save their horses, circled
the lonely bivouac. At a little distance lay the camp of the Apache
scouts. The dismal voice of an owl broke the silence. It came from the
summit of a low bluff south of the camp. At intervals it was repeated
twice.

One of the sentries was a rookie. “Gosh,” he soliloquized, “but that’s a
lonesome sound!”

Once more came the eerie cry—this time, apparently, from the camp of
the scouts.

Number One sentry was a veteran. He stepped quickly from his post to the
side of his top sergeant, who lay wrapped in a sweaty saddle blanket
with his head on a McClellan.

“H-s-st! McGuire!” he whispered.

“Wot the ’ell?” demanded the sergeant, sitting up.

“Hos-tiles! I just heard ’em signalling to our Siwashes—three owl calls
and an answer.”

The sergeant came to his feet, strapping his belt about his hips. He
picked up his carbine. “Git back on your post an’ keep your ears
unbuttoned,” he directed. “I’ll mosey out that way a bit an’ listen.
Maybe it _was_ a owl.”

Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah crept silently down the face of the bluff
and approached the camp of the scouts. There was no moon, and light
clouds obscured the stars. It was very dark. A figure loomed suddenly
before them. “Who are you?” it demanded in a whisper that could not have
been heard ten feet away.

“We are Be-don-ko-he,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “We bring a message from
Geronimo.”

“What is it?”

“He wants the soldiers to go back to their own country and leave him
alone. He is not fighting the pindah-lickoyee. If they will go away he
will not again raid in Arizona or New Mexico.”

“You are Shoz-Dijiji,” said the scout. “I am glad you came. We have word
for Geronimo and all that are with him. His fight is hopeless. He had
better come in. If he does, perhaps they will not kill him. If he stays
out he is sure to be killed. Every one of his warriors will be killed.
Tell him to come in.”

“Why do you think we will be killed? They have not killed us yet, and
they have been trying to ever since we were born.”

“Now they will,” insisted the scout, “for they have offered to pay fifty
dollars for the head of every warrior that is brought in and two
thousand dollars for the head of Geronimo. There are Apaches who would
kill their own fathers for fifty dollars.”

“You do not kill us,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “and our heads are worth one
hundred dollars.”

“Give thanks to Usen, then, that he sent me to meet you and not
another,” replied the scout.

“What are the plans of the pindah-lickoyee?” asked Shoz-Dijiji.

“Their orders are to get Geronimo and all his band. The Mexicans are
helping them. It was the Mexicans who invited them down here to catch
you.”

“They shall pay,” growled Shoz-Dijiji.

“So old Nan-tan-des-la-par-en will pay fifty dollars for my head, eh?”
said Gian-nah-tah. “Very well, I shall go and get his head for nothing.”

“It was not Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” said the scout. “He is no longer war
chief of the pindah-lickoyee. They have taken him away and sent another.
His name is Miles. It is he who has offered the money for your heads. He
has ordered out many soldiers to follow you and catch you. Here there
are three troops of the ——th Cavalry; Lawton is coming with Apache
scouts, cavalry, and infantry. As fast as men and horses are tired they
will send fresh ones to replace them. A few men cannot fight against so
many and win. That is why so many of us have joined the scouts. It is
not that we love the white-eyed ones any better than you do. We know
when we are beaten—that is all. We would live in peace. By going out
you make trouble for us all. We want to put an end to all this trouble.”

“I, too, like peace,” said Shoz-Dijiji; “but better even than peace I
like freedom. If you are content to be the slave of the pindah-lickoyee
that is your own affair. Shoz-Dijiji would rather be forever on the war
trail than be a slave. If you are men you will leave the service of the
white-eyes and join Geronimo.”

“Yes,” said Gian-nah-tah, “take that message to our brothers who have
turned against us.”

“Come!” said Shoz-Dijiji, and the two warriors turned back toward the
camp of Geronimo.

1st Sergeant McGuire, “K” Troop, ——th Cavalry, strolled back to his
blankets. On the way he paused to speak to Number One. “The next time
you hear a owl,” he said, “you just telegraph President Cleveland and
let me sleep.”

Chigo-na-ay was an hour high when Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah stood
again before the rude hogan of Geronimo deep hid upon the rough breast
of the Mother of Mountains. The old war chief listened in silence while
they narrated with primitive fidelity every detail of their interview
with the scout.

“Fifty dollars for the head of a warrior, two thousand dollars for the
head of Geronimo!” he exclaimed. “It is thus that they offer a bounty
for the heads of wolves and coyotes. They treat us as beasts and expect
us to treat them as men. When they war among themselves do they offer
money for the head of an enemy? No! They reserve that insult for the
Apache.

“They will win because Usen has deserted us. And when they have killed
us all there will be none to stop them from stealing the rest of our
land. That is what they want. That is why they make treaties with us and
then break them, to drive us upon the war trail that they may have an
excuse to kill us faster. That is why they offer money for our heads.

“Oh, Usen! what have the Shis-Inday done that you should be angry with
them and let their enemies destroy them?”

“Do not waste your breath praying to Usen,” said Gian-nah-tah. “Pray to
the God of the pindah-lickoyee. He is stronger than Usen.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Geronimo, sadly. “He is a wicked God, but
his medicine is stronger than the medicine of Usen.”

“I,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “shall pray always to the god of my fathers. I
want nothing of the pindah-lickoyee or their god. I hate them all.”

A brave, moving at an easy run, approached the camp and stopped before
Geronimo.

“Soldiers are coming,” he said. “Their scouts have followed the tracks
of Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah.”

“Only Apaches could trail us,” said Geronimo. “If our brothers had
remained loyal and taken the war trail with us the pindah-lickoyee could
not conquer us in a thousand rains.”

“There is a place where we can meet them,” said the brave who had
brought the word, “and stop them.”

“I know,” replied Geronimo. He called four warriors to him. “Take the
women and the boys,” he said, “and cross over the summit to the burned
pine by the first water. Those of us who live will join you there after
the battle.”

Stripped to breech-cloth and moccasins, eighteen painted savages filed
silently through the rough mountains. A scout preceded them. Behind
Geronimo walked the Apache Devil, his blue face banded with white.
Stern, grim, terrible men these—hunted as beasts are hunted,
retaliating as only a cornered beast retaliates—asking no quarter and
giving none.

Equipped by civilization with the best of weapons and plenty of
ammunition and by nature with high intelligence, courage, and shrewdness
they had every advantage except that of numbers over any enemy that
might take the field against them.

They stopped the ——th Cavalry that day as they had stopped other
troops before and without the loss of a man, and with the coming of
night had vanished among the rocks of their beloved mountains and
rejoined their women in the new camp by the burned pine at the first
water beyond the summit.

Stern, grim, relentless, the cavalry pursued. Coöperating with them were
the troops of Governor Torres of Sonora. The renegades were hard
pressed. Skirmishes were of almost daily occurrence now. And then Lawton
came with his hand picked force of seasoned veterans.

It was May again. For a year this handful of savage warriors and women
and children had defied, eluded, and ofttimes defeated the forces of two
civilized nations. The military strategy of their leader had been pitted
against that of a great American general and proved superior. A score of
West Pointers had exhausted their every resource and failed, but they
were at last nearing their goal—victory seemed imminent. Miles and
Lawton would receive the plaudits of their countrymen; and yet, if the
truth were known, Miles and Lawton might have continued to pursue
Geronimo and his band to the day of their deaths, and without success,
had it not been that Apache turned against Apache.

The Shis-Inday may date the beginning of the end from the day that the
first Indian Scouts were organized.

Hunted relentlessly, given no opportunity to rest because their every
haunt, their every trail, their every hiding place was as well known to
the scouts who pursued them as it was to themselves, they found
themselves at last practically surrounded.

With no opportunity to hunt they were compelled to kill their ponies for
sustenance until at last only Nejeunee was left.

Geronimo sat in council after a day of running battle.

“The warriors of the pindah-lickoyee and the Mexicans are all about us,”
he said. “If we can break through and cross the mountains into Chihuahua
perhaps we can escape them. Then we must separate and go in different
directions. They will hear of us here today and there tomorrow. They
will hurry from one place to another. Their horses will become tired and
their soldiers footsore. Their force will be broken up into small
parties. It will be easier for us to elude them. Tonight we shall move
east. A camp of the enemy lies directly in our path, but if we can pass
it before dawn we shall be in mountains where no cavalry can follow and
tomorrow we shall be in Chihuahua.

“There is one pony left. Its meat will carry us through until we can
find cattle in Chihuahua.”

There was silence. Every warrior, every woman knew that Shoz-Dijiji had
repeatedly refused to permit the killing of the little pinto stallion
for food.

“Nejeunee is more than a war pony,” Shoz-Dijiji had once said to
Geronimo. “He is my friend. I will not eat my friend. I will not permit
anyone to eat my friend.”

Glances stole around the circle in search of Shoz-Dijiji. He was not
there.

Up toward the camp of the enemy—the camp that stood between the
renegades and Chihuahua—a painted warrior rode a pinto stallion. A
gentle May wind blew down to the nostrils of the man and his mount. To
Nejeunee it carried the scent of his kind from the picket line of the
——th Cavalry. He pricked up his ears and nickered. Shoz-Dijiji slid
from his back, slipped the primitive bridle from about his lower jaw and
slapped him on the rump.

“Good-bye, Nejeunee,” he whispered; “the pindah-lickoyee may kill you,
but they will not eat you.”

Slowly the Apache walked back toward the camp of his people. Like the
stones upon the grave of Ish-kay-nay, many and heavy, his sorrows lay
upon his heart.

“Perhaps, after all,” he mused, “Gian-nah-tah is right and Usen has
forgotten the Apaches. I have prayed to him in the high places; I have
offered hoddentin to him upon the winds of the morning and the evening;
I have turned a deaf ear to the enemies who bring us a new god. Yet one
by one the friends that I love are taken from me. Oh, Usen, before they
are all gone take Shoz-Dijiji! Do not leave him alone without friends in
a world filled with enemies!”

“Where is Shoz-Dijiji?” demanded Geronimo, his blue eyes sweeping the
circle before him. “Gian-nah-tah, where is Shoz-Dijiji?”

“Here is Shoz-Dijiji!” said a voice from the darkness; and as they
looked up, the war chief of the Be-don-ko-he stepped into the dim,
flickering light of their tiny fire.

“Shoz-Dijiji,” said Geronimo, “there is but one pony left. It is
Nejeunee. He must be killed for food. The others are all gone.”

“Nejeunee is gone, also,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

“Gone?”

“I have told you many times that no one would ever eat Nejeunee while
Shoz-Dijiji lived. I have taken him away. What are you going to do about
it?”

Geronimo bowed his head. “Even my son has turned against me,” he said,
sadly.

“Those are not true words, Geronimo,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “Nejeunee was
more to me than a great war pony. When Shoz-Dijiji was a youth and
Nejeunee a colt, Shoz-Dijiji broke him. Little Ish-kay-nay rode upon his
back. It was Nejeunee that was tied before the hogan of her father. It
was Nejeunee that Ish-kay-nay led to water and fed the next morning.
Nejeunee has carried me through many battles. His fleet feet have borne
me from the clutches of many an enemy. He has been the friend of
Shoz-Dijiji as well as his war pony. Now he is old and yet there is not
a fleeter or braver pony in the land of the Shis-Inday. He deserves
better of me than to be killed and eaten.

“Geronimo says that Shoz-Dijiji has turned against him. Every day
Shoz-Dijiji offers his life for Geronimo, and all that he has asked in
return is the life of his friend.”

“Say no more,” said Na-chi-ta, the son of Cochise. “Let Shoz-Dijiji have
the life of his friend. We have been hungry before—we can be hungry
again. It does not kill an Apache to be hungry. We are not
pindah-lickoyee.”




                             Chapter Eleven


                               A Red Hero

=D=AWN was breaking as the last of the renegades crept past the camp
of the enemy, where the troopers, already astir an hour, stood to horse.
It was known that the camp of the renegades lay just below them,
surrounded. A sudden, surprise sortie at dawn would either overwhelm
them or send them scattering into the arms of other troops stationed to
cut off their retreat in any direction. It began to look as though
Geronimo and his band were to be wiped out or captured at last. Two
scouts had gone down toward the camp of the Apaches to investigate. The
commanding officer was impatiently awaiting their return. Presently it
would be too light for a surprise attack.

The officers were congratulating their commander and themselves upon the
nice work that had brought old Geronimo into a trap at last—a trap from
which he could not conceivably escape. They were also talking about the
pinto stallion that had wandered up to their picket line during the
night.

“I know that pony, sir,” said Lieutenant King to the commanding officer,
“and I know the Indian who owns him—he saved my life once. If it is
possible, sir, I should like very much to take the pony back to Arizona
with me. There is a rancher there whom I believe would be very glad to
have him and take care of him.”

“Well, it’s not exactly regular, Mr. King, but perhaps the pony was
stolen from this rancher—eh?” the C. O. grinned.

“Perhaps,” agreed King.

“Very well, you may return it to its owner.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“Here are the scouts,” said the C. O. “Return to your troops, and be
ready to move out at once!”

Two Apaches approached the commanding officer. They wore the red
head-bands of government scouts.

“Well?” demanded the officer. “Did you find Geronimo?”

“Him gone,” said one of the scouts.

“Gone! Where in hell has he gone?”

“Mebby so there,” he pointed to the canyon behind them.

“Hell! He couldn’t have gone there. What do you suppose we been doing
here?”

“Me no sabe,” replied the Apache. “Him gone—there!”

“How do know?”

“Me follow tracks.”

“You sure?”

“Sure!”

“How long?”

“Mebby so half hour.”

The officer turned to his chief of scouts. “Did you hear that? Slipped
through our fingers again. The old devil! Get after him at once. Pick up
the trail. Keep after him. We’ll follow. If you get in touch with him
don’t attack. Just keep in touch with him until we come up.”

“Yes, sir!”

Two scouts preceded Geronimo’s little band up the canyon that would take
them to the summit and over into Chihuahua. Precipitous walls hemmed
them in on both sides, effectually keeping them to the bottom of the
canyon. Here the going was good; but, also, it would be good going for
horses and no escape for the fleeing renegades should they be overtaken.
They were marching rapidly, needing no urging, for each of them knew the
life and death necessity for speed.

Behind the two scouts came the women and the two boys. All the fighting
men except the two scouts were in the rear. A little behind the others
came Gian-nah-tah and three fellows. These would be the first to sight
the enemy and give the word that would permit the main body to take a
position from which they might best offer a defense.

But half a mile remained of level going; then the canyon proper
terminated in tumbled, terraced ledges leading upward among great
bowlders and tortured strata toward the summit that was their goal. Once
they reached these ledges no cavalry could pursue.

The commanding officer of the pursuing ——th knew this and sent one
troop ahead with orders to overtake the renegades at all costs before
they reached the sanctuary of those rock strewn ledges. With clanking
accouterments and the clash of iron shod hoofs on rocky ground “B” Troop
galloped up the canyon, close upon the heels of the Apache scouts.

Just beyond a turn the canyon narrowed, the beetling cliffs approaching
close and the rubble at their base leaving a level path scarce ten feet
wide. It was at this point that Gian-nah-tah sighted the leading scout.
A half mile more and the renegades would have been safe—just a few
minutes and the women and the main body could all be hidden among the
bowlders at the top of the first terrace, where a thousand cavalrymen
could not dislodge them.

Gian-nah-tah turned and fired at the first red banded scout. Beyond the
scout Gian-nah-tah now saw the leading horsemen of “B” Troop rounding
the turn in the canyon.

He called to one of his fellows. “Go to Geronimo,” he said. “Tell him to
hurry. Gian-nah-tah can hold them off until all are among the rocks.”

He knelt upon the red blanket he had thrown off when battle seemed
imminent and took careful aim. His shot brought down the horse of a
cavalryman. With loud yells “B” Troop came tearing on. Those who rode in
front fired as they charged. A bullet passed through Gian-nah-tah’s
shoulder. The Apache fired rapidly, but he could not stem that avalanche
of plunging horses and yelling men.

Another bullet passed through his chest; but still he knelt there,
firing; holding the pass while his people fled to safety. The leading
troopers were almost upon him. In an instant he would be ridden down!
But he had not held them yet! If they passed him now they would overtake
the little band before it won to safety.

He dropped his rifle and seizing the red blanket in both hands arose and
waved it in the faces of the oncoming horses. They swerved—they turned,
stumbling and plunging among the loose rock of the rubble heaps. Two
fell and others piled upon them. For minutes—precious minutes—all was
confusion; then they came on again. And again Gian-nah-tah flourished
the red blanket in the faces of the horses, almost from beneath their
feet. Again the frightened animals wheeled and fought to escape. Once
again there was delay.

Another bullet pierced Gian-nah-tah’s body. Weak from loss of blood and
from the shock of wounds he could no longer stand, kneeling, he held the
pass against fifty men. A fourth bullet passed through him—through his
right lung—and, coughing blood, he turned them back again.

Through the yelling and the chaos of the fight the troop commander had
been trying to extricate himself from the melee and call his men back.
Finally he succeeded. The troop was drawn off a few yards.

“Sergeant,” said the captain, “dismount and use your carbine on that
fellow. Don’t miss!”

Gian-nah-tah, kneeling, saw what they were doing; but he did not care.
He had held them. His people were safe!

The sergeant knelt and took careful aim.

“Usen has remembered his people at last,” whispered Gian-nah-tah.

The sergeant pressed his trigger; and Gian-nah-tah fell forward on his
face, a bullet through his brain.

When Captain Cullis led his troop through that narrow pass a moment
later he saluted as he passed the dead body of a courageous enemy.

That night Geronimo camped beyond the summit, in the State of Chihuahua.
Shoz-Dijiji sat in silence, his head bowed. No one mentioned the name of
Gian-nah-tah. None of them had seen him die, but they knew that he was
dead. He alone was missing. A girl, lying upon her blanket, sobbed
quietly through the night.

In the morning the band separated into small parties and, scattering,
led the pursuing troops upon many wild and fruitless chases. Geronimo,
with six men and four women, started north toward the United States.
Shoz-Dijiji, silent, morose, was one of the party.

Even these small bands often broke up for a day or two into other,
smaller parties. Often the men hunted alone, but always there were
meeting places designated ahead. Thus Geronimo and his companions ranged
slowly northward through Chihuahua.

Cutting wood in the mountains near Casa Grande in Sonora had become too
hazardous an occupation since Geronimo had been ranging the country; and
so Luis Mariel, the son of Pedro Mariel, the woodchopper of Casa Grande,
had come over into Chihuahua to look for other work.

He had never cared to be a woodchopper but longed, as a youth will, for
the picturesque and romantic life of a vaquero; and at last, here in
Chihuahua, his ambition had been gratified and today, with three other
vaqueros, he was helping guard a grazing herd upon the lower slopes of
the Sierra Madre.

The four were youths, starting their careers with the prosaic duties of
day herding and whiling away the hours with cigarettes and stories. Luis
was quite a hero to the others, for he alone had participated in a real
battle with Apaches. Chihuahua seemed a very dull and humdrum country
after listening to the tales that Luis told of Apache raids and battles
in wild Sonora. He told them of the Apache Devil and boasted that he was
an old friend of the family.

Above the edge of a nearby arroyo unblinking eyes watched them. The eyes
appraised the four cow ponies and sized up the grazing herd. They were
stern eyes, narrowed by much exposure to the pitiless sunlight of the
southwest. They were set in a band of white that crossed a blue face
from temple to temple. They scrutinized Luis Mariel and recognized him,
but their expression did not change.

The Apache saw before him horses that he and his friends needed; he saw
food on the hoof, and Usen knew that they needed food; he saw the
enemies of his people, any one of whom would shoot him down on sight,
had they the opportunity. But it was he who had the opportunity!

He levelled his rifle and fired. A vaquero cried out and fell from his
saddle. The others looked about, drawing their pistols. Shoz-Dijiji
fired again and another vaquero fell. Now the two remaining had located
the smoke of his rifle and returned his fire.

Shoz-Dijiji dropped below the edge of the arroyo and ran quickly to a
new position. When his eyes again peered above the edge of his defense
he saw the two galloping toward his former position. He appreciated
their bravery and realized their foolhardiness as he dropped his rifle
quickly on one of them and pressed the trigger; then he quickly tied a
white rag to the muzzle of his smoking rifle and waved it above the edge
of the arroyo, though he was careful not to expose any more of his
person than was necessary.

Luis Mariel looked in astonishment. What could it mean? A voice called
him by name.

“Who are you?” demanded Luis, whose better judgment prompted him to put
spurs to his horse and leave the victors in possession of the field.

“I am a friend,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “We shall not harm you if you will
throw down your pistol. If you do not we can shoot you before you can
get away.”

Luis appreciated the truth of this statement. Further, he thought that
his enemies must number several men; also—he did not know that he who
addressed him was not a Mexican, for the Spanish was quite as good as
Luis’ own. So he threw down his pistol, being assured by this time that
they had been attacked by bandits who wished only to steal the herd.
Perhaps they would invite him to join the band, and when was there ever
a red-blooded youth who did not at some time in his career aspire to be
a brigand or a pirate?

A painted face appeared above the arroyo’s edge. “Mother of God!” cried
Luis, “protect me.”

The Apache sprang quickly to level ground and came toward the youth.

“The Apache Devil!” exclaimed Luis.

“Yes,” said Shoz-Dijiji, stooping and picking up Luis’ pistol. “I shall
not harm you, if you will do as I tell you.”

“Won’t the others kill me?” asked the youth.

“There are no others,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.

“But you said ‘we,’” explained Luis.

“I am alone.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Round up those three horses and then help me drive this herd to my
camp.”

“You will not harm me, nor let your friends harm me?”

“Have I harmed you or your father in the past?”

“No.”

“Do as I tell you then,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “and you will not be killed.”

Luis rode after the three horses which were now grazing with the herd
that had been but momentarily disturbed by the shots. When he returned
with them the two men, each leading one of the riderless animals,
started the cattle slowly toward the north in the direction of the next
meeting place of Geronimo’s party after Shoz-Dijiji had collected the
arms and ammunition that had belonged to Luis and his three companions
and secured them to the saddle of the horse led by the Apache.

Shoz-Dijiji rode in silence. If he felt any elation because of the
success of his adventure it was not apparent in his demeanor. Grim,
morose, he herded the cattle onward. His eyes patrolled the world
bounded by the horizon, searching for enemies.

Luis Mariel, partly frightened, wholly thrilled, glanced often at his
companion. To ride with the Apache Devil—ah, what an adventure! From
earliest childhood Luis’ ears had been filled with the stories of Apache
ferocity, treachery, cruelty, yet against these were set the knowledge
that the Apache Devil had twice befriended his father and had once
before befriended him. Perhaps the Apache Devil would not harm him,
then; but what of the others?

He had heard hideous stories of the tortures inflicted by the Apaches
upon their prisoners. It might be that the Apache Devil could not
protect him from the ferocity of his fellows. This thought worried Luis
and to such effect that he commenced to formulate plans for escape. If
they did not come to the camp of the Indians before dark his chances
would be better than to risk making a break for liberty in the face of
the menace of the Apache Devil’s marksmanship, which he had reason to
know constituted a very real menace.

The afternoon wore on. Angry clouds, gathering in the sky, portended
early darkness and a black night. The patient herd plodded slowly on.
The hopes of Luis Mariel rose high. Two hours more and escape would be
assured if, in the meantime, they did not reach the camp of the Apaches.

“B” Troop of the ——th had been dispatched into Chihuahua in the search
for the scattered bands of the marauding renegades. Lieutenant Samuel
Adams King, with four troopers, was scouting far afield. He had been
following what appeared to be a fresh, though faint, Indian track that
led toward the north; but now, with night coming down and a storm
threatening, he had lost it. While one of the troopers held the horses
of the others, King and his remaining men searched on foot for the
elusive spoor. Proceeding in different directions the four walked
slowly, scrutinizing every inch of ground, searching for a turned
pebble, a down-pressed spear of vegetation.

King’s path took him through a deep arroyo and out upon the opposite
bank. Absorbed in his search he took no note of the growing menace of
the gathering storm nor of the distance, constantly increasing, between
himself and his men. He knew that when the rain came it would wipe out
all trace of the tracks they sought, and this knowledge constituted the
urge that kept him oblivious to all other considerations.

The dusk of evening had fallen. Heavy clouds rolled angrily and low
above the scene as a herd of cattle slowly topped a gentle rise to the
south. Two men drove them, but only one of these saw the soldiers a
couple of miles ahead—saw, and knew them for what they were. This one
glanced quickly at the landscape ahead and at the gathering storm above.
He knew that it was about to break. He knew, too, that the arroyo would
soon be filled with muddy, raging water—a barrier impassable by man or
beast. All but one of the soldiers would be upon the opposite side of
the arroyo from the herd and him.

Knowing these things, Shoz-Dijiji urged the cattle onward in the general
direction of the enemy, for even though he passed close to them they
would be unable to see him after the rain came—the rain and night.

Luis Mariel viewed the prospect of the impending storm hopefully. Soon
it would be dark, but even before that the blinding rain would
obliterate all objects within a few yards of him. They had not yet come
to the camp of the renegades, and Luis had a horse under him.

The storm was in their rear. The cattle, doubtless, would move on before
it; but Luis would turn back into it, and when it had passed he would be
safely beyond the ken of the Apache Devil.

A great cloud, black and ominous, bellied low above them, sagging as
though to a great weight of water; jagged lightning shot through it,
followed by a deafening crash of thunder; the rent cloud spewed its
contents upon the earth. It was not rain; it did not fall in drops nor
sheets but in a great mass of solid water.

With the bursting of the cloud King found himself in water a foot deep
on the level, and afterward the rain fell in torrents that shut
everything from view beyond a few yards. Lightning flashed and thunder
roared, and the pounding of the rain between drowned all other sounds.
The man floundered through the new made mud back in the direction of his
men. All was water—above, below, around him. Suddenly there appeared
before him, almost at his feet, a depression. Here the water swirled and
eddied, running in a mighty current across his path.

At its very edge he stopped and, realizing what it was, staggered back a
few steps—back from the brink of eternity. So close had he been to the
shelving bank of the arroyo that another step might have hurled him into
the racing, yellow flood that filled it now from brim to brim.

Disconcerted by the first great mass of water that fell upon them, the
cattle stopped. The leaders turned back upon the herd. Shoz-Dijiji, in
the rear, urged the stragglers forward until, presently, the herd was
milling in a muddy circle; but with the coming of the steady torrent and
beneath the heavy quirt of the Apache they gradually strung out again in
the direction they had been travelling, the storm at their backs.

Shoz-Dijiji, seeing that he was handling the herd alone, looked about
him for his companion; but the blinding torrent hid everything but the
nearer cattle, and Shoz-Dijiji did not know that Luis was driving his
unwilling pony into the teeth of the storm in an effort to escape.

An hour later the storm was over. A full moon shone out of a clear sky.
Directly ahead of him Shoz-Dijiji saw something that was frightening the
leaders of the herd, causing them to stop and then turn aside. A moment
later the Apache recognized the cause of the distraction. It was a man
on foot. At first Shoz-Dijiji thought that it was Luis, but when he had
ridden nearer he discovered that the man was a soldier. Shoz-Dijiji drew
a revolver from the holster at his hip. He would ride close enough to
make sure of his aim before firing. He was not afraid that the other
would fire first, since the soldier, before he fired, would wish to make
sure that Shoz-Dijiji was an enemy. In this Shoz-Dijiji had a great
advantage. Being an Apache he knew that all men were his enemies. He
could make no mistake on that score.

The soldier hailed him in rather lame Spanish, but there was something
in the voice that sounded familiar to the Apache Devil who never forgot
anything. So he rode yet closer.

And then, in perfectly understandable English, he said: “Put up your
hands, King, or I’ll kill you.”

Lieutenant King put his hands above his head. As yet he had not
recognized the other as an Indian. The English, the use of his own name,
mystified him.

“Who the hell are you?” he inquired.

“Turn your back,” commanded Shoz-Dijiji.

King did as he was bid, and the Apache rode up and disarmed him.

“All right,” said Shoz-Dijiji, and King lowered his arms and turned
about.

“Shoz-Dijiji!” exclaimed King.

“Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he Apaches,” replied the Apache
Devil.

“And you’re on the war path. That doesn’t look so good for me, does it,
Shoz-Dijiji?”

“Shoz-Dijiji not on war trail now. Shoz-Dijiji good Indian now. Go in
cattle business.”

In the moonlight King saw the grim half smile that accompanied the words
of the Indian, but he made no reply. Apache humor was something that he
did not pretend to understand. All he knew about it was that upon
occasion it might be hideous.

“Mebbe so you like go in cattle business with Shoz-Dijiji?” suggested
the Apache.

“I guess that whatever you say goes,” replied the officer.

“All right. Take this horse.” The Indian indicated the led horse at his
side. “Now you help drive _our_ cattle. Sabe?”

King grinned. “Perfectly,” he said.

Slowly the two men urged the cattle onward until at dawn they came to a
patch of meadow land well within the mountain range they had entered
shortly after meeting. There was water there and good grazing and little
likelihood that the tired animals would wander far from either.

Taking King with him, Shoz-Dijiji rode to the top of a high hill that
commanded the broad valley to the south and west, across which they had
come. For half an hour the Apache scanned the country below them, using
field glasses that King recognized as having once belonged to him,
glasses that had been taken from him several years before during an
engagement with hostiles.

In the far distance the Indian saw a tiny speck and recognized it as
Luis. Beyond Luis and approaching him from the southeast were horsemen.
This was doubtless the company of soldiers to which King belonged.
Shoz-Dijiji did not call the officer’s attention to either Luis or the
soldiers. In his mind he figured quickly just how long it would take the
soldiers to reach this point should Luis put them upon the trail of the
herd, which he knew that they could easily pick up and follow from the
point at which the storm had overtaken them.

“Come,” he said to King, and the two rode down from the hill and turned
into a small canyon where they would be hidden from the view of anyone
who might enter the meadow where the cattle grazed. In the canyon was a
small spring and here they drank. Shoz-Dijiji proffered King a piece of
jerked venison that stunk to high heaven, but the officer assured the
Apache that he was not hungry.

Having eaten, Shoz-Dijiji bound King’s wrists and ankles. “Now sleep,”
he said. He stretched himself nearby and was soon asleep, but it was
some time before King fell into a fitful doze. When he awoke, the Indian
was removing the bonds from his wrists.

“Now we drive our cattle,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

The balance of that day and all the following night they drove the weary
beasts through the mountains. There was no pursuit. After their sleep
Shoz-Dijiji had again taken King to the hill top and scanned the back
trail. The dust of a cavalry troop could be faintly seen in the
distance, but it was moving north parallel to the range they had entered
and was not upon their trail.

Twice they had stopped for brief rests, not for themselves but for the
cattle; and now, at dawn, the trail debouched into an open canyon where
there was water and good feed.

At the edge of the pasture land Shoz-Dijiji drew rein and pointed up the
canyon.

“There,” he said to King, “is the camp of Geronimo. If you go there you
will be killed. Mebbe so you like sell your half of the cattle
business?”

King grinned. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Shoz-Dijiji buy,” replied the Apache. “He give you a horse and—your
life. You sell?”

“You’ve bought some cattle, Shoz-Dijiji,” exclaimed King; “but I can’t
understand you. You are not like any other Indian I ever heard of. Why
have you done this?”

“Two men drive cattle easier than one,” replied the Apache.

“Yes, I know that; but why are you giving me a chance to escape when you
know that I’ll go right back to chasing you and fighting you again? Is
it because of Wichita Billings?”

“Shoz-Dijiji no sabe English,” grunted the Indian. “Now you go!” and he
pointed back down the canyon along the trail they had just come over.

King wheeled his horse around. “Good-bye, Shoz-Dijiji,” he said.
“Perhaps some day I can repay you.”

“Wait!” said the Indian and handed the white man his pistol. Then he sat
his horse watching until a turn in the canyon took the other from his
sight.

Far away Luis Mariel rode with “B” Troop of the ——th. He had not led
the soldiers upon the trail of his friend, the Apache Devil.




[Illustration: Again Gian-nah-tah flourished the red blanket.]




                             Chapter Twelve


                          “Shoz-Dijiji Knows!”

=L=UIS MARIEL had attached himself to “B” Troop. He rode with it, made
himself generally useful around camp; and, in return, they fed him.
Incidentally he picked up a smattering of English that was much more
effective than the original brand formerly purveyed by Mr. Webster, and
learned to ask for either bacon or potatoes through the medium of set
phrases that contained at least ten obscene or blasphemous words and did
not mention either bacon or potatoes by their right names. He also
discovered that one may call an American _anything_, provided that one
smiles.

Much to his surprise he discovered that he liked the Gringoes, and
because he was young and bright and good-natured, the soldiers liked
Luis.

He had been with them four or five days when Lieutenant Samuel Adams
King, half starved and rather the worse for wear, rode into camp upon an
equally starved pony that Luis immediately recognized as having formerly
belonged to one of his fellow vaqueros who had been killed by the Apache
Devil.

Being a privileged character Luis was present when King reported to his
troop commander; and when, through the medium of much profanity, a great
deal of Spanish, and a few words of remote English origin he had
indicated that he knew something about the pony King was riding, an
interpreter was summoned and Luis told his story to Captain Cullis and
the officers accompanying him.

“Well, King,” commented Cullis, “you have achieved all the distinction
of a museum piece. You should have a place in the Smithsonian
Institution.”

“How so, sir?”

“As the only white man who ever fell into the hands of the Apache Devil
and lived to tell about it. I can’t account for it. Can you?”

For a moment King hesitated before he replied, and then: “No, sir,” he
said, “I cannot.”

During that instant of hesitation King had weighed his duty as an
officer against the demands of gratitude. He knew that there was a price
upon the head of the Apache Devil that might spell his death at the
hands of any white man, as an outlaw, even after peace was restored and
the renegades returned to the reservation. He was confident that he
alone knew that Shoz-Dijiji and the Apache Devil were one and the same,
provided of course that the young Mexican was correct in his assumption
that the Apache who had captured him actually was the Apache Devil.
Perhaps the lad was mistaken. King determined to give Shoz-Dijiji the
benefit of the doubt. Gratitude would not permit him to do less.

It being evident that some of the renegades were returning to the United
States, “B” Troop was ordered above the border; and with it went Luis
Mariel, seeking new adventures. He attached himself to Lieutenant King
and crossed the border as the officer’s civilian servant.

King, who had taken a liking to the lad, helped him with his English,
learned to trust him, and eventually dispatched him to the Billings’
ranch with Nejeunee and a note to Wichita Billings asking her to take
care of the little pinto war pony until King returned from the campaign.

And so Luis Mariel, the son of the woodchopper of Casa Grande, rode
away; and with him went Nejeunee.

Up into New Mexico, making their way toward the range of mountains near
Hot Springs, rode Geronimo and Shoz-Dijiji with five other warriors and
four women. They had found it necessary to abandon the herd that
Shoz-Dijiji had captured because of the impossibility of moving it
through hostile country where every trail was patrolled by soldiers and
every water hole guarded.

Keeping to the mountains by day, crossing the valleys under cover of
night, the eleven rode north. On several occasions they were forced to
pass cattle ranches, but they committed no depredations other than the
killing of an occasional beef for food.

Their greatest hardship was shortage of water as they could not approach
the well guarded water holes and wells, and there was a time during
which they had no water for two days. They suffered greatly, and their
horses all but died from thirst.

Any but Apaches would have been forced to surrender under like
conditions; but, being Apaches, they knew _every_ place where water
might be found; and so they came at last to one such place, which was
not guarded because the white men did not know of its existence. It was
hidden in the depths of a remote, parched canyon far beneath the hard
baked surface of the ground; but it was there for the digging, and in
such an unlikely spot that there was scarcely a remote possibility that
soldiers would interfere with the digging.

From hill tops that commanded a view of the country in all directions
three keen eyed warriors watched while others dug for the precious water
that would give them all, and their jaded mounts as well, a new lease on
life.

And when they had drunk and their crude water bottles had been refilled,
they replaced the sand and the rocks in the hole they had made; and so
nicely did they erase every sign of their presence that only an Apache
might have known that they had stopped there.

Into their old stamping grounds they came at last; and so cleverly had
they eluded the soldiers that they ranged there in peace for weeks,
while the troops searched for them in Arizona and Mexico.

Geronimo, handicapped by the paucity of his following, nevertheless kept
scouts afield who watched the movements of the troops and kept fairly
well in touch with the progress of the campaign through the medium of
friendly reservation Indians.

Shoz-Dijiji was often engaged in some enterprise of this nature, and
upon one occasion he went into the heart of the reservation at San
Carlos. Returning, he rode through familiar mountains along an unmarked
trail that recalled many memories of other days.

Shoz-Dijiji rode out of his way and against his better judgment. He was
an Apache, iron willed and schooled to self-denial; but he was human,
and so he would torture his poor heart by riding a trail that he had
once ridden with _her_.

He would ride near the ranch. Perhaps he might see her, but she would
never know that he was near.

The war chief of the Be-don-ko-he dreamed and, dreaming, relaxed his
vigilance. Love, sorrow, reminiscence dulled his faculties for the
moment. Otherwise he would never have been so easily surprised.

The way he had chosen led here down the steep declivity of a canyon side
and along the canyon’s bottom for a few hundred yards to a point where a
nimble pony might clamber up the opposite side. It was very hot in the
sun scorched cleft and very quiet. The only sound was the crunching of
gravelly soil beneath unshod hoofs—the hoofs of the pony Shoz-Dijiji
rode down the canyon and the hoofs of another pony bearing a rider up
the canyon.

Perhaps chance so synchronized the gaits of the two animals that the
footfalls of each hid those of the other from the ears of their riders.
Perchance Fate—but why speculate?

The fact remains that as Shoz-Dijiji rounded an abrupt turn he came face
to face with the other pony and its rider. Surprise was instantly
reflected upon the face of the latter; but the Apache, though equally
surprised, let no indication of it disturb the imperturbability of his
countenance.

Each reined in instantly and, for a moment, sat eyeing the other in
silence. Shoz-Dijiji was the first to speak.

“You are alone?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

“Why you ride alone when the Apaches are on the war-trail?” he asked,
sternly.

“The Apaches are my friends. They will not harm me.”

“Some of the Be-don-ko-he Apaches are your friends, white girl; but
there are others on the war-trail who are not your friends,” replied
Shoz-Dijiji. “There are Cho-kon-en and Ned-ni with Geronimo.”

“Shoz-Dijiji and Geronimo would not let them harm me.”

“Shoz-Dijiji and Geronimo are not like the God of the white-eyed
men—they cannot be here, there, and everywhere at the same time.”

Wichita Billings smiled. “But perhaps He guides them to the right place
at the right time,” she suggested. “Are you not here now, Shoz-Dijiji,
instead of a Cho-kon-en or a Ned-ni?”

“You have strong medicine, white girl; but so did the great izze-nantan,
Nakay-do-klunni. He made strong medicine that turned away the bullets of
the white-eyed soldiers, but at Cibicu Creek they killed him. The best
medicine is to stay out of danger.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Shoz-Dijiji,” admitted the girl, “I did
not dream that there was a renegade within a hundred miles of here.”

“When the Shis-Inday are on the war-trail they are like your God—they
are here, there, and everywhere.”

“Are there others with you, Shoz-Dijiji?”

“No, I am alone.”

“What are you doing here? Were you—were you coming to the ranch,
Shoz-Dijiji?” she asked, hesitatingly. “Were you coming to see me?”
There was potential gladness in her voice.

“Shoz-Dijiji has been scouting,” replied the Apache. “He is returning to
the camp of Geronimo.”

“But you were going to stop and see me, Shoz-Dijiji,” she insisted.

“No. It would have made trouble. Your father does not like Shoz-Dijiji,
and he would like to kill a renegade. Shoz-Dijiji does not wish to be
killed. Therefore there would be trouble.”

“My father is sorry for the things he said to you, Shoz-Dijiji. Come to
the ranch, and he will tell you so. He was angry because he was very
fond of Mason; and you know that they had just found Mason murdered—and
scalped.”

“Shoz-Dijiji knows. He knows more about that than your father.
Shoz-Dijiji knows that it was not an Apache that killed Mason.”

“How do you know? Do you know who did kill him? He was scalped.”

“Are the white-eyed men such fools that they think that only an Apache
can scalp? If they were not such fools they would know that it is only
occasionally that Apaches do take the scalps of their enemies. They do
know this, but they do not want to admit it. They know that whenever a
white-eyed man wishes to kill an enemy he need only scalp him to
convince everyone that Apaches did it, because everyone wishes to
believe that every murder is done by Apaches.

“Yes, I know who killed Mason and why. He was robbed in Cheetim’s Hog
Ranch, and he had sworn to get Cheetim. He was looking for him with a
gun. Cheetim hired a man to ride out with Mason and shoot him in the
back. That is all.

“Now come. Shoz-Dijiji ride back with you until you are near the ranch.
You must not ride alone again even if you are not afraid of the Apaches,
for there are bad men among the white-eyes—men who would harm you even
more surely than an Apache.”

He motioned her to precede him up the steep canyon side; and when the
two ponies had scrambled to the summit he rode at her side, where the
ground permitted, as they walked their ponies in the direction of the
Billings ranch.

For a while they rode in silence, the Apache constantly on the alert
against another and more dangerous surprise, the girl thoughtful, her
face reflecting the cast of sadness in which her thoughts were molded.

Wichita Billings knew that the man at her side loved her. She knew that
she was drawn to him more than to any other man that she had ever known,
but she did not know that this attraction constituted love.

Raised as she had been in an atmosphere of racial hatred, schooled in
ignorance and bigotry by people who looked upon every race and nation,
other than their own race and nation, as inferior, she could scarce
believe it possible that she could give her love to an Indian; and so
her mind argued against her heart that it was not love that she felt for
him but some other emotion which should be suppressed.

Shoz-Dijiji, on his part, realized the barrier that prejudice had
erected between them and the difficulty that the white girl might have
to surmount it in the event that she loved him. He, too, had faced a
similar barrier in his hatred of the white race; but that his love had
long since leveled. A greater obstacle, one which he could not again
face, was the hurt that his pride had suffered when she had recoiled
from his embrace.

Thoughts such as these kept them silent for some time until Wichita
chanced to recall Nejeunee.

“Shoz-Dijiji,” she exclaimed, “where is your pinto war pony?”

The Apache shrugged. “Who knows?”

“What became of him? Is he dead, or did you lose him in battle?”

“We were starving,” said the Apache. “We had eaten all the ponies except
Nejeunee. It was in Sonora. Your soldiers were pressing us on one side,
the Mexicans upon the other. At night I led Nejeunee close to the picket
line of the white-eyed soldiers. I have not seen him since.”

“You were very fond of Nejeunee, Shoz-Dijiji.”

“In Apache Nejeunee means friend,” said the man. “One by one all of my
friends are being taken from me. Nejeunee was just one more. Usen has
forgotten Shoz-Dijiji.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Wichita. “What would you say if I told you that
Nejeunee is alive and that I know where he is?”

“I should say that after all Usen has at last been good to me in giving
me you as a friend. Tell me where he is.”

“He’s on our ranch—in the back pasture.”

“On your ranch? How did Nejeunee get there?”

“You left him near the picket line of Lieutenant King’s troop, and when
they got back across the border he sent him up to me.”

“King did not tell me.”

“You have seen the lieutenant?”

“We met in Chihuahua,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

“And you talked with him?”

“Yes.”

“But you were on the war path, and he was after you. How could you have
met and talked?”

“King and Shoz-Dijiji went into the cattle business together.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Wichita.

“When you see King ask him. He will tell you.”

“Were you two alone together?”

“Yes, for a day and a night.”

“And you did not kill him?”

“No. Shoz-Dijiji does not kill anyone that you love.”

“Oh, Shoz-Dijiji,” exclaimed the girl, “I can’t tell you how much I
appreciate that; but really you are mistaken in thinking that I love
Lieutenant King.”

“All right, next time I kill him.”

“No, oh, no, you mustn’t do that.”

“Why not? He is on the war-trail against me. He kill me all right, if he
get the chance. If you no love him, I kill him.”

“But he is my friend, my very good friend,” insisted the girl. “He is
your friend, too, Shoz-Dijiji. If I ask you not to kill him will you
promise me that you won’t?”

“Shoz-Dijiji promise you he no try to kill King. Mebbe so, in battle,
Shoz-Dijiji have to kill him. That he cannot help.”

“Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, why don’t you come in and stop fighting us? It is so
useless. You can never win; and you are such a good man, Shoz-Dijiji,
that it seems a shame that you should sacrifice your life uselessly.”

“No, we can never win. We know that, but what else is there for us? The
white-eyed men make war upon us even in peace. They treat us like
enemies and prisoners. We are men, the same as they. Why do they not
treat us like men? They say that we are bad men and that we torture our
prisoners and that that is bad. Do they not torture us? We torture the
bodies of our enemies, but the white men torture our hearts. Perhaps all
the feelings of the white-eyed men are in their bodies, but that is not
so with the Shis-Inday. Bad words and bad looks make wounds in our
hearts that hurt us more than a knife thrust in the body. The body
wounds may heal but the heart wounds never—they go on hurting forever.
No, I shall not come in. I am a war chief among the Be-don-ko-he. Shall
I come in to be a ‘dirty Siwash’ among the white-eyes?”

For a while the girl was silent after the Apache had ceased speaking.
Their patient ponies stepped daintily along the rough trail. The
descending sun cast their shadows, grotesquely, far ahead. The stifling
heat of mid-day was gradually giving place to the promise of the coming
cool of evening.

“We are almost home,” said the girl, presently. “I wish you would come
and talk with my father. He is not a bad man. Perhaps he can find some
way to help you.”

“No,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “His people and my people are at war. His heart
is not friendly toward Apaches. It is better that I do not come.”

“But you want to get Nejeunee,” insisted the girl.

“You have told me where Nejeunee is. I will get him.”

She did not insist, and again they rode in silence until the warrior
reined in his pony just below the summit of a low hill. Beyond the hill,
but hidden from their sight, stood the Billings ranch house.

“Good-bye,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “I think perhaps we never see each other
again. When the soldiers come back from Mexico we go back there and do
not come to this country any more.”

“Oh, Shoz-Dijiji,” cried the girl, “I do not want you to go.”

“Shoz-Dijiji does not want to go,” he replied. “Your people have driven
Shoz-Dijiji from his own country.”

“I should think that you would hate me, Shoz-Dijiji.”

“No, I do not hate you. I love you,” he said simply.

“You must not say that, Shoz-Dijiji,” she answered, sadly.

“If Shoz-Dijiji was a white-eyed man, you would listen,” he said.

She was silent.

“Tell me,” he demanded, “is that not true?”

“Oh, God! I don’t know, I don’t know,” she cried.

“Shoz-Dijiji knows,” said the Be-don-ko-he. “Good-bye!”

He wheeled his pony and rode away.

The sun was setting as Wichita Billings dismounted wearily at the corral
back of the ranch house. Luke Jensen came from the bunk house to take
her pony.

“Where’s Dad?” she asked.

“One of the boys found a beef killed this mornin’. He said it looked
like Injuns hed done it. Yore Dad rid over to hev a look at it. He ought
to be back right smart soon now.” Luke glanced over across the back
pasture toward the east. Wichita knitted her brows.

“Did he go that way?” she asked. “Alone?”

“Yep,” assented Luke.

“Get one of the other boys to go with you, and ride out and meet him. If
Apaches killed the beef there may be some of them around.” Wichita
turned toward the ranch house, hesitated, and then walked back to Luke.

“Luke,” she said, “you don’t hate all Indians do you?”

“You know I don’t, Miss. I’d a bin dead now ef it hedn’t a-bin fer one
of ’em. Why?”

“Well, if you ever meet an Apache, Luke, remember that, and don’t shoot
until you’re plumb sure he’s hostile.”

Jensen scratched his head. “Yes, Miss,” he said, “but what’s the idee?”

“There may be friendly Indians around, and if you should shoot one of
them,” she explained, “the rest might turn hostile.”

As Wichita walked toward the house Luke stood looking after her.

“I don’t reckon she’s gone loco,” he soliloquized, “but she shore better
watch herself.”

It was ten o’clock before Luke Jensen returned to the ranch. He went
immediately to the house and knocked on the door, entering at Wichita’s
invitation.

“Your Dad back?” he demanded.

“No. Didn’t you see anything of him?”

“Nary hide nor hair.”

“Where do you suppose he can be?”

“I dunno. They’s Indians around, though. I bumped plumb into one tother
side of the willows in the draw outside the fer pasture gate, an’ who do
you reckon it was? Why none other than that Shoz-Dijiji fellow what give
me a lift that time. He must-a thought some o’ the hosses in the pasture
were comin’ through them willows, fer he never tried to hide hisself at
all. I jest rid plumb on top o’ him. He knew me, too. I couldn’t help
but think o’ wot you told me just before I left about bein’ sure not to
shoot up any friendly. Say, did you know he was around?”

“How could I know that?” demanded Wichita.

“I dunno,” admitted Luke, scratching his head; “but it did seem dern
funny to me.”

“It’s funny the man with you didn’t take a shot at him,” commented
Wichita. “Most all of the boys believe in shooting an Apache first and
inquiring about his past later.”

“There wasn’t no one with me,” explained Luke. “There wasn’t no one
around but me when I left, and I didn’t want to waste time waiting fer
someone to show up. Anyways, I kin see alone jest as fer as I kin with
help.”

“Well, I reckon he’ll be coming along pretty soon, Luke,” said Wichita.
“Good night.”

“Good night, Miss,” replied Jensen.




                            Chapter Thirteen


                             Back To Sonora

=D=AWN broke and Wichita Billings still sat fully dressed waiting for
her father. It was the first time that she had ever worried greatly over
his absence, and she could not explain why she worried now. She had
always thought of her father as absolutely able to take care of himself
in any emergency. He was a masterful man, utterly fearless, and yet not
prone to take unnecessary chances.

A dozen times she had been upon the point of going to the bunk house and
sending the entire outfit out to search for him, but each time she had
shrunk from the ridicule that she well knew would be slyly heaped upon
both her father and herself if she did so without good warrant; but now
with a new day come and no word from him, she determined to swallow her
pride and carry out her plan, however foolish it might appear.

Persistent knocking on the bunk house door finally elicited a profane
request for information as to what was “eating” her.

“Dad’s not back yet,” she shouted.

“Oh, hell, is that you Miss? I didn’t know it was you.”

“Never mind. Roll out and get busy. We’re goin’ to find him if we have
to ride to Boston,” she cried.

Luke Jensen, being the youngest man in the outfit, both in years and
point of service, was first from the bunk house, it being his duty to
bring the saddle horses in from pasture. At the barn, he found that
Wichita had already bridled the horse that was kept up for the purpose
of bringing the others in and was on the point of swinging the heavy
saddle to its back.

He greeted her cheerily, took the saddle from her, and completed its
adjustment.

“You worried about your Paw, Miss?” he asked as he drew the latigo
through the cinch ring.

“Something might have happened to him,” she replied. “It won’t hurt to
look for him.”

“No, it won’t do no hurt, though I reckon he kin take keer o’ hisself
about as good as the next man. I wouldn’t worry none, Miss,” he
concluded, reassuringly, as he stepped into the stirrup and swung his
leg over the horse’s rump.

Wichita stood by the corral gate watching Luke riding down into the east
pasture at an easy lope. She saw him disappear among the willows that
grow along the draw a mile from the corrals and two thirds of the way
across the pasture; and then “Smooth” Kreff, her father’s foreman,
joined her.

“Mornin’, Miss,” he greeted her. He looked at her sharply. “You-all been
up all night, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Pshaw! Why didn’t you rout us out? We’d a-gone lookin’ fer him any
time.”

“There wouldn’t have been much use looking for him at night.”

“No, and there ain’t much use lookin’ fer him now; but it would a-made
you-all feel easier,” replied the man.

“Why isn’t there any use looking for him now?” she demanded.

“Because the Boss kin take keer of himself. He ain’t a-goin’ to thank us
none, I’m figgerin’.”

“No, if he’s all right, he won’t; but if he isn’t all right we’ll be
glad we did.”

“Them hosses must a-gone plumb to the fer end of the pasture,” remarked
Kreff.

“They always do, if we’re in a particular hurry to get them up,” said
Wichita.

The other men had come from the bunk house by now and were standing
around waiting.

“Thet dog-gone ‘cavvy’ must a-knowed we wanted ’em bad,” said one.

“Like as not they seed Luke comin’ an’ hid out in the willows,”
suggested another.

“They shore are an ornery bunch,” admitted a third.

“I could of ridden down there backwards on a bicycle an’ rounded ’em up
before this,” boasted a fourth.

“Here they come now,” exclaimed Wichita, as several horses broke from
the willows and trotted toward the corrals.

In twos and threes they emerged from the dense foliage until some forty
or fifty horses were strung out on the trail to the corrals, and then
Luke Jensen rode into sight from out the willows.

“What’s thet critter he’s leadin’?” demanded one of the men.

“It’s saddled,” volunteered another.

“It’s Scar Foot,” said Kreff.

After that there was silence. Some of the men glanced at Wichita; but
most of them stood looking away, embarrassed. Scar Foot was Billings’
favorite horse—the animal he had ridden out on the previous day.

The men walked out of the corral into the pasture to head the horses
through the bars that had been let down to receive them. No one said
anything. Kreff walked forward toward Luke; and the latter reined in
and, leaning down, spoke to the foreman in a low voice. Wichita
approached them.

“Where did you find Scar Foot?” she asked. “Where is Dad?”

“Scar Foot was jest outside the east gate, Miss,” explained Jensen. “The
other hosses was all up there by him, jest inside the fence.”

“Did you see anything of Dad?” she demanded again.

“We-all’s goin’ to ride right out an’ look fer him, Miss,” said Kreff.

Inside the corral two men were roping, and the others were busy saddling
their horses as they were caught.

Wichita climbed to the top of the corral. “I’ll ride Two Spot,” she
called to one of the ropers.

Finally all the horses they needed had been caught and the others turned
back into the pasture. One of the men who had been among the first to
saddle was saddling Two Spot for Wichita. Luke Jensen, who had
transferred his outfit to one of his own string, kept as far from
Wichita as he could; but as she was about to mount, Kreff approached
her, leading his own horse.

“I wouldn’t come along, Miss, ef I was you,” he advised. “We may have
some hard ridin’.”

“When did I get so I couldn’t ride with any of you?” she asked, quietly.

“There may be some fightin’,” he insisted, “an’ I wouldn’t want you-all
to get hurted.”

The girl smiled, ever so slightly. “It’s good of you, ‘Smooth,’” she
said; “but I understand, I think.” She swung into the saddle, and Kreff
said no more.

Luke Jensen leading, they rode at a run down through the pasture,
scattering the “cavvy,” and into the dense willows, emerging upon the
opposite side, climbing the steep bank of the draw, and away again at
top speed toward the east gate. In silence they rode, with grim faces.

There, just beyond the fence, they found Billings—where Luke Jensen had
found him. Wichita knelt beside her father and felt of his hands and
face. She did not cry. Dry eyed she arose and for the first time saw
that one of the men who had brought up the rear had led Scar Foot back
with them; but even had she known it when they started she would not
have been surprised, for almost from the moment that she had seen Luke
Jensen leading the horse back toward the corrals and had seen him
whisper to Kreff she had expected to find just what she had found.

Tenderly the rough men lifted all that was mortal of Jefferson Billings
across the saddle in which he had ridden to his death, and many were the
muttered curses that would have been vented vehemently and aloud had it
not been for the presence of the girl, for Billings had been shot in the
back and—scalped.

On walking horses the cortege filed slowly toward the ranch house, the
men deferentially falling in behind the led horse that bore the body of
the “Boss” directly in rear of the girl who could not cry.

“He never had a chanct,” growled one of the men. “Plugged right in the
back between the shoulders!”

“God damned dirty Siwashes!” muttered another.

“I seen an Injun here yestiddy evenin’,” said Luke.

“Why the Hell didn’t you say so before?” demanded Kreff.

“I told Miss Chita,” replied the young man; “but, Lor’, it warnt him did
it.”

“Wot makes you-all think it warnt?” asked Kreff.

“He’s a friend of hern. He wouldn’t have hurted her old man.”

“What Injun was it?”

“Thet Shoz-Dijiji fellow what saved me thet time I was hurted an’ lost.
I know he wouldn’t hev done it. They must hev been some others around,
too.”

Kreff snorted. “Fer a bloke wot’s supposed to hail from Texas you-all
shore are simple about Injuns. Thet Siwash is a Cheeracow Apache an’ a
Cheeracow Apache’d kill his grandmother fer a lead nickel.”

“I don’t believe thet Injun would. Why didn’t he plug me when he had the
chancet?” demanded Jensen.

“Say!” exclaimed Kreff. “Thet there pinto stallion thet thet there
greaser brung up from Chihuahua fer King warnt with the ‘cavvy’ this
mornin’. By gum! There’s the answer. Thet there pony belonged to
Shoz-Dijiji. He was a-gettin’ it when the Boss rid up.”

“They had words last time the Siwash was around here,” volunteered
another.

“Sure! The Boss said he’d plug him if he ever seen him hangin’ around
here again,” recalled one of the men.

At the ranch house they laid Jefferson Billings on his bed and covered
him with a sheet, and then “Smooth” Kreff went to Wichita and told her
of his deductions and the premises upon which they were based.

“I don’t believe it,” said the girl. “Shoz-Dijiji has always been
friendly to us. I ran across him by accident in the hills yesterday, and
he rode home with me because, he said, there were other renegades around
and it might not be safe for me to ride alone. It must have been some
other Indian who did it.”

“But his cayuse is gone,” insisted Kreff.

“He may have taken his pony,” admitted the girl. “I don’t say that he
didn’t do that. It was his; and he had a right to take it, but I don’t
believe that he killed Dad.”

“Your Paw didn’t have no use fer Injuns,” Kreff reminded her. “He might
have taken a shot at this Siwash.”

“No; his guns were both in their holsters, and his rifle was in its
boot. He never saw the man that shot him.”

Kreff scratched his head. “I reckon thet’s right,” he admitted. “It
shore was a dirty trick. Thet’s what makes me know it was a Siwash.”

The girl turned away sadly.

“Don’t you worry none, Miss,” said Kreff; “I’ll look after things fer
you, jes’ like your Paw was here.”

“Thanks, ‘Smooth,’” replied Wichita. “You boys have been wonderful.”

After the man had left the room the girl sat staring fixedly at the
opposite wall. A calendar hung there and a colored print in a cheap
frame, but these she did not see. What she saw was the tall, straight
figure of a bronzed man, an almost naked savage. He sat upon his war
pony and looked into her eyes.

“Shoz-Dijiji does not kill anyone that you love,” he said to her.

The girl dropped her face into her hands, stifling a dry sob. “Oh,
Shoz-Dijiji, how could you?” she cried.

Suddenly she sprang to her feet. Her lips were set in a straight, hard
line; her eyes flashed in anger.

“Oh, God!” she cried. “You gave me love; and I threw it away upon an
Indian, upon an enemy of my people; and now, in your anger, you have
punished me. I was blind, but you have made me to see again. Forgive me,
God, and you will see that I have learned my lesson well.”

Stepping through the doorway onto the porch, Wichita seized a short
piece of iron pipe and struck a triangle of iron that hung suspended
from a roof joist. Three times she struck it, and in answer to the
signal the men came from bunk house and corrals until all that had been
within hearing of the summons were gathered before her.

Dry eyed, she faced them; and upon her countenance was an expression
that none ever had seen there before. It awed them into silence as they
waited for her to speak. They were rough, uncouth men, little able to
put their inmost thoughts into words, and none of them ever had looked
upon an avenging angel; otherwise they would have found a fitting
description for the daughter of their dead Boss as she faced them now.

“I have something to say to you,” she commenced in a level voice. “My
father lies in here, murdered. He was shot in the back. He never had a
chance. As far as we know no one saw him killed, but I guess we all know
who did it. There doesn’t seem to be any chance for a doubt—it was the
Be-don-ko-he war chief, Shoz-Dijiji, Black Bear.

“If it takes all the rest of my life and every acre and every critter
that I own, I’m going to get the man that killed my father; and I’m
starting now by offering a thousand dollars to the man who brings in
Shoz-Dijiji—_dead!_”

When she had ceased speaking she turned and walked back into the house,
closing the door after her.

The men, moving slowly toward the bunk house, talked together in low
tones, discussing the girl’s offer.

Inside the house, Wichita Billings threw herself face down upon a sofa
and burst into tears.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Shoz-Dijiji slid from the back of the pinto war pony, Nejeunee, in the
camp of Geronimo and stood before the great war chief of the Apaches.

“Seven times, my son,” said the old chief, “have I cast hoddentin to the
four winds at evening since you rode away; seven times have I cast
hoddentin to the four winds at dawn; twice seven times have I prayed to
the spirits whose especial duty it is to watch over you to bring you
back in safety. My prayers have been answered. What word do you bring?”

“Shoz-Dijiji went to the reservation at San Carlos,” replied the young
man. “None of our friends or relatives who went out upon the war-trail
with us is there. I heard many stories, but I do not speak of anything
that I did not see with my own eyes or hear with my own ears.

“There are many soldiers scouting everywhere. There are so many that I
think all the soldiers that were sent to Mexico after us must have been
called back to hunt for us here.

“The reservation Indians say that now that Miles is after us we shall
all be killed. They advise us to lay down our arms and surrender. I
think that very soon the soldiers will find our camp here.”

“You are a war chief, my son,” said Geronimo. “Already you are very
wise. At the councils even the old men listen to you with respect. What
would you advise?”

“We are very few,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, thoughtfully. “We cannot take
the war-trail successfully against the pindah-lickoyee in this country
where we are. Sooner or later they will kill us or capture us. This is
no longer a good country for the Apache. It is our country that Usen
made for us, but we cannot be happy in it any longer because of the
pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji does not wish to live here any more. Let us
go to Mexico. Perhaps the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee will not again
follow us into Mexico. There we may live as we would wish to live and
not as the pindah-lickoyee want us to live.”

“And we can punish the Mexicans for inviting the soldiers of the
pindah-lickoyee to come down to their country and kill us,” added
Geronimo. “I think you have spoken true words. I think we should go to
Mexico. Perhaps there we shall find all of our friends and relatives
from whom we became separated when the soldiers were hunting us in
Sonora and Chihuahua. Perhaps we can even be happy again. Who knows?”

And so it was that when the troopers of “B” Troop rode into the camp of
Geronimo a week later they found nothing but cold ashes where the
cooking fires had been and the débris of a deserted Indian village that
the Apaches had not taken their usual precautions to hide, since they
expected never again to return to their beloved mountains.

Far to the south, below the line, frightened peons burned many candles
and said many prayers, for they had heard stories. A man had found the
bodies of three vaqueros, and he had seen the print of an Apache
moccasin in the camp where they had been killed. They had not been
tortured nor mutilated.

“The Apache Devil again!” whispered the peons.

A terrified freighter, a bullet through his shoulder, galloped an
exhausted mule into a little hamlet. The wagon train that he had been
with had been attacked by Apaches and all had been slain save he, and
with his own eyes he had recognized Geronimo.

“Holy Mother, preserve us! Geronimo and the Apache Devil, both!”

Leaving a trail of blood and ashes behind them the renegades headed for
the mountains near Casa Grande. Having committed no depredations north
of the line they felt confident that the United States soldiers would
not follow them into Sonora. Why should they? There was nothing for the
soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee to avenge.

Thus the Apaches reasoned, since, in common with white men, they
possessed the very human trait of easily forgetting the wrongs that they
committed against others, even though they might always harbor those
that were committed against them.

So now they either forgot or ignored what the whites still considered
just causes for righteous anger—burnt ranches, stolen stock, tortured
men, women, and children, mutilated corpses that had emblazoned their
trail through Arizona from San Carlos to the border over a year before;
but the whites had no intention of permitting these occurrences to go
brown in their memories.

From one end of the country to the other Geronimo and his bloody deeds
occupied more front page newspaper space than any other topic, and to
the readers of the newspapers of all the civilized world his name was a
household word. For over a year the armies of two nations had been
futilely engaged in an attempt to capture or kill a handful of men,
women, and children. Geronimo and his renegades had outwitted,
outgeneraled, and outfought them; and now, after again outwitting the
army of the United States, they had come back to Mexico and were meting
out punishment to those whom they mistakenly believed were responsible
for bringing United States troops below the border to fight them; and in
carrying out this policy they attacked every Mexican they saw after they
crossed the border, all the way to Casa Grande. Nor did they desist
then.

South of Casa Grande, near a place which the Apaches called Gosoda, a
road wound out of the town through a mountain pass. Many were the
freight trains that lumbered through the dust along this road; and near
here hid Geronimo, the Apache Devil, and their followers.

Here the renegades remained for some time, killing freighters, taking
what supplies they desired, and destroying the remainder; but the
reputation that this road achieved was such as to discourage freighting
for the nonce, though it attracted Mexican soldiers in embarrassing
numbers.

Geronimo then led his followers into the Sierra de Antunez Mountains
where they found all that now remained of their depleted tribe and
learned that the United States soldiers had not left the mountains of
Mexico but, on the contrary, were becoming more active than ever.

Geronimo was disheartened when he learned of this, for he had banked
wholly on the belief that he would be rid of the menace of United States
troops if he returned to Mexico without committing more depredations in
the United States.

“What are we to do?” he demanded at the council fire. “Every man’s hand
is against us. If we return to the reservation we shall be put in prison
and killed; if we stay in Mexico they will continue to send more and
more soldiers to fight us.”

“There is but one thing to do,” replied Shoz-Dijiji when Geronimo had
finished. “We must continue fighting until we are all killed. Already we
are reckless of our lives; let us be more so; let us give no quarter to
anyone and ask no favors. It is better to die on the war trail than to
be put in prison and choked to death with a rope about the neck. I,
Shoz-Dijiji, shall continue to fight the enemies of my people until I am
killed. I have spoken.”

“You are a young man,” said Geronimo. “Your words are the words of a
young man. When I was young I wanted nothing better than to fight, but
now that I am getting old I should like a little peace and quiet;
although I should not object to fighting to obtain them if I thought
that I might win them thus.

“But now,” he continued, sadly, “I cannot see any hope of winning
anything but death by fighting longer against the pindah-lickoyee. There
are too many of them, and they will not let us rest. I would make a
peace treaty with them, if I could.”

“They do not want to make a peace treaty with us,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
“They want only to kill us all that there may be no more Apaches left to
dispute the ownership of the land they have stolen from us. Let the old
men and the women and the children make a peace treaty with the
pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji will never make peace if it means that he
must return to San Carlos and be a reservation Indian.”

“I think that we should make peace with them,” said Na-chi-ta, “if they
will promise that we shall not be killed.”

“The promises of the pindah-lickoyee are valueless,” growled a warrior.

Thus they spoke around their council fires at night, and though most of
them wanted peace and none of them saw any other alternative than death,
they clung doggedly to the war trail. During three months they had many
skirmishes with the white soldiers; and five times their camps were
surprised, yet in no instance were the troops of the pindah-lickoyee
able either to capture or defeat them; never was there a decisive
victory for the trained soldiers who so greatly outnumbered them.

In July 1886 Geronimo’s force numbered some twenty-five fighting men, a
few women, and a couple of boys. Outside of their weapons and the
clothing that they wore they possessed a few hundred pounds of dried
meat and nineteen ponies—the sole physical resources at their command
to wage a campaign against a great nation that already had expended a
million dollars during the preceding fourteen months in futile efforts
to subjugate them and had enlisted as allies the armed forces of another
civilized power.

Moving farther and farther into Old Mexico as the troops pressed them,
the renegades were camped on the Yongi River, nearly three hundred miles
south of the boundary, late in July. They believed that they had
temporarily thrown their pursuers off the track and, war weary, were
taking advantage of the brief respite they had earned to rest.

Peace and quiet lay upon the camp beside the Yongi. The braves squatted,
smoking, or lay stretched in sleep. The squaws patched war worn
moccasins. There was little conversation and no laughter. The remnant of
a once powerful nation was making its last stand, bravely, without even
the sustaining influence of hope.

A rifle cracked. War whoops burst upon their ears. Leaping to their
feet, seizing the weapons that lay always ready at hand, the renegades
fell back as the soldiers and scouts of Lawton’s command charged their
camp. The surprise had been complete, and in their swift retreat the
Apaches lost three killed, whom they carried off with them, as they
abandoned their supply of dried meat and their nineteen ponies to the
enemy. Now they had nothing left but their weapons and their indomitable
courage.

Clambering to inaccessible places among the rocks, where mounted men
could not follow, they waited until the soldiers withdrew. Shoz-Dijiji
arose and started down toward the camp.

“Where are you going?” demanded Geronimo.

“The white-eyes have taken Nejeunee,” replied the war chief.
“Shoz-Dijiji goes to take his war pony from them.”

“Good!” exclaimed Geronimo. “I go with you.” He turned and looked
inquiringly at the other warriors before he followed Shoz-Dijiji down
the steep declivity. After the two came the balance of the grim
warriors.

Keeping to the hills, unseen, they followed Lawton’s command in the rear
of which they saw their ponies being driven. As the hours passed,
Geronimo saw that the distance between the main body of troopers and the
pony herd was increasing.

A few miles ahead was a small meadow just beyond which the trail made a
sharp turn around the shoulder of a hill. Geronimo whispered to
Shoz-Dijiji who nodded understanding and assent. The word was passed
among the other warriors; and at the same time Shoz-Dijiji turned to the
left to make a detour through the hills, while a single warrior remained
upon the trail of the troops.

At a smart trot the Be-don-ko-he war chief led his fellows through the
rough mountains. For an hour they pushed rapidly on until Shoz-Dijiji
dropped to his belly near the summit of a low hill and commenced to worm
his way slowly upward. Behind him came twenty painted savages. In the
rear of concealing shrubbery at the hill top the Apache Devil stopped,
and behind him stopped the twenty.

Below Shoz-Dijiji was a little meadow. It lay very quiet and peaceful in
the afternoon sun, deserted; but Shoz-Dijiji knew that it would not be
deserted long. Already he could hear the approach of armed men.
Presently they came into sight. Captain Lawton rode in advance. At his
side was Lieutenant Gatewood. Behind them were the scouts and the
soldiers. The formation was careless, because they all knew that the
renegades, surprised and defeated, were far behind them.

Shoz-Dijiji watched them pass. In the rear of the column he saw
Lieutenant King who had been temporarily detached from his own troop to
serve with this emergency command of Lawton’s. The length of the meadow
they rode. The head of the column disappeared where the trail turned the
shoulder of a hill, and still Shoz-Dijiji and the twenty lay quietly
waiting.

Now half the column was out of sight. Presently Shoz-Dijiji watched King
disappear from view, and once again the little meadow was deserted, but
not for long.

A little pinto stallion trotted into view, stopped, pricked dainty ears
and looked about. Behind him came other ponies—nineteen of them—and
behind the ponies three sun parched troopers in dusty, faded blue.

Silently Shoz-Dijiji arose, and behind him arose twenty other painted
warriors. They uttered no war whoops as they raced silently down into
the meadow in front of the ponies. There would be noise enough in a
moment; but they wished to delay the inevitable as long as possible lest
the main body of the command, warned by the sounds of combat, should
return to the meadow before the mission of the Apaches was completed.

The first trooper to see them vented his surprise in lurid profanity and
spurred forward in an attempt to stampede the ponies across the meadow
before the renegades could turn them. His companions joined him in the
effort.

Shoz-Dijiji and six other warriors raced swiftly to intercept the
ponies, while the other renegades moved down to the turn in the trail
where they could hold up the troop should it return too soon.

The Apache Devil whistled sharply as he ran and the pinto stallion
stopped, wheeled, and ran toward him. Three ponies, frightened by the
shouts of the soldiers, raced swiftly ahead, passing Shoz-Dijiji and his
six, passing the balance of the twenty who had not yet reached their
position, and disappeared around the turn.

Shoz-Dijiji leaped to Nejeunee’s back and headed the remaining ponies in
a circle, back in the direction from which they had come and toward the
six who had accompanied him.

It was then that one of the three soldiers opened fire, but the Apaches
did not reply. They were too busy catching mounts from the frightened
herd, and they had not come primarily to fight. When they had recaptured
their ponies there would be time enough for that, perhaps, but it was
certain that there was no time for it now. They had their hands full for
a few seconds, but eventually seven warriors were mounted; and Geronimo
and the remainder of the renegades were coming down the meadow at a run
as Shoz-Dijiji and his six drove the herd along the back trail.

Hopelessly outnumbered, cut off from their fellows, the three troopers
looked for some avenue of escape and fell back in front of the herd,
firing. It was then that the Apaches opened fire; and at the first
volley one of the soldiers fell and the other two turned and raced for
safety, rounding the side of the herd, they spurred their mounts along
the flank of the renegades.

A few hasty shots were sent after them; but the Apaches wasted no time
upon them, and they won through in safety while Shoz-Dijiji and the six
urged the ponies at a run along the back trail toward camp, as those on
foot took to the hills and disappeared just as Lawton’s command came
charging to the rescue, too late.

Lawton followed the Apaches; but, being fearful of ambush, he moved
cautiously, and long before he could overtake them the renegades had
made good their escape.




                            Chapter Fourteen


                            Skeleton Canyon

=T=HE weeks dragged on—lean and hungry weeks of slinking through the
mountains with an implacable enemy always on their heels. The renegades
had little food and little rest. Their cause seemed hopeless even to the
most war-like and the most sanguine of their number. Only Shoz-Dijiji
held out for war. That was because he had nothing to live for. He
courted death, but no bullet found him.

At last the others determined to give up; and Geronimo sent a messenger
to the commander of a body of Mexican troops that was camped near them,
asking for a parley.

All that the Mexicans asked was that Geronimo should take his band out
of Mexico; and this the old chieftain promised to do, both sides
agreeing not to fight any more against the other.

Moving northward toward the border, Geronimo made no effort to elude the
American troops, as he was really anxious to arrange for a parley with
them; but by chance they did not come into contact with any, and at last
the renegades went into camp near the big bend of the Bivaspe River, in
Sonora.

“How can you remain here?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “You have promised the
Mexicans that you will leave their country, and you cannot go into
Arizona or New Mexico because the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee will
not let you. Where are you going? You should not have promised the
Mexicans that you would leave. Now they will attack you, when they find
that you have not left, for they know that you have had time enough to
get out of Mexico.”

“We cannot remain here,” replied Geronimo, “and we cannot go
elsewhere—as long as we are at war with the pindah-lickoyee. We are too
few to fight them. There remains nothing but to make the best peace with
them that we can.”

“It is right that you should do so,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “for that is to
the best interests of the Be-don-ko-he for the welfare of the tribe; but
for Shoz-Dijiji there can be no peace. I shall not go back to the
reservation with you.”

“That is the right of every Apache, to choose for himself,” said
Na-chi-ta; “but for the tribe it is better that we make peace and go
back to the reservation. Na-chi-ta will vote for peace if the
pindah-lickoyee will promise not to kill any of us.”

“I shall send White Horse, my brother, to arrange for a parley with the
white-eyed chiefs,” said Geronimo.

The day after White Horse left upon his mission the renegades sent two
squaws into Fronteras to purchase food and mescal, and as they returned
to camp they were followed to the last hiding place of the great war
chief of all the Apaches.

Scarcely had the squaws laid aside their burdens when one of Geronimo’s
scouts hurried into the camp and reported to the war chief that two
government scouts had come, bringing a message to Geronimo.

“I will talk with them,” said the old chief, and a few minutes later
Ka-yi-tah, the Cho-kon-en, and Marteen, the Ned-ni, stood before him,
the red head-bands of their service alone differentiating them from the
warriors who crowded about them.

“You bring a message from the white-eyed chiefs to Geronimo?” demanded
the war chief.

“With Lieutenant Gatewood we have brought a message from General Miles,
the new chief of the white-eyed soldiers,” replied Ka-yi-tah.

“Speak!” commanded Geronimo.

“The message is that if you will surrender you will not be killed; but
will be taken some place to the East, you and your families—all of you
who are now upon the war trail and who will surrender.”

“How many soldiers has Gatewood with him?” demanded Geronimo.

“There are no soldiers with Gatewood,” replied Ka-yi-tah; “but Lawton’s
soldiers are not far away.”

“Geronimo will talk with Gatewood,” announced the old chief, “but with
no one else. Gatewood does not tell lies to the Apache. Tell them not to
let any soldiers come near my camp, and I shall talk with Gatewood. Go!”

And so it was that through the confidence that Geronimo felt in
Lieutenant Charles B. Gatewood, Sixth United States Cavalry,
arrangements were made for a parley with General Miles; and on September
4th 1886 Geronimo and Na-chi-ta surrendered at Skeleton Canyon, Arizona.

Shoz-Dijiji did not accompany the other chiefs to the parley. With only
his own sad thoughts as company he remained in camp, and there Geronimo
found him when the parley was over. Shoz-Dijiji arose and faced the old
chieftain.

“I do not need to ask Geronimo what has happened,” said the young chief.
“I see sorrow in his eyes. It is the end of the Apaches.”

“Yes,” replied Geronimo, “it is the end.”

“What talk passed between Geronimo and the white-eyed war chief?” asked
Shoz-Dijiji.

“We shook hands; and then we sat down, and the white-eyed war chief said
to Geronimo: ‘The President of the United States has sent me to speak to
you. He has heard of your trouble with the white men, and says that if
you will agree to a few words of treaty we need have no more trouble.
Geronimo, if you will agree to a few words of treaty all will be
satisfactorily arranged.’

“He told me how we could be brothers to each other. We raised our hands
to heaven and said that the treaty was not to be broken. We took an oath
not to do any wrong to each other or to scheme against each other.”

“And you believed the pindah-lickoyee?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “Each time
that we go upon the war trail they promise us many things to induce us
to lay down our arms—and do they keep their promises? No! Nor will they
keep this promise.”

“I do not know. All that I can do is hope, for no longer can we fight
against them,” answered Geronimo, wearily.

“What else said the pindah-lickoyee?” asked the Apache Devil.

“He talked with me for a long time and told me what he would do for me
in the future if I would agree to the treaty. I did not greatly believe
him, but because the President of the United States had sent me word I
agreed to make the treaty and to keep it.

“He said to me: ‘I will take you under government protection; I will
build you a house; I will fence you much land; I will give you cattle,
horses, mules, and farming implements. You will be furnished with men to
work the farm, for you yourself will not have to work. In the fall I
will send you blankets and clothing so that you will not suffer from
cold in the winter time.

“‘There is plenty of timber, water, and grass in the land to which I
shall send you,’ he told me. He said that I should live with my tribe
and with my family and that if I agreed to the treaty I should be with
my family within five days.

“Then I said to General Miles: ‘All the officers that have been in
charge of the Indians have talked that way, and it sounds like a story
to me; I hardly believe you.’

“‘This time,’ he said, ‘it is the truth,’ and he swept a spot of ground
clear with his hand and said: ‘Your past deeds shall be wiped out like
this, and you will start a new life.’

“All this talk was translated from English into Spanish and from Spanish
into Apache. It took a long time. Perhaps the interpreters did not make
any mistakes. I do not know.”

“Are you going to live on the reservation at San Carlos?” asked
Shoz-Dijiji.

“No. They are going to send us out of Arizona because they say that the
white men whose families and friends we have killed would always be
making a lot of trouble for us, that they would try to kill us.”

“Where are they going to send you?”

“To Fort Marion in a country called Florida.” The old man bowed his
head. Could it be that there were tears in those cold blue eyes?

Shoz-Dijiji placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. “I know now that I
shall never see you again,” he said. “The pindah-lickoyee, who have
never kept a promise that they have made to the Shis-Inday, will not
keep this one. When you have laid down your arms they will kill you, as
they killed Mangas Colorado.

“It is not too late even now to turn back,” continued the young man. “We
have ponies, we have arms, we have ammunition; and there are places in
the mountains of Sonora where a few men could elude the pindah-lickoyee
forever. Do not let them take you to a strange country where they will
either kill you or make a slave of you.”

Geronimo shook his head. “No, my son,” he said, “that cannot be. The war
chief of the pindah-lickoyee and the war chief of all the Apaches stood
between his troopers and my warriors. We placed a large stone on the
blanket before us. Our treaty was made by this stone, and it was to last
until the stone should crumble to dust. So we made the treaty and bound
each other with an oath. Geronimo will keep that treaty.”

Slowly Shoz-Dijiji turned and walked away. Far up among the rocks above
the rocky camp site he went; and there he remained all night praying to
Usen, praying to Intchi-Dijin, the black wind, asking for guidance,
asking for wisdom; for Shoz-Dijiji, the Black Bear, did not know what to
do.

When morning came he returned to the camp of the renegades; and there he
found his people, sullen and morose, preparing to lay down their weapons
and give themselves up as prisoners of war to the enemy that they
feared, hated, and mistrusted.

He went to the pony herd and caught Nejeunee and brought him back to
camp. Then he squatted beside a rock, and with a bronze forefinger laid
the war paint of the Apache Devil across his face. Upon his head he
placed his war bonnet of buckskin with its crest of feathers; about his
neck he hung a single strand of turquoise and silver beads; in his ears
were small silver rings, and covering his feet and legs were stout
Apache war moccasins.

A belt of ammunition encircled his slim waist, and from it hung two
pistols and a great butcher knife. He carried a rifle and bow and
arrows.

The others saw his preparations, but they made no comment. When he was
done he mounted Nejeunee—an Apache war chief tricked out in all the
panoply of the war trail.

He rode to where Geronimo sat stolidly upon a pony waiting for the
preparations for departure to be completed. The old war chief looked up
as the younger man approached, but the expression upon his inscrutable
face did not change as he saw the war paint and the weapons.

“My father,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “all night I have prayed in the high
places, prayed to Usen and to Intchi-Dijin, asking them to give me some
sign if they wished me to give myself up to the enemy and go into
bondage with Geronimo and our people. But they gave me no sign, and so I
know that they do not wish me to do these things; and I am satisfied.

“Therefore I ride out alone, the last of the Apaches, upon the war trail
against the enemies of my people. While I live I shall devote my life to
killing the pindah-lickoyee. I, Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the
Be-don-ko-he, have spoken.”

“Wait,” said Geronimo. “Wait until you have heard the words of Geronimo
before you bind yourself to such an oath.

“We go into bondage. We shall never take the war trail again. Had it
been otherwise I should never have told you what I am going to tell you
now.

“All your life you have been as a son to me. I have loved you. I have
been proud of you. It is because I love you, Shoz-Dijiji, that I am
going to tell you this thing now. When I have told you you will know
that you need not throw away your life fighting the pindah-lickoyee,
fighting the battles of the Apaches.

“Shoz-Dijiji, you are not an Apache. You are not a Shis-Inday. You are a
pindah-lickoyee.”

The eyes of the Apache Devil narrowed. “You are my father,” he said,
“but not even you may call Shoz-Dijiji a pindah-lickoyee and live. That,
Juh learned.”

Geronimo shook his head sadly. “Juh knew,” he said. “He was with me when
we killed your father and mother in a pass in the Stein’s Peak Range. It
was Juh who dragged you from the wagon and would have killed you but for
Geronimo.”

“It is a lie!” growled Shoz-Dijiji.

“Has Geronimo ever lied to you?” asked the old war chief.

“Cochise swore before the council fire that I was as much an Apache as
he,” cried the young man.

“Cochise did not lie,” said Geronimo. “You are as much an Apache as any
of us in heart and spirit, but in your veins flows the blood of your
white-eyed father.

“Twenty three times have the rains come since the day that I killed him;
and I have kept my lips sealed because I loved you and because you were
as much my son to me as though you were flesh of my own flesh; but now
the time has come that you should know, for as an Apache every man’s
hand will be turned against you, but as a pindah-lickoyee you will have
a chance that no Apache ever may have.”

For a few moments Shoz-Dijiji sat in brooding silence. Presently he
spoke.

“Pindah-lickoyee! White-eyed man!” he cried contemptuously, almost
spitting the words from his mouth. “Had you told me that I am a coyote I
could have carried my shame and faced the world, but to be a white man!”
He shuddered.

“My son,” said Geronimo, “it is not the color of our skin or the blood
that runs in our veins that makes us good men or bad men. There are bad
Apaches and there are good white men. It is good to be a good Apache. It
is not bad to be a good white man. Now, perhaps, it is better to be a
good white man than even a good Apache. Times have changed. Usen does
not look with favor upon the Shis-Inday. Time will heal your wound. Go
and live among your own people, and some day you will thank Geronimo
because he told you.”

“Never!” cried the Black Bear. “Good-bye, Geronimo. You have been a good
father to Shoz-Dijiji. Now Shoz-Dijiji has no father. Shoz-Dijiji has no
mother. Shoz-Dijiji has no people, for he is not an Apache; and he will
not be a pindah-lickoyee. But he is still a war chief of the Apaches. He
is the only war chief that goes upon the war trail. Now, I think, he is
the only Apache left in the world. All the rest of you are
pindah-lickoyee, for do you not go to live with the pindah-lickoyee?
Only Shoz-Dijiji lives like an Apache.”

He wheeled Nejeunee about, and then turned on his blanket and faced
Geronimo again.

“Good-bye! Shoz-Dijiji, last of the Apaches, war chief of all the
Apaches, rides out upon the last war trail.”

Down the rocky hillside toward the south the pinto war pony bore his
gorgeous master, while an old man, seeing dimly through blue eyes that
were clouded by unaccustomed tears, watched the last martial gesture of
his once powerful people until pinto stallion and painted war chief
disappeared into the blue haze that lay upon the early morning trail
that wound southward toward Sonora.




                            Chapter Fifteen


                       The Last of the Renegades

=G=ERONIMO had surrendered! For the first time in three hundred years
the white invaders of Apacheland slept in peace. All of the renegades
were prisoners of war in Florida. Right, at last, had prevailed. Once
more a Christian nation had exterminated a primitive people who had
dared defend their homeland against a greedy and ruthless invader.

Imprisoned with the renegades, and equally prisoners of war, were
Apaches who had long been loyal and faithful servants to the government;
but what of that! Who was there to defend a friendless
people?—friendless and voteless.

Transported from the hot, dry uplands of their native country to the
low, damp, malarial surroundings of their prison, the Apaches sickened
and died; others, unable to endure confinement, suffering the pangs of
homesickness, took their own lives.

And down in Sonora, in the inaccessible depths of the Mother of
Mountains, Shoz-Dijiji and Nejeunee shared the hunting and the pasture
with the cougar and the mountain sheep. They trod in the footsteps of
God, where man and horse had never walked before. No man saw them and,
for months on end, they saw no man.

Long since had Shoz-Dijiji washed the war paint from his face. He was a
hunter now, and upon the rare occasions that he saw other human beings
he experienced no urge to kill them.

He had thought it all out during the long, lonely days and nights.
Geronimo had made treaties with the Mexicans and with the
pindah-lickoyee. He had promised that the Apaches would fight no more
against them. That treaty, Shoz-Dijiji felt, bound him, for there were
no other Apaches than he. He could not, as yet, think of himself as a
pindah-lickoyee. He was an Apache—the last of the Apaches.

He promised himself that he would not kill again except in self-defense.
He would show them that it was not the Apaches who broke treaties, but
experience warned him that the only way to keep peace was to keep hidden
from the eyes of man. He knew that the first one who saw him would shoot
at him, if he dared, and that thereafter he would be hunted like the
coyote and the cougar.

“Only we shall know that we are keeping the treaty, Nejeunee,” he said,
and the pinto stallion nuzzled his shoulder in complete accord with this
or any other view that his beloved master might hold.

Accustomed to being much alone though he was, yet the man often longed
for the companionship of his kind. He conjured pictures of camps beneath
the pines and cedars of his beloved Arizona hills, of little fires
before rude hogans of boughs and skins. He saw Geronimo and
Sons-ee-ah-ray squatting there; and with them was Shoz-Dijiji, son of
the war chief. These three were always laughing and happy.

Gian-nah-tah came to the fire, and Ish-kay-nay. Sometimes these were
little children and again they were grown to young man- and womanhood.
He saw many others. Squat, grim warriors, slender youths, lovely maidens
whose great, dark eyes looked coquettishly at Shoz-Dijiji.

Most of these were dead. The others, bitter, sullen, had marched away
into captivity.

Another figure came, but not to the camp fires of the Shis-Inday. This
one came, always, riding a pony over sun scorched hills. Shoz-Dijiji
took her in his arms; but she drew away, striking at him. He saw in her
eyes, then, a look that he called the snake-look. It made him sad and
yet this picture came most often to his mind.

He wondered if the snake look would come if she knew that he was a
pindah-lickoyee like herself. Perhaps she would not believe it. It was
difficult for him to believe it himself. Had any other than Geronimo
told him he would not have believed it, but he knew that Geronimo would
not lie to him.

Well, she would never know it. It was a shame and a disgrace that he
would hide from the knowledge of all men as long as he lived. A
white-eyes! Usen! What had Shoz-Dijiji done to deserve this?

But, after all, he _was_ white, he mused. From that fact he could never
escape, and it was very lonely living in the mountains forever with only
Nejeunee. Perhaps the white girl would believe him; and if she did would
it not be better to go and live among the white-eyes as one of them?

He recalled how he used to pity any who had been born white. It would
not have been quite so bad had he been born a Mexican, for he knew that
there was Indian blood in many of the Mexicans he had known. It would
have comforted him had he known that the grandfather of his mother had
been a full blooded Cherokee, but he did not know that. He was never to
know it, for he was never to know even the names of his father and
mother.

He tried to argue with himself that it was no disgrace to be white.
Wichita Billings was white, and he thought none the less of her;
Lieutenant King was white, and he knew that he was a fine, brave
warrior; and there had been Captain Crawford, and there was Lieutenant
Gatewood. These men he admired and respected.

Yes, it was all right for them to be white; but still the thought that
Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, was white seemed all wrong.
He could not forget the pride that had always filled his heart because
of the fact that he was an Apache. He had been a great Apache warrior.
As a white man he would be nothing. If he went to live among them he
would have to wear their hideous clothing and live in their stuffy
houses; and he would have to live like the poorest of them, for he would
have no money. No, he could not do it.

He thought about the matter a great deal. The lonelier he became the
more he thought about it. Wichita Billings was constantly the center of
his thoughts. His mind also dwelled upon memories of happy camping
places of the past, and it seemed that the sweetest memories hung about
the home camps of Arizona.

His lonely heart yearned not only for human companionship but for the
grim country that was home to him. Something was happening to
Shoz-Dijiji. He thought that he was sick and that he was going to die.
He was homesick.

“I could go back and die in my own mountains,” he thought. The idea made
him almost happy. He stroked Nejeunee’s soft muzzle and his sleek,
arched neck. “How would you like to go home, Nejeunee?” asked
Shoz-Dijiji. Nejeunee, after the manner of stallions, nipped the bronze
shoulder of his master; but whether it was to signify approbation of the
suggestion or was merely in the nature of a caress, only Nejeunee knew.

Lieutenant Samuel Adams King sat beneath one of the cottonwood trees
that stands in front of the ranch house of the Crazy B Ranch, his chair
tilted back against the bole of the tree. Near him sat Wichita Billings,
her fingers busily engaged in the work that was commanding their
attention. She might have been embroidering her initials upon a pillow
slip or fashioning some dainty bit of lingerie, but she was not. She was
cleaning a six-shooter.

“It sure seems tame around these parts now,” she remarked. “Do you know
I almost miss being scared out of seven years’ growth every once in a
while since the ‘bronchos’ were rounded up and shipped to Florida.”

“I suppose you are cleaning that pistol, then, just as a sentimental
reminder of the happy days that are gone,” laughed King.

“Not entirely,” she replied. “There are still plenty of bad hombres
left—all the bad ones weren’t Indians, not by a jug full.”

“I suppose not,” agreed King. “As a matter of fact I doubt if the
Apaches were responsible for half the killings that have been laid at
their door; and, do you know, Chita, I can’t bring myself to believe
even yet that it was an Apache that killed your father. We got it pretty
straight from some of the renegades themselves that at the time they
were all with Geronimo in the mountains near Hot Springs, except those
that were still in Sonora, and Shoz-Dijiji.”

“Well, that narrows it down pretty close to one man, doesn’t it?”
demanded the girl, bitterly.

“Yes, Chita,” replied King, “but I can’t believe that he did it. He
spared my life twice merely because I was your friend. If he could do
that, how could he have killed your father?”

“I know, Ad. I’ve argued it out a hundred times,” said the girl,
wearily; “but—that thousand dollars reward still stands.”

“The chances are that it will stand forever, then,” said King.
“Shoz-Dijiji didn’t come in with the other renegades; and, of course,
you can’t get anything out of them; but it is better than an even bet
that he was killed in Sonora during one of the last engagements. I know
several bucks were killed; but they usually got them away and buried
them, and they never like to talk about their dead.”

“I hope to God that he is dead,” said the girl.

King shook his head. He knew how bitterly she must feel—more bitterly,
perhaps, because the man she suspected was one to whom she had given her
friendship and her aid when he was bearing arms against her country.

He had not told her of his conviction that Shoz-Dijiji and the dread
Apache Devil were one and the same; and he did not tell her, for he knew
that it would but tend to further assure her of the guilt of the Apache.
There were two reasons why he did not tell her. One was his loyalty to
the savage enemy who had befriended him and who might still be living.
The other was his belief that Wichita Billings had harbored a warmer
feeling than friendship for the war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, and King
was not the type of man who takes an unfair advantage of a rival.

Perhaps it galled this scion of an aristocratic Boston family to admit,
even to himself, that an untutored savage might have been his rival in
seeking the hand of a girl; but he did not permit the suspicion to
lessen his sense of gratitude to Shoz-Dijiji or dim the genuine respect
he felt for the courage and honor of that savage warrior.

For a time the two sat in silence, Wichita busy with her revolver, King
feasting his eyes upon her regular profile.

“Everything on the ranch running smoothly?” he asked, presently.

Wichita shook her head. “Not like they did when Dad was here,” she
admitted. “The boys are good to me, but it’s not like having a man at
the head of things. Some of them don’t like ‘Smooth’ and I’ve lost
several of my best men on that account. A couple of them quit, and
‘Smooth’ fired some. I can’t interfere. As long as he’s foreman he’s got
to be foreman. The minute the boys think I’ve lost confidence in him he
won’t have any more authority over them than a jack rabbit.”

“Are you satisfied with him?” asked King.

“Well—he sure knows his business,” she replied; “you’d have to hunt a
month of Sundays before you found a better cow man; but he can’t get the
work out of his men. They don’t feel any loyalty for him. They used to
cuss Dad; and I’ve seen more than one of them pull a gun on him, but
they’d work their fool heads off for him. They’d get sore as pups and
quit; but they always came back—if he’d take them—and when he died,
Ad, I saw men crying that I bet hadn’t cried before since they were
babies.”

“That is like the old man,” said King, thinking of his troop commander.
“Gosh! How I have hated that fellow—and while I’m hating him I can’t
help but love him. There are men like that, you know.”

“They are the real men, I guess,” mused Wichita; “they don’t grow on
every sage brush, not by a long shot.”

“Why don’t you sell out, Chita?” King asked her. “This is no job for a
girl—it’s a man’s job, and you haven’t the man for it.”

“Lord, I wouldn’t know what to do, Ad,” she cried. “I’d be plumb lost.
Why, this is my life—I don’t know anything else. I belong here on a cow
ranch in Arizona, and here I’m going to stay.”

“But you don’t belong here, Chita,” he insisted. “You belong on a
throne, with a retinue of slaves and retainers waiting on you.”

She leaned back and laughed merrily. “And the first thing I’d know the
king would catch me eating peas with my knife and pull the throne out
from under me.”

“I’m serious, Chita,” urged King. “Come with me; let me take you away
from this. The only throne I can offer you is in my heart, but it will
be all yours—forever.”

“I’d like to, Ad,” she replied. “You don’t know how great the temptation
is, but——”

“Then why not?” he exclaimed, rising and coming toward her. “We could be
married at the post; and I could get a short leave, I’m sure, even
though I haven’t been in the service two years. All your worries about
the ranch would be over. You wouldn’t have anything to do, Chita, but be
happy.”

“It wouldn’t be fair, Ad,” she said.

“Fair? What do you mean?” he demanded.

“It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know whether I love you enough or not.”

“I’ll take the chance,” he told her. “I’ll make you love me.”

She shook her head. “If I was going to marry a man and face a life that
I was sure was going to be worse than the one I was leaving, I’d know
that I loved him; and I wouldn’t hesitate a minute; but if I marry you
it might just be because what you have to offer me looks like heaven
compared to the life I’ve been leading since Dad died. I think too much
of you and my self-respect to take the chance of waking up to the fact
some day that I don’t love you. That would be Hell for us both, Ad; and
you don’t deserve it—you’re too white.”

“I tell you that I’m perfectly willing to take the chance, Chita.”

“Yes, but I won’t let you. Wait a while. If I really love you I’ll find
it out somehow, and you’ll know it—if you don’t I’ll tell you—but I’m
not sure now.”

“Is there someone else, Chita?”

“No!” she cried, and her vehemence startled him.

“I’ll wait, then, because I have to wait,” he said, “and in the meantime
if there is any way in which I can help you, let me do it.”

“Well,” she said, laughing, “you might teach the cows how to drill. I
can’t think of anything else around a cow outfit, right off-hand, that
you could do. Sometimes it seems to me like they didn’t have any cows
back where you came from.”

King laughed. “They used to. All the streets in Boston were laid out by
cows, they say.”

“Out here,” said Chita, “we drive our cows—we don’t follow them.”

“Perhaps that’s the difference between the East and the West,” said
King. “Out here you blaze your own trails. I guess that’s where you get
your self-confidence and initiative.”

“And it may account for some of our shortcomings, too,” she replied.
“When you’re just following cows you have lots of time to think of other
things and improve yourself, but when you’re driving them you haven’t
time to think of anything except just cows. That’s the fix I’m in now.”

“When you have discovered that you might learn to love me you will have
time for other things,” he reminded her.

“Time to improve myself?” she teased.

“Nothing could improve you in my eyes, Chita,” he said, honestly. “To me
you are perfect.”

“If Margaret Cullis hadn’t taught me that it was vulgar I should say
‘Rats’ to that.”

“Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “And now you must run along. You know your
orders never said anything about spending two hours at the Billings
ranch this afternoon. What will your detachment think?”

“They’ll think I’m a fool if I don’t stay all afternoon and ride back to
the post in the cool of the night.”

“And get court martialed when you get there. Boots and saddles for you,
Lieutenant Samuel Adams King!”

“Yes, sir!” he cried, clicking his heels together and saluting. Then he
seized her hand and kissed it.

“Don’t!” she whispered, snatching it away. “Here comes Luke.”

“I don’t care if the World’s coming.”

“That’s because you don’t know what it is to be joshed by a bunch of
cow-punchers,” she told him. “Say, why when it comes to torture,
Victorio and Geronimo and old Whoa could have gone to school to some of
these red necks from the Pan Handle.”

“All right, I won’t embarrass you. Good-bye and good luck, and don’t
forget the message I brought from Mrs. Cullis. She wants you to come and
spend a week or so with her.”

“Tell her I thank her heaps and that I’ll come the first chance I get.
Good-bye!”

She watched him walk away, tall, erect, soldierly; trim in his blue
blouse, his yellow striped breeches, his cavalry boots, and campaign
hat—a soldier, every inch of him and, though still a boy, a veteran
already.

And she sighed—sighed because she did not love him, sighed because she
was afraid that she would never love him. Lines of bitterness touched
the corners of her mouth and her eyes as she thought of the beautiful
and priceless thing that she had thrown away—wasted upon a murdering
savage—and a flush of shame tinged her cheeks.

Her painful reveries were interrupted by the voice of Luke Jensen.

“I jest been ridin’ the east range, Miss,” he said.

“Yes? Everything all right?”

“I wouldn’t say thet it was an’ I wouldn’t say thet it wasn’t,” he
replied.

“What’s wrong?”

“You recollect thet bunch thet always hung out near the head o’ the
coulee where them cedars grows out o’ the rocks?”

“Yes, what about them?”

“They’s about half of ’em gone. If they was all gone I’d think they
might have drifted to some other part o’ the range; but they was calves,
yearlin’s, and some two an’ three year olds still follerin’ their
mothers in thet bunch; an’ a bunch like thet don’t scatter fer no good
reason.”

“No. What do you make of it, Luke?”

“If the renegades warnt all c’ralled I’d say Apaches.”

“‘Kansas’ reported another bunch broken up that ranges around the Little
Mesa,” said Wichita, thoughtfully. “Do you reckon it’s rustlers, Luke?”

“I wouldn’t say it was an’ I wouldn’t say it wasn’t.”

“What does ‘Smooth’ say?”

“He allows they just natch’rally drifted.”

“Are you riding the east range every day, Luke?”

“Most days. Course it takes me nigh onto a week to cover it, an’ oncet
in a while ‘Smooth’ sends me som’ers else. Yistiddy, he sent me plumb
down to the south ranch—me an’ ‘Kansas.’”

“Well, keep your eyes open for that bunch, Luke—they might have
drifted.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say they would of and I wouldn’t say they wouldn’t
of.”




[Illustration: “How would you like to go home, Nejeunee?”]




                            Chapter Sixteen


                           The Jack of Spades

=L=UIS MARIEL, profiting by the example of the Americanos, stood up to
“Dirty” Cheetim’s bar and drank cheap whiskey.

“Wot you doin’, Kid?” asked Cheetim.

“Nothing,” replied Luis.

“Want a job, or hev you still got some dinero left?”

“I want a job,” replied Luis. “I am broke.”

“You got a hoss, ain’t you?”

“Si, Senor.”

“Come ’ere,” he motioned Luis to follow him into the back room.

There Luis saw a tall man with sandy hair sitting at a table, drinking.

“Here’s a good kid fer us,” said Cheetim to the sandy haired man. “He
ain’t been up here long; an’ nobody don’t know him, an’ he don’t know
nobody.”

“Does he savvy U. S.?” demanded the man.

“Si, Senor,” spoke up Luis. “I understand pretty good. I speak it pretty
good, too.”

“Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“Si, Senor.”

“If you don’t, somebody’ll shut it for you,” said the man, drawing his
forefinger across his throat meaningly. “You savvy?”

“What is this job?” demanded Luis.

“You ain’t got nothin’ to do but herd a little bunch o’ cattle an’ keep
your trap closed. If anyone asks you any questions in United States you
don’t savvy; and if they talk Greaser to you, why you don’t know nothin’
about the cattle except that a kind old gentleman hired you to ride herd
on ’em.”

“Si, Senor.”

“You get thirty five a month an’ your grub—twenty five fer ridin’ herd
an’ the rest fer not knowin’ nothin’. How about it?”

“Sure, Senor, I do it.”

“All right, you come along with me. We’ll ride out, an’ I’ll show you
where the bunch is,” and the sandy haired man gulped down another drink
and arose.

He led Luis north into the reservation, and at last they came to a bunch
of about fifty head grazing contentedly on rather good pasture.

“They ain’t so hard to hold,” said the sandy haired man, “but they got a
hell of a itch to drift east sometimes. They’s a c’ral up thet draw a
ways. You puts ’em in there nights and lets ’em graze durin’ the day.
You won’t hev to hold ’em long.” He took a playing card from his
pocket—the jack of spades—and tore it in two. One half he handed to
Luis. “When a feller comes with tother half o’ this card, Kid, you kin
let him hev the cattle. Savvy?”

“Si, Senor.”

“Oncet in a while they may a couple fellers come up with some more
critters fer you. You jest let ’em drive ’em in with your bunch. You
don’t hev to say nothin’ nor ask no questions. Savvy?”

“Si, Senor.”

“All right. Let ’em graze til sundown; then c’ral ’em and come down to
the Hog Ranch fer the night. You kin make down your bed back o’ the
barn. The Chink’ll feed you. So long, Kid.”

“Adios, Senor.”

Luis Mariel, watching the tall, sandy haired man ride away, tucked his
half of the jack of spades into the breast pocket of his shirt, rolled a
cigarette, and then rode leisurely among the grazing cattle, inspecting
his charges.

He noted the marks and brands, and discovering that several were
represented concluded that Cheetim and the sandy haired man were
collecting a bunch for sale or shipment. Impressed by the injunction to
silence laid upon him, and being no fool, Luis opined that the cattle
had come into their possession through no lawful processes.

But that they had been stolen was no affair of his. He had not stolen
them. He was merely employed to herd them. It interested him to note
that fully ninety per centum of the animals bore the Crazy B brand on
the left hip, a slit in the right ear, and a half crop off the left, the
remainder being marked by various other brands, some of which he
recognized and some of which he did not.

The Crazy B brand he knew quite well as it was one of the foremost
brands in that section of Arizona. He had tried to get work with that
outfit when he had brought the pinto stallion up from the border for El
Teniente King.

At that time he had talked with Senor Billings, who had since been
killed by Apaches; but he had been unable to secure employment with him.
Later he had learned that the Billings ranch never employed Mexicans,
and while knowledge of this fact aroused no animosity within him neither
did it impose upon him any sentiment of obligation to apprise the owners
of the brand of his suspicion that someone was stealing their cattle.

Luis Mariel was far from being either a criminal or vicious young man.
He would not have stolen cattle himself, but it was none of his business
how his employers obtained the cattle that he was hired to herd for
them. Since he had come up from Mexico he had found means of livelihood
through many and various odd employments, sometimes as laborer,
sometimes as chore boy, occasionally in riding for some small cow
outfit, which was the thing of all others that he liked best to do. It
was the thing that Luis Mariel loved best and did best.

More recently he had been reduced to the expedience of performing the
duties of porter around the bar of “Dirty” Cheetim’s Hog Ranch in order
that he might eat to live and live to eat. Here, his estimate of the
Gringoes had not been materially raised.

Pedro Mariel, the woodchopper of Casa Grande, was a poor man in worldly
goods; but in qualities of heart and conscience he had been rich, and he
had raised his children to fear God and do right.

Luis often thought of his father as he watched the Gringoes around
“Dirty” Cheetim’s place, and at night he would kneel down and thank God
that he was a Mexican.

Many of the Gringoes that he saw were not bad, only fools; but there
were many others who were very bad indeed. El Teniente King was the best
Americano he had ever seen. Luis was sorry that El Teniente had no
riding job for him. These were some of the thoughts that passed through
the mind of the Mexican youth as he rode herd on the stolen cattle.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Up from the south rode Shoz-Dijiji. From the moment that he crossed the
border into Arizona his spirits rose. The sight of familiar and beloved
scenes, the scent of the cedars and the pines, the sunlight and the
moonlight were like wine in his veins. The Black Bear was almost happy
again.

Where there were no trails he went unseen. No longer were the old water
holes guarded by the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee. Peace lay upon the
battle ground of three hundred years. He saw prospectors and cowboys
occasionally, but they did not see Shoz-Dijiji. The war chief of the
Be-don-ko-he knew that the safety of peace was for the white-eyed men
only—he was still a renegade, an outlaw, a hunted beast, fair target
for the rifle of the first white man who saw him.

He moved slowly, and often by night, drinking to the full the joys of
homeland; but he moved toward a definite goal and with a well defined
purpose. It had taken days and weeks and months of meditation and
introspection to lay the foundation for the decision he had finally
reached; it had necessitated trampling under foot a lifetime of race
consciousness and pride in caste; it had required the sacrifice of every
cherished ideal, but the incentive was more powerful than any of these
things, perhaps the greatest single moral force for good or evil that
exists to govern and shape the destinies of man—love.

Love was driving this Apache war chief to the object of his devotion and
to the public avowal that he was no Apache but, in reality, a member of
the race that he had always looked upon with the arrogant contempt of a
savage chieftain.

In his return through Arizona he found his loved friend, Nejeunee, an
obstacle to safe or rapid progress. A pinto pony, while perhaps
camouflaged by Nature, is not, at best, an easy thing to conceal, nor
can it follow the trackless steeps of rugged mountains as can a lone
Apache warrior; but, none the less, Shoz-Dijiji would not abandon this,
his last remaining friend, the sole and final tie that bound him to the
beloved past; and so the two came at last to an upland country, hallowed
by sacred memories—memories that were sweet and memories that were
bitter.

Luke Jensen was riding the east range. What does a lone cowboy think
about? There is usually an old bull that younger bulls have run out of
the herd. He is always wandering off, and if he be of any value it is
necessary to hunt him up and explain to him the error of his ways in
profane and uncomplimentary language while endeavoring to persuade him
to return. He occupies the thoughts of the lone cowboy to some extent.

Then there is the question of the expenditure of accumulated wages, if
any have accumulated. There are roulette and faro and stud at the Hog
Ranch, but if one has recently emerged from any of these one is virtuous
and has renounced them all for life, along with wine and women.

A hand made, silver mounted bit would look well and arouse envy, as
would sheep skin chaps and a heavy, silver hat band. A new and more
brilliant bandana is also in order.

Then there are the perennial plans for breaking into the cattle business
on one’s own hook, based on starting modestly with a few feeders to
which second thought may add a maverick or two that nobody would miss
and from these all the way up to rustling an entire herd.

Thoughts of Apaches had formerly impinged persistently upon the minds of
lone cowboys. Luke Jensen was mighty glad, as he rode the east range,
that he didn’t have to bother his head any more about renegades.

He was riding up a coulee flanked by low hills. Below the brow of one
that lay ahead of him an Apache war chief watched his approach. Below
and behind the warrior a pinto stallion lay stretched upon its side,
obedient to the command of its master.

Shoz-Dijiji, endowed by Nature with keen eyes and a retentive memory,
both of which had been elevated by constant lifelong exercise to
approximate perfection, recognized Luke long before the cowboy came
opposite his position—knew him even before he could discern his
features.

“Hey, you!” called Shoz-Dijiji without exposing himself to the view of
the youth.

Luke reined in and looked about. Mechanically his hand went to the butt
of his six-shooter.

“No shoot!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “I am friend.”

“How the hell do I know that?” demanded Jensen. “I can’t see you, an’ I
ain’t takin’ no chances.”

“I got you covered with rifle,” announced Shoz-Dijiji. “You better be
friend and put away gun. I no shoot. I am Shoz-Dijiji.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Jensen. The one thousand dollars reward instantly
dominated his thoughts.

“You no shoot?” demanded the Indian.

Luke returned his revolver to its holster. “Come on down,” he said. “I
remember you.”

Shoz-Dijiji spoke to Nejeunee, who scrambled to his feet; and a moment
later the pinto stallion and its rider were coming down the hillside.

“We thought you was dead,” said Luke.

“No. Shoz-Dijiji been long time in Sonora.”

“Still on the war path?” asked the cowboy.

“Geronimo make treaty with the Mexicans and with your General Miles,”
explained the Apache. “He promise we never fight again against the
Mexicans or the Americans. Shoz-Dijiji keep the treaty Geronimo made.
Shoz-Dijiji will not fight unless they make him. Even the coyote will
fight for his life.”

“What you come back here fer, Shoz-Dijiji?” asked Luke.

“I come to see Wichita Billings. Mebby so I get job here. What you
think?”

Many thoughts crowded themselves rapidly through the mind of Luke Jensen
in the instant before he replied and foremost among them was the
conviction that this man could not be the murderer of Jefferson
Billings. Had he been he would have known that suspicion would instantly
attach to him from the fact that Wichita had seen him near the ranch the
day her father was killed and that on that same day the pony he now rode
had been stolen from the east pasture.

“Well, what do you think about it, Shoz-Dijiji?” parried Luke.

“I think mebby so she give me job, but Shoz-Dijiji not so damn sure
about her father. He no like Shoz-Dijiji.”

“Don’t you know that her ol’ man’s dead?” demanded Luke.

“Dead? No, Shoz-Dijiji not know that. Shoz-Dijiji been down in Sonora
long time. How he die?”

“He was murdered jest outside the east pasture and—scalped,” said Luke.

“You mean by Apaches?”

“No one knows, but it looks damn suspicious.”

“When this happen?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.

“We found him the mornin’ after you took thet there pony out of the east
pasture.”

Shoz-Dijiji sat in silence for a moment, his inscrutable face masking
whatever emotions were stirring within his breast.

“You mean they think Shoz-Dijiji kill Billings? Does Chita think that,
too?”

“Look here, Shoz-Dijiji,” said Jensen, kindly, “you done me a good turn
oncet thet I ain’t a-never goin’ to forgit. I don’t mind tellin’ you I
ain’t never thought you killed the ol’ man, but everyone else thinks
so.”

“Even Chita?” asked Shoz-Dijiji.

“I wouldn’t say she does and I wouldn’t say she doesn’t, but she ain’t
never took off the thousand dollar reward she offered to any hombre what
would bring you in dead.”

Not by the quiver of an eyelid did Shoz-Dijiji reveal the anguish of his
tortured heart as he listened to the words that blasted forever the sole
hope of happiness that had buoyed him through the long days and nights
of his journey up through hostile Sonora and even more hostile Arizona.

“You get one thousand dollars, you kill me?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Why you no kill me, then?”

Jensen shrugged. “I reckon it must be for the same reason you didn’t
kill me when you had the chancet, Shoz-Dijiji,” he replied. “There must
be a streak of white in both of us.”

“Good-bye,” said Shoz-Dijiji, abruptly. “I go now.”

“Say, before you go would you mind tellin’ me fer sure thet it wasn’t
you killed the ol’ man?” asked Luke.

Shoz-Dijiji looked the other squarely in the eyes. “If Wichita Billings
offer one thousand dollar reward to have Shoz-Dijiji killed she must
know Shoz-Dijiji kill her father. Good-bye. Shoz-Dijiji ride straight up
coulee, slowly. Mebby so you want one thousand dollars, now you get it.
Sabe?” He wheeled Nejeunee and walked the pony slowly away while Luke
Jensen, slouching in his saddle, watched him until he had disappeared
beyond a low ridge.

Not once did Jensen experience any urge to reach for the six-shooter at
his hip or the rifle in its boot beneath his right leg.

“I could shore use a thousand dollars,” he mused as he turned his pony’s
head back toward the Crazy B Ranch, “but I don’t want it thet bad.”

As he rode into the ranch yard later in the afternoon he saw Wichita
Billings standing near the bunk house talking with “Kansas.” Luke was of
a mind to avoid her, feeling, as he did, that he should report his
meeting with Shoz-Dijiji and dreading to do so because of the fear that
a posse would be organized to go out and hunt the Apache down the moment
that it was learned that he was in the vicinity.

But when Wichita saw him she called to him, and there was nothing less
that he could do than go to her. She had finished her conversation with
“Kansas,” and the latter had gone into the bunk house when Luke reached
her side.

“Walk up to the office with me, Luke,” said the girl. “I want to talk
with you,” and he fell in beside her as she walked along. “I have just
been talking with ‘Kansas,’” she continued, “and he tells me that a few
head are missing off the north range. Did you miss any today or see
anything unusual?”

Had he seen anything unusual! There was a poser. Luke scratched his
head.

“I wouldn’t say that they was any more critters missin’,” he replied,
“an’ I wouldn’t say as they wasn’t.” He looked down at the ground in
evident embarrassment.

Wichita Billings, who knew these boys better than they knew themselves,
eyed him suspiciously. They walked on in silence for a few moments.

“Look here, Luke,” said the girl, presently. “Someone is stealing my
cattle. I don’t know who to trust. I’ve always looked to ‘Smooth’ and
you and ‘Kansas’ and Matt as being the ones I sure could tie to. If you
boys don’t shoot straight with me no one will.”

“Who said I warnt shootin’ straight with you, Miss?” demanded Luke.

“I say so,” replied Wichita. “You’re holding something out on me. Say, I
can read you just like a mail order catalogue. If you don’t come clean
you’re through—your pay check’s waiting for you right now.”

“I kin always git another job,” parried Luke, lamely.

“Sure you can; but that isn’t the question, Luke,” replied the girl,
sadly.

“I know it ain’t, Miss,” and Luke dug a toe into the loose earth beneath
the cottonwood tree. “I did see somethin’ onusual today,” he blurted
suddenly.

“I thought so. What was it?”

“An Apache—Shoz-Dijiji.”

Wichita Billings’ eyes went wide. Involuntarily her hand went to her
breast, and she caught her breath in a little gasp before she spoke.

“You shot him?” The words were a barely audible whisper. “You shot him
for the reward?”

“I shore did not,” snapped Luke. “Look here, Miss, you kin have my job
any time you want it, but you nor no one else kin make me double cross a
hombre what saved my life—I don’t give a damn who he killed—I beg yore
pardon, Miss—and anyway I hain’t never believed he did kill your paw.”

In his righteous indignation Luke Jensen had failed to note what
appeared to be the relaxation of vast relief that claimed Wichita
Billings the instant that he announced that he had not shot Shoz-Dijiji.
Could it be that Wichita, too, had her doubts?

“Did you ask him about the killing?” demanded the girl.

“Yep.”

“What did he say? Did he deny it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say he did and I wouldn’t say he didn’t.”

“Just what did he say?”

“He said that ef you was offerin’ a thousand dollars fer him dead you
must be plumb shore he done it.”

“How did he know about the reward?”

“I told him.”

“You told him?”

“Shore I did. I don’t think he done it. Ef I hadn’t told him he was a
comin’ here an’ some of the fellers would have plugged him shore. You
ain’t mad, are you?”

“You are very sure he didn’t kill Dad, aren’t you, Luke?”

“Yep, plumb certain.”

“But he didn’t deny it, did he?”

“No, an’ he didn’t admit it, neither.”

“There may be some doubt, Luke. I’m going to draw down that offer,
because I can’t take the chance of being mistaken; but as long as I live
I shall believe in my heart that Shoz-Dijiji killed my father. If you
ever see him again, tell him that the reward has been called off; and
tell him, too, that if ever I see him I’ll kill him, just like I think
he killed my Dad; but I can’t ask anyone else to. Send ‘Smooth’ here
when you go back to the bunk house.”

As Luke was walking away the girl called to him. “Wait a minute, Luke,
there is something else,” she said. “I have just been thinking,” she
continued, when the youth was near her again, “that the Indian you saw
today might have had something to do with the cattle stealing. Had you
thought of that?”

Luke scratched his head. “No, ma’am, I hedn’t thought of that; but now
that you mention it I reckon as how it ain’t at all unlikely. I never
seen one yet that wouldn’t steal.”

“I guess we’re on the right trail now, Luke,” said the girl. “Don’t say
anything to anyone about seeing him. Just keep your eyes open, and let
me know the minute you see anything out of the way.”

“All right, Miss, I’ll keep a right smart look out,” and Jensen turned
and walked toward the bunk house.

As Wichita waited for her foreman her thoughts were overcast by clouds
of sorrow and regret. The animosities that were directed upon
Shoz-Dijiji were colored by the shame she felt for having permitted her
heart to surrender itself to an Indian. That she had never openly
admitted the love that she had once harbored for a savage did not
reconcile her, nor did the fact that she had definitely and permanently
uprooted the last vestige of this love and nurtured hatred in its stead
completely clear her conscience.

It angered her that even while she vehemently voiced her belief that
Shoz-Dijiji had killed her father she still had doubts that refused to
die. She was bitter in the knowledge that though she had suggested that
he was stealing her cattle, deep in her heart she could not bring
herself to believe it of him.

Her somber reveries were interrupted by the approach of Kreff.

“There are a couple of things I wanted to speak to you about, ‘Smooth,’”
said the girl.

“Fire away, Chita,” said the man, with easy familiarity.

“In the first place I want you to pass the word around that the reward
for bringing in that Apache is off.”

“Why?” demanded the man.

“That’s my business,” replied the girl, shortly.

The words and her tone reminded Kreff of the dead Boss—she was her
father all over—and he said no more.

“The other thing is this report about cattle stealing,” she continued.

“Who said there was any cattle stealin’ goin’ on?” he asked.

“Luke has missed a few head off the east range.”

“Oh, that kid’s loco,” said Kreff. “They’ve drifted, an’ he’s too plumb
lazy to hunt ’em up.”

“‘Kansas’ has missed some, too, from up around the Little Mesa on the
north range,” she insisted. “I don’t know so much about Luke, he hasn’t
been with us so long; but ‘Kansas’ is an old hand—he’s not the kind to
do much guessing.”

“I’ll look into it, Chita,” said Kreff, “an’ don’t you worry your little
head no more about it.” There was something in his tone that made her
glance up quickly, knitting her brows. His voice was low and soothing
and protective. It didn’t sound like “Smooth” Kreff in spite of his
nickname, which, she happened to know, was indicative of the
frictionless technique with which he separated other men from their
belongings in the application of the art of draw and stud.

“You hadn’t ought to hev nothin’ to worry you,” he continued. “This here
business is a man’s job. It ain’t right an’ fittin’ thet a girl should
hev to bother with sech things.”

“Well, that’s what I’ve got you and the other boys for, ‘Smooth.’”

“Yes, but hired hands ain’t the same. You ought to be married—to a good
cow man,” he added.

“Meaning?” she inquired.

“Me.”

“Are you proposing to me, ‘Smooth’?”

“I shore am. What do you say? You an’ me could run this outfit together
fine, an’ you wouldn’t never hev to worry no more about nothin’.”

“But I don’t love you, ‘Smooth.’”

“Oh, shucks, that ain’t nothin’. They’s a heap o’ women marry men they
don’t love. They git to lovin’ ’em afterwards, though.”

“But you don’t love me.”

“I shore do, Chita. I’ve allus loved you.”

“Well, you’ve managed to hide it first rate,” she observed.

“They didn’t never seem no chance, ’til now,” he explained; “but you got
a lot o’ horse sense, an’ I reckon you kin see as well as me thet it
would be the sensible thing to do. You caint marry nothin’ but a cow
man, an’ they ain’t no other cow man thet I knows of thet would be much
of a improvement over me. You’ll larn to love me, all right. I ain’t so
plumb ugly, an’ I won’t never beat you up.”

Wichita laughed. “You’re sure tootin’, ‘Smooth,’” she said. “There isn’t
a man on earth that’s ever going to try to beat me up, more than once.”

Kreff grinned. “You don’t hev to tell me that, Chita,” he said. “I
reckon that’s one o’ the reasons I’m so strong fer you—you shore would
make one grand woman fer a man in this country.”

“Well, ‘Smooth,’ as a business proposition there is something in what
you say that it won’t do any harm to think about, but as a proposal of
marriage it hasn’t got any more bite to it than a white pine dog with a
poplar tail.”

“But you’ll think it over, Chita?” he asked, drawing a sack of Durham
and a package of brown papers from his shirt pocket.

“You dropped something, ‘Smooth,’” she said, gesturing toward the ground
at his feet. “You pulled it out of your pocket with the makings.”

He looked down at a bit of paste board, at one half of a playing card
that had been torn in two—one half of the jack of spades.




                           Chapter Seventeen


                            Cheetim Strikes

=I=T was night. The oil lamps were burning brightly in the barroom of
the Hog Ranch. The games were being well patronized. The girls were
circulating among the customers, registering thirst. It looked like a
large night.

In the back room two men, seated at opposite sides of a table, were
conversing in low tones. A bottle, two glasses, and a mutilated jack of
spades lay between them. One of the men was Cheetim, the other was
Kreff.

“How much longer does thet feller think we kin hold them critters
without hevin’ every galoot in the Territory ridin’ onto ’em an’ blowin’
the whole business?” demanded Kreff.

“I been tellin’ him to see you,” said Cheetim.

Kreff pushed the jack of spades across the table to the other man. “You
take this,” he said. “You see him oftener than I do. Don’t turn this
over to him ’til you git the money, but tell him that ef he don’t get a
hump on hisself we’ll drive the bunch north an’ sell ’em up there. They
can’t stay around here much longer—the girl’s wise now thet somethin’s
wrong. Two of the hands has told her they been missin’ stock lately.”

Cheetim sat in silence, thinking. Slowly he filled Kreff’s glass and
poured another drink for himself.

“Here’s how!” he said and drank.

“How!” replied Kreff.

“I been thinkin’,” said Cheetim.

“Don’t strain yourself, ‘Dirty,’” Kreff admonished him.

“It’s this-a-way,” continued the other, ignoring Kreff’s pleasantry. “Ef
it warnt for the girl we could clean up big on thet herd. This here
Agent’ll buy anything an’ not ask no questions.”

“What do you want me to do,” inquired Kreff, “kill her?”

“I want you to help me get her. Ef I kin get her fer a few days she’ll
be glad enough to marry me. Then I’ll give you half what I get out of
the cattle.”

“Ride your own range, ‘Dirty,’” said Kreff, rising, “and keep off o’
mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ef either one of us gets her it’s me, that’s what I mean.” There was an
ugly edge to his voice that Cheetim did not fail to note.

“Oh, hell,” he said, “I didn’t know you was sweet on her.”

“You know it now—keep off the grass.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

A pinto stallion, tied to a stunted cedar, dozed in the mid-day heat.
His master, sprawled at the summit of a rocky knoll, looked down upon
the other side at a bunch of cattle resting until it should be cooler,
the while they pensively chewed their cuds. A youth lay upon his back
beneath the shade of a tree. A saddled pony, with drooping head and
ears, stood nearby lazily switching its tail in mute remonstrance
against the flies. Bridle reins, dragging on the ground, suggested to
the pony that it was tethered and were all-sufficient.

Somnolence, silence, heat—Arizona at high noon.

Shoz-Dijiji surveyed the scene. With a reward of a thousand dollars on
his head it behooved him to survey all scenes in advance. The reward,
however, was but a secondary stimulus. Training and environment had long
since fixed upon him the habit of reconnaissance.

Immediately he had recognized Luis Mariel. If he were surprised he gave
no evidence of it, for his expression did not change. His eyes wandered
over the herd. They noted the various brands, ear-marks, wattles,
jug-handles; and though Shoz-Dijiji could not have been termed a cattle
man he read them all and knew the ranch and range of every animal in the
bunch, for there was no slightest thing from one end of Apacheland to
the other that an Apache let pass as of too slight importance to concern
him.

He saw that most of the cattle belonged to Wichita Billings; but he knew
that it was not a Crazy B cowboy that was herding them, for the Crazy B
outfit employed no Mexicans.

Long before Luis Mariel was aware of the fact Shoz-Dijiji knew that
several horsemen were approaching; but he did not change his position
since, if they continued in the direction they were going, they would
pass without seeing him.

Presently four men rode into view. He recognized them all. Two of them
were Navajoes, one a half-breed and the fourth a white man—the Indian
Agent.

Shoz-Dijiji did not like any of them, especially the Indian Agent. He
fingered his rifle and wished that Geronimo had not made that treaty
with General Miles in Skeleton Canyon.

Presently Luis heard the footfalls of the approaching horses and sat up.
Seeing the men, he arose. They rode up to him, and the Agent spoke.
Shoz-Dijiji saw him take a bit of paper from his pocket and show it to
Luis. Luis took another similar bit of paper from his own pocket and
compared it with the one that the Agent now handed him. Shoz-Dijiji
could not quite make out what the bits of paper were—from a distance
they looked like two halves of a playing card.

Luis mounted his pony and helped the men round up the cattle, but after
they had started them in the direction of the Agency Luis waved his
_adios_ and reined his pony southward toward the Hog Ranch.

Shoz-Dijiji remained motionless until all were well out of sight, then
he wormed his way below the brow of the hill, rose and walked down to
Nejeunee. He had spent the preceding night in the hogan of friends on
the reservation. They had talked of many things, among them being the
fact that the Agent was still buying stolen cattle at a low price and
collecting a high price for them from the Government.

Shoz-Dijiji knew that he had seen stolen cattle delivered to the Agent,
which would not, of itself, have given him any concern; but the fact
that most of these cattle had evidently been stolen from Wichita
Billings put an entirely different aspect on the matter.

The fact that she hated him, that she had offered a reward for him,
dead, could not alter the fact that he loved her; and, loving her, he
must find a way to inform her of what he had discovered. Naturally, the
first means to that end which occurred to him was Luke Jensen. He would
ride back to where Luke Jensen rode and find him.

It is a long way from where Cheetim and Kreff had hidden the stolen herd
to the Billings east range, and when one is a fair target for every
rifle and six-shooter in the world it behooves one to move warily; so
Shoz-Dijiji lay up until night and then rode slowly toward the east.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Luis Mariel had ridden directly to the Hog Ranch and reported to
Cheetim, handing him both halves of the jack of spades as evidence that
the herd had been turned over to the proper party in accordance with
Luis’ instructions.

“That’s jest what I been waitin’ fer,” said Cheetim. “Now I got some
more work fer you, if you’re game. They’s fifty dollars extra in it fer
you.”

“What is it?” asked Luis.

“It ain’t none o’ your business what it is,” replied Cheetim. “All you
got to know is thet they may be some shootin’ in it, an’ all you got to
do is do what I tell you. If you’re skeered I don’t want you.”

“I am not afraid, Senor,” replied Luis. The fifty dollars appeared a
fortune.

“All right. You savvy the Crazy B Ranch?”

“Si, Senor.”

“I want you to take a note to ‘Smooth’ Kreff, the foreman o’ thet
outfit.”

“Is that all?”

“No. After you deliver the note you hang around and see what happens.
They’s a girl there. When I come I’ll want to know where she is and how
many men there are left at the ranch. There’ll be four or five fellers
with me. After that I’ll tell you what to do.”

“When does the shooting happen?” asked Luis.

“Oh, maybe they won’t be no shootin’,” replied Cheetim. “I was jest
warnin’ you in case they was. I’ll write the letter now an’ then you hit
the trail. Ef you ride hard you’ll make it before sun up. I want you
there before the hands start out fer the day. Savvy?”

Laboriously, with the stub of a pencil that he constantly wet with his
tongue, “Dirty” Cheetim wrote. It appeared to Luis that Senor Cheetim
was not accustomed to writing—he seemed to be suffering from mental
constipation—but at last the agony was over and Cheetim handed Luis a
sheet of soiled paper folded many times into a small wad.

“If Kreff asks you about the cattle you say that when you went up this
mornin’ the bars o’ the c’rral was down an’ the cattle gone, an’ don’t
you tell him nothin’ different. If you do you won’t get no fifty dollars
’cause you won’t need ’em where I’ll send you.” Cheetim slapped the
six-shooter at his hip.

“I understand,” said Luis. He did not like Senor Cheetim, but fifty
dollars are fifty dollars.

The sun was but a few minutes high when Luis Mariel reined into the
Billings ranch yard. From a slight eminence a mile or two away, beyond
the east pasture fence, Shoz-Dijiji saw him come and wondered.

The Apache had taken his position just before dawn and at the first
flush of the new day had fixed his field glasses upon the ranch yard. He
wished to get in touch with Jensen as quickly as possible and saw in
this plan the surest method of determining when and in what direction
Luke rode that morning.

Luis went at once to the bunk house, where the men were already astir,
and delivered the letter to Kreff, whom he at once recognized as the
tall, sandy haired man who had taken him to the herd and given him the
torn playing card and his instructions. Kreff recognized Luis, too, but
he only frowned.

Almost as laboriously as Cheetim had written it, Kreff deciphered the
note.

    “Frend Kref:” he read. “Sum fellers stole the herd bring al yore
    hands & help Me round them up they will think the fellers stol
    them & That will let us out doan fetch the greser i think he wus
    in on it dirty yours truely.”

“Hell!” ejaculated Kreff.

“What’s eatin’ you?” inquired “Kansas.”

“‘Dirty’ Cheetim says a bunch of rustlers is runnin’ off some of our
stock. He seen ’em headin’ past his place. Luke! Rustle up that ‘cavvy,’
pronto. You fellers feed while Luke’s gone. We’re all hittin’ the trail
after them lousy thieves.”

“I reckon ‘Dirty’ is jest sore ’cause he didn’t git to the bunch ahead
o’ them other fellers,” drawled “Kansas.”

Luke tucked his shirt tails into his trousers, grabbed his Stetson, and
bolted for the corral. When Kreff had finished dressing he went to the
cook house and told the Chinese cook to hurry breakfast. Then he walked
over to the ranch house and stopping under Wichita’s window called her
name aloud.

A moment later, a Navajo blanket about her shoulders, the girl appeared
at the window. “What is it, ‘Smooth?’” she asked.

“You was right about the rustling,” he said. “Cheetim jest sent a
Greaser with a note sayin’ he’d seen some fellers runnin’ off a bunch of
our stock. I’m takin’ all the men an’ ridin’ after ’em. They can’t git
away.”

“Good!” cried the girl. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you better not. They’s almost sure to be shootin’.”

“I can shoot,” she replied.

“I know thet; but please don’t do it, Chita. We’d all be lookin’ after
you an’ couldn’t do like we would if they wasn’t a woman along.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted. “Gosh! Why wasn’t I born a boy?”

“I’m shore glad you wasn’t.”

Shoz-Dijiji, seeing Luke riding early and alone straight in his
direction, felt that once again, after long forgetfulness, Usen had
remembered him. He knew that the youth would come only as far as the
horses pastured in the east pasture, and so he rode down and came
through the gate to meet the cowboy. The willows in the draw screened
them from each other’s sight until Luke spurred up the steep bank of the
wash and came face to face with the Apache.

“Hello, there!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What you doin’ here?”

“I want you take word to Wichita,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “The Indian Agent
is buying cattle that are stolen from her. I saw it yesterday, on the
reservation. You tell her?”

“We jest got word of the same bunch, I reckon,” replied Luke. “We’re all
ridin’ out after ’em now. Which way was they headin’ when you saw them?”

“Toward the Agency.”

“Thanks a lot, Shoz-Dijiji,” said Luke. “I’ll tell her anyway when I see
her about your sendin’ the word to her.”

“No,” said the Apache. “Do not tell her who sent the word.”

“All right. I got to be movin’. The boys is waitin’ fer these broncs. So
long, Shoz-Dijiji!”

“Adios!” replied the Apache, and as Jensen herded the horses toward the
corrals Shoz-Dijiji rode away, out through the pasture gate, onto the
east range.

Something was troubling Shoz-Dijiji’s mind. He had seen Luis Mariel
guarding the stolen herd and yet it was he who brought word to the ranch
concerning these same cattle. What did it mean?

Through his glasses the Apache watched the departure of the Crazy B cow
hands. Apparently all had left the ranch with the exception of Luis
Mariel. Why was Luis remaining? He had seen Wichita come into the yard
and talk with some of the men as they were mounting, and he had seen her
wave them godspeed. She had spoken to Luis, too, and then gone into the
house. Luis was hanging around the corrals.

Shoz-Dijiji shook his head. Luis was a good boy. He would not harm
anyone. There was something else to think about and that was breakfast.
Shoz-Dijiji rode a short distance to the east, dismounted and with bow
and arrows set forth in search of his breakfast. In half an hour he had
a cottontail and a quail. Returning to Nejeunee he sought a secluded
spot and cooked his breakfast.

Ten minutes after Luis Mariel had departed from the Hog Ranch the
previous evening Cheetim with four others had ridden out along the same
trail; and when Kreff and the other men of the Crazy B rode away in the
morning in search of the rustlers, from the hills south of the ranch
these five had watched them depart.

“We got lots of time,” said Cheetim, “an’ we’ll wait until they are
plenty far away before we ride down. You four’ll hev to git the girl. Ef
she seen me comin’ she’d start shootin’ before we was inside the gate,
but she don’t know none of you. I was damn sure to pick fellers she
didn’t know. You ride in an’ ask fer grub an’ a job. The Greaser’ll be
there to tell you ef they is any men left around an’ where the girl is.
You won’t have no trouble. Jes’ grab her an’ don’t give her no chance to
draw thet gun o’ hers, fer I’m here to state thet ol’ man Billings’ girl
wouldn’t think no more o’ perforatin’ your ornery hides then she would
of spittin’.”

The ride ahead of Kreff and his men was, the foremen knew, a long and
hard one. There was some slight chance of borrowing a change of horses
at a ranch near Cheetim’s place; but it was only a chance, and so Kreff
conserved his horse flesh and did not push on too rapidly.

As he rode he had time to think things out a little more clearly than he
had in the excitement and rush of preparation, and he wondered why it
had been that Cheetim had not organized a party to go after the rustlers
and save the cattle for themselves. He could easily have done it, as
there were always several tough gun-men hanging around his place who
would commit murder for a pint of whiskey. Yes, that did seem peculiar.
And if he had mistrusted the Mexican, why had he intrusted the message
to him? Kreff did not trust Cheetim to any greater extent than a
cottontail would trust a rattler, and now that he had an opportunity to
consider the whole matter carefully he grew suspicious.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had left Wichita alone on the ranch
with only the Chinese cook, and that the Mexican had remained behind
after they had left. The more he thought about it the more it worried
him. He called Luke to his side.

“Kid,” he said, “we left thet Greaser there on the ranch. I don’t guess
we should have. You ride back an’ look after things—an’ don’t let no
grass grow under you while you’re doin’ it.”

Luke, though disappointed at the thought of missing the excitement of a
brush with the rustlers, reined in, wheeled his pony, and spurred back
toward the ranch.

Wichita, coming from the office door after breakfast, saw four strange
men ride into the ranch yard. She saw the Mexican youth who had brought
word of the stolen cattle ride up to them, but she could not hear what
they said, nor was it apparent that the Mexican was acquainted with the
newcomers.

The four rode toward her presently, and as they neared her one of them
removed his hat and asked if he could see the boss.

“I’m the boss,” she replied.

“We’re lookin’ fer work,” said the man; and as he spoke he dismounted
and walked close to her, the others reining near as though to hear what
her answer would be.

When the man was quite close he suddenly seized her, whirled her about
and held her hands behind her. At the same instant another of his
fellows dismounted and stepped quickly to her. She struggled and fought
to free herself; but she was helpless, and in another moment they had
bound her wrists behind her.

As they were lifting her to one of the horses the Chinese ran from the
cook house, calling to them to stop; but one of the men drew his
six-shooter, and a single, menacing shot was enough to send the unarmed
domestic back into his kitchen.

Cheetim, watching from the hills south of the ranch, saw all that
transpired within the yard and was highly elated at the ease with which
his nefarious plan was being carried out; but, alas, things were running
far too smoothly.

What was that? He bent an attentive ear toward the west and recognized
the cadenced pounding of the hoofs of a rapidly galloping horse—the
little rift within the lute.

In the ranch yard the men had stopped to argue. Cheetim could see them
but he could not understand the delay. He could only curse silently,
dividing his attention between them and the road to the west, along
which he could hear the approaching hoof beats.

“What’s the use of packin’ this girl double?” the man who had been
assigned to carry Wichita demanded. “We got plenty time an’ they’s a
hoss standin’ right down there in the c’ral.”

“‘Dirty’ said not to waste no time,” demurred another.

The mention of Cheetim’s descriptive nickname was the first intimation
Wichita had received of the origin and purpose of the plan to abduct
her. Now she understood—it was all clear, horribly clear. For years the
man had hounded and annoyed her. Twice before he had tried to take her
forcibly. It looked now as though he might succeed. Who was there to
succor her? Her father dead and every man in her employ gone, for how
long she could not guess. There was no one. She wondered why it was that
at that moment the figure of an almost naked, bronze savage filled her
thoughts to the exclusion of every other source of salvation, and that
while she nursed her hatred of him she involuntarily almost prayed that
some miracle might bring him to her.

The man who had suggested a separate horse for Wichita insisted. “It
won’t take two minutes,” he said, “an’ if we are follered we kin make
better time than if one of the hosses is packin’ double.”

“Hell, then,” exclaimed one of his fellows, “instead of chawin’ the fat
let’s git a hoss. Here, you!” he addressed Luis. “Fetch that hoss. Throw
a saddle onto him an’ a lead rope.”

As Luis hastened to obey, Cheetim, seeing the further delay, became
frantic. The horseman was approaching rapidly along the road from the
west, and the men in the ranch yard were wasting valuable time.

Out on the east range Shoz-Dijiji, having finished his breakfast,
mounted Nejeunee and turned the pony’s head toward the east, toward the
distant mountains where the Gila rises, toward the ancient stamping
grounds of the Be-don-ko-he.

He had no plans for the future. He wanted only to get away. He had seen
Wichita Billings through his field glasses, and the sight of her had but
aggravated the old hurt. Sad and lonely, the war chief rode toward the
deserted camp grounds of his vanished people, where now were only
brooding memories.

Luke Jensen galloped into sight of the ranch. Cheetim, lying behind a
boulder at the top of a hill, covered him with his rifle sights and
fired. Luke heard the bullet scream past his ear. Forewarned of some
danger, he knew not what, he was prepared. He took two flying shots at
the puff of smoke at the hill top where his unknown assailant lay, dug
the rowels into his pony’s sides, and raced for the ranch gate that he
saw was standing open.

Cheetim fired once more; but again he missed, and then Luke was inside
the yard. Coming toward him from the corrals he saw five men and
Wichita, and he knew that something was radically wrong even before one
of the men drew his gun and opened fire on him. Unable to return the
man’s fire without endangering Wichita, Jensen spurred in the direction
of an out-building that would give him shelter until he could get his
rifle into action.

The five men spurred toward the gate, quirting Wichita’s horse to equal
speed. Three of them were firing at Luke; and just as he reached the
out-building, just when he was within a second of safety, Wichita saw
him lunge from his saddle, hit.

Then her captors raced through the gate and into the hills south of the
ranch, whirling Wichita Billings away with them.




                            Chapter Eighteen


                          “The Apache Devil!”

=O=UT on the east range a horseman reined in his mount and listened as
the rapid reports of rifle and pistol came faintly to his ears. There
was something amiss at the Crazy B Ranch and Wichita was there,
practically alone! Shoz-Dijiji wheeled Nejeunee so suddenly that the
little pinto reared almost straight in air and then, at a touch of his
master’s heels and a word in his pointed ears, leaped off in the new
direction at a swift run.

After sending Luke back to the ranch Kreff’s suspicions, now thoroughly
aroused, continued to increase. He began to realize that if they were
well founded one man might not be sufficient. He wished that he had sent
more. Presently he wished that he had gone himself; and soon he reined
in, halting his companions.

“Fellers,” he said, “the more I think about it the more I think that
mebby Cheetim’s givin’ us a dirty deal. He may have jest wanted to git
us all away from the ranch. He’s tried to get Chita twicet before. I’m
a-goin’ back an’ I’m a-goin’ to take Jake an’ Sam with me. ‘Kansas,’ you
take Charlie an’ Matt an’ ride after them rustlers. Ef you kin pick up
some fellers along the way, all right; ef you can’t, do the best you kin
alone. So long! Come on, fellers!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

As the five men entered the hills with Chita, Cheetim joined them. It
was evident that he was much elated.

“Good work, boys!” he cried. “I reckon I didn’t pull the wool over
‘Smooth’s’ eyes nor nothin’, eh?” He rode to Chita’s side and grinned
into her face. “Say, dearie,” he exclaimed, “you don’t hev to worry
none. I’ve decided to do the right thing by you. We’ll spend our
honeymoon up in the hills ’til things blows over a bit an’ then we’ll
mosey down to the Hog Ranch an’ git married.”

Wichita looked the man straight in the eyes for a moment and then turned
away in disgust, but she did not speak. Luis Mariel, sober eyed,
serious, looked on. He had not bargained on a part in any such affair as
this.

“Well, fellers,” said Cheetim, “let’s pull up a second an’ licker. I
reckon we’ve earned a drink.”

They stopped their ponies and from five hip pockets came five pint
bottles.

“Here’s to the bride!” cried Cheetim, and they all laughed and drank,
all except Luis, who had no bottle.

“Here, kid,” said Cheetim, “hev a drink!” He proffered his flask to
Luis.

“Thank you, Senor, I do not care to drink,” replied the Mexican.

Deep into the hills they rode—five miles, ten miles. Wichita guessed
where they were taking her—to an old two room shack that prospectors
had built years before beside a little spring far back in the mountains.
Apaches had gotten the prospectors, and the shack had stood deserted and
tenantless ever since.

She felt quite hopeless, for there seemed not the slightest foundation
for belief that there could be any help for her. Luke, if he were not
badly hurt, or possibly Chung, the cook, could get word to their nearest
neighbor; but he lived miles and miles away; and any help to be
effective must reach her within a few hours, for after that it would be
too late. And even if men were found to come after her it might be a
long time before they could locate Cheetim’s hiding place.

Cheetim and his men had finished a flask apiece as they rode; but this
was not the extent of their supply—each had another flask in his
shirt—so that by the time they reached the shack they were more than
content with themselves and all the world.

Once Luis had ridden close beside Wichita and spoken to her. “I am
sorry, Senorita,” he whispered. “I did not know what they were going to
do. If I can help you, I will. Maybe, when they are drunk, I can help
you get away.”

“Thanks,” replied the girl. As she spoke she turned and looked at the
youth, noticing him more than casually for the first time, and realized
that his face seemed familiar. “Where have I seen you before?” she
asked.

“I brought the pinto pony from El Teniente King to your rancho a year
ago,” replied Luis.

“Oh, yes, I remember you now. You brought Shoz-Dijiji’s pony up from
Mexico.”

“Shoz-Dijiji’s pony? Was that Shoz-Dijiji’s pony? You know Shoz-Dijiji,
Senorita?”

“I know him,” said the girl; “do you?”

“Yes, very well. He saved my father’s life, and twice when he could have
killed me he did not.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Cheetim who rode back to Wichita’s
side.

“Well, here we are, dearie,” he said, “but we ain’t goin’ to stay here
long. Tomorrow morning we hit the trail fer a place I know where God
himself couldn’t find us.”

The shack, before which the party had stopped and were dismounting, was
a rough affair built of stone and mud and such timber as grew sparsely
on the slopes of the canyon in the bottom of which it nestled. A tiny
spring, now choked with dirt, made a mud hole a few yards to one side of
the building. The men led their horses to the rear of the building where
there were a few trees to which they could fasten them. Two of the men
started to clean out the spring, and Cheetim escorted Wichita into the
shack.

“We brung along some grub,” he said. “It won’t be much of a weddin’
breakfast to brag on, but you wait ’til we git back to the Hog Ranch!
We’ll have a reg’lar spread then an’ invite every son-of-a-gun in the
territory. I’m goin’ to treat you right, kid, even ef you haven’t been
any too damn nice to me.”

Wichita did not speak.

“Say, you can jest start right now cuttin’ out thet high-toned stuff
with me,” said Cheetim. “I’ll be good to you ef you treat me right, but
by God I ain’t a-goin’ to stand much more funny business. You kin start
now by givin’ me a little kiss.”

“Cheetim,” said the girl, “listen to me. You’re half drunk now, but
maybe you’ve got sense enough left to understand what I am going to say
to you. I’d a heap rather kiss a Gila monster than you. You may be able
to kiss me because you’re stronger than I am, and I guess even kissing a
Gila monster wouldn’t kill me; but I’m warning you that if you ever do
kiss me you’d better kill me quick, for I’m going to kill myself if
anything happens to me——”

“Ef you want to be a damn fool that’s your own look out,” interrupted
Cheetim, with a snarl, “but it won’t keep me from doin’ what I’m goin’
to do. Ef you’re fool enough to kill yourself afterward, you can.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” said Wichita. “I’ll kill myself, all right,
but I’ll kill you first.”

The men were entering the room; and Cheetim stood, hesitating, knowing
the girl meant what she said. He was a coward, and he had not had quite
enough whiskey to bolster up his courage to the point of his desires.

“Oh, well,” he said, “we won’t quarrel this a-way on our honeymoon. You
jest go in the other room there, dearie, an’ make yourself to home; an’
we’ll talk things over later. Git me a piece of rope, one o’ you
fellers. I ain’t goin’ to take no chances of my bride vamoosin’.”

In the small back room of the shack they tied Wichita’s wrists and
ankles securely and left her seated on an old bench, the only furniture
that the room boasted.

Out in the front room the men were making preparations to cook some of
the food they had brought with them, but most of their time was devoted
to drinking and boasting. Cheetim drank with a purpose. He wanted to
arrive, as quickly as possible, at a state of synthetic courage that
would permit him to ignore the moral supremacy of the girl in the back
room. He knew that he was physically more powerful, and so he could not
understand why he feared her. Cheetim had never heard of such a thing as
an inferiority complex, and so he did not know that that was what he
suffered from in an aggravated form whenever he faced the level gaze and
caustic tongue of Wichita Billings.

The more Cheetim drank the louder and more boastful he became. Wichita
could hear him narrating the revolting details of numerous crimes that
he had committed.

“Yo shua ah some bad hombre, ‘Dirty’,” eulogized one of his party.

“Oh, I don’t claim to be no bad man,” replied Cheetim, modestly. “What I
says is thet I has brains, an’ I use ’em. Look how I fooled
‘Smooth’—sent him off on a wild goose chase an’ then swipes his girl
while he’s gone.” They all laughed uproariously.

“An’ he better not get funny about it neither, even ef he don’t like it.
I kin use my brains fer other things besides gettin’ me my women. Ol’
man Billings larnt thet. He kicked me out oncet; an’ I suppose he
thought I was afraid of him, but I was jest waitin’. I waited a long
time, but I got him.”

“You got him? You did not. He was kilt by Injuns,” contradicted one.

“Injuns, Hell!” ejaculated Cheetim. “Thar’s where I used my brains. I
killed Billings, but I was cute enough to scalp him. I——”

Drunk as he was, he realized that he had gone too far, had admitted too
much. He looked wickedly about the room. “What I’ve told you is among
friends,” he said. “Ef any of you fellers ever feels like you’d like to
join Billings all you got to do is blab what I jest told you. Savvy?”

In the other room Wichita Billings, listening, heard every word that
Cheetim spoke, and her soul was seared by shame and vain regret for the
wrong she had done the friendless red man. She reproached herself for
not listening to the counsel and the urging of her heart, for she
knew—she had always known—that she had battled against her love for
Shoz-Dijiji, had trampled it beneath her feet, that she might encourage
her belief in his perfidy.

If she could only see him once more, if she could only tell him that she
knew and ask his forgiveness; but now it was too late.

She heard Cheetim speaking again. “You fellers finish rustlin’ the
grub,” he said. “I’m goin’ in an’ visit my wife.” This sally was
applauded with much laughter. “An’ I don’t want to be disturbed,” he
concluded. “Savvy?”

                 *        *        *        *        *

A pinto stallion, racing like the wind, bore its rider toward the Crazy
B ranch house following the shots that had attracted the attention of
the Apache. Fences intervened, but though there were gates in them
Shoz-Dijiji had no time to waste on gates. Straight for them he rode
Nejeunee; and the pinto took them in his stride, soaring over them like
a bird on the wing.

Chung, kneeling beside Luke in the ranch yard, voiced a startled cry as
he saw a pinto stallion, bearing a feared Apache warrior, rise over the
bars of the corral; but Chung did not flee. He stood his post, though
scarce knowing what to do. Luke’s six-shooter was close beside his hand;
but Chung was too surprised to think of it, and a second later the
warrior had reined in beside them, his pony sliding upon its haunches
for a dozen feet.

Throwing himself to the ground Shoz-Dijiji knelt beside Luke.

“What has happened?” he demanded. “Where is Chita?”

Luke looked up. “Oh, it’s you, Shoz-Dijiji? Thank God for that. A bunch
of skunks jest rid off into the south hills with her. I ain’t hurted
bad, but I caint ride. You go!”

“Sure I go!” As he arose Shoz-Dijiji stripped his clothing from him in
an instant, and when he leaped to Nejeunee’s back again he wore only
moccasins, his G-string, and a head band.

“I get her!” he cried, reassuringly, waving his rifle above his head,
and an instant later he was racing for the gate.

Down the road from the west thundered Kreff and Jake and Sam just as
Shoz-Dijiji swept through the gate.

“There’s the Siwash killed the Boss!” shouted Sam, who was in the lead,
and the words were scarce out of his mouth before he had drawn his gun
and opened fire on the Indian. Jake joined in the fusillade of shots;
and Shoz-Dijiji, turning upon the back of his war pony, sent a half
dozen bullets among them before he vanished into the hills. It was only
the rapidity with which their mounts had been moving that prevented any
casualties.

“Even a coyote will fight for his life,” soliloquized the Apache Devil;
but he did not feel like a coyote. Once more he was an Apache war chief
riding naked upon the war trail against the hated pindah-lickoyee; and
just as he rode from the sight of the white men he could not restrain a
single, exultant Apache war whoop.

Into the ranch yard thundered Kreff and his companions. They saw Luke
trying to drag himself to his feet and stagger toward him.

“You lop-eared idiots!” he yelled. “Wot in Hell you shootin’ at him fer?
He’s ridin’ after the fellers that stole Chita.”

“Stole Chita?” cried Kreff. “By God, I was right! Cheetim!”

“I didn’t see Cheetim,” said Luke. “Whoever it was rid south into the
hills. Git the hell out of here and git after them, an’ ef you see that
Apache leave him be—he’s the best friend Wichita Billings’s got.”

“Chung, you git Luke into the bunk house an’ take keer o’ him ’til we
gets back,” Kreff called over his shoulder as the three spurred away
again, this time following the trail taken by Shoz-Dijiji.

Plain before the trained eyes of Shoz-Dijiji lay the spoor of his
quarry. Swiftly he rode. The errand, the speed of his fleet pony, his
own nakedness stirred every savage instinct within him. He had never
expected to live again; but this, O, Usen, was life! He dipped into the
pouch at his side and drew out a little silver box that he had never
expected to use again, and dipping into it with a forefinger he banded
his face with the blue and white war paint of the Apache Devil. He could
not lay the colors on carefully at the speed Nejeunee was carrying him;
but he wore them, as a ship of war runs up its battle flag as it goes
into action.

                 *        *        *        *        *

As Cheetim left them and entered the rear room of the shack, the men in
the front room nudged one another, chuckled, and took a drink. They were
wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands when the outer door
swung open, and a painted warrior stepped into the room.

Luis Mariel, who was standing in a corner, looked wide eyed at the
newcomer. The other men reached for their six-shooters.

“The Apache Devil!” cried Luis.

Shoz-Dijiji looked quickly at him. “Lie down!” he said to him in
Spanish. Already he had commenced to shoot. He asked no questions. A man
fell.

In the back room Cheetim and Wichita heard the dread name as Luis cried
it aloud. Cheetim had just entered and closed the door behind him. He
was approaching Wichita as Luis spoke the name of the scourge of three
states. At the first shot Cheetim crossed the room at a bound and leaped
from the window. A half dozen shots followed in quick succession. Four
men lay dead in the outer room when Shoz-Dijiji sprang to the door of
the smaller room and swung it open, just in time to see Cheetim mounting
a horse in the rear of the building. He recognized him instantly; then
he turned toward the girl.

“You hurt?” he demanded.

“No. Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, thank God, you came!”

The Apache called to Luis who came running to the door. “You,” he said,
pointing at the youth. “You know the Apache Devil. You know what he do
to his enemies. You take this girl home. If she don’t get home safe the
Apache Devil settle with you. Sabe?”

He crossed the room to the window.

“Where are you going?” cried Wichita.

“To kill my last pindah-lickoyee,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, as he vaulted
across the sill.

“Wait! Wait, Shoz-Dijiji,” the girl called after him; but Shoz-Dijiji,
war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, war chief of all the Apaches, had gone.

The little pinto stallion was scrambling up the steep canyon side as
Luis Mariel cut the bonds that held Wichita Billings. The girl ran to
the window.

Far above she saw war pony and warrior silhouetted against the darkening
sky; and then Shoz-Dijiji, last of the war chiefs, and Nejeunee, last of
his wild friends, dropped below the crest and disappeared.

For several minutes the girl stood at the window gazing out into the
gathering night; then she turned back into the room where Luis stood
just within the doorway.

“The Apache Devil!” There was a shudder in Wichita’s voice. Her eyes
discovered Luis. “Oh,” she said, as though she had forgotten his
presence, “you are here?”

“Si, Senorita.”

Again there was a long silence.

“The Apache Devil!” Wichita squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“I do not care,” she cried, defiantly.

“No, Senorita.”

The girl looked fixedly at the Mexican youth for a moment as though his
presence suggested a new thought that was formulating in her mind.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Luis, Senorita,” he replied; “Luis Mariel.”

“You said that you would help me, Luis, if you could. Do you remember?”

“I remember, Senorita.”

“You can, Luis. Ride after the—the Apache Devil and tell him that I
want him to come back.”

“Gladly, Senorita.”

“Go,” she urged. “Hurry! Go now!”

Luis glanced behind him through the doorway into the other room and then
back at Wichita.

“And leave you alone, at night, with all these dead men?” he exclaimed.
“Santa Maria, Senorita! No, I cannot do that.”

“I am not afraid, Luis,” she said.

“S-s-st!” exclaimed Luis in a hoarse whisper. “What is that?”

They both listened.

“Someone is coming,” said the girl. “Perhaps—perhaps it is he.”

“There is more than one,” said the youth. “I hear them talking now.” He
stepped quickly into the adjoining room and, stooping, took a
six-shooter from the floor where it lay beside one of the dead men.
Returning, he handed it to Wichita Billings. “Perhaps these are more of
Senor Cheetim’s friends,” he suggested.

Together they stood waiting. The sounds of approaching horses ceased,
and all was quiet. Wichita knew that whoever it was that came had
reached a point where the shack was visible for the first time and were
doubtless reconnoitering. Finally a voice broke the silence.

“Chita!” it called aloud, ringing and echoing through the canyon.

“They are my friends,” she said to Luis and ran through the outer room
to the front doorway. “Here, ‘Smooth’!” she called. “It is all right. I
am in the shack.”

Luis came and stood just behind her shoulder. It was not yet so dark but
that features might be recognized at short distances. The two saw Kreff
riding forward with Sam and Jake. Luis layed a hand on Wichita’s arm.
“They are Cheetim’s friends,” he said. “I know that first one well.” He
brushed by her, his revolver in his hand.

“No!” she cried, seizing his arm. “They are my own men. The first one is
my foreman.”

“Here’s one of ’em, boys!” cried Kreff as he recognized Luis. “Here’s
the damned Greaser that brought me thet lyin’ letter from ‘Dirty.’ Git
out o’ the way, Chita!” and leaping from his horse he ran forward.

“Stop!” cried Luis. His weapon was levelled at Kreff’s stomach.

“This boy is all right!” exclaimed Wichita. “Put your guns away, all of
you.”

Slowly and with no great alacrity Kreff and Mariel returned their
revolvers to their holsters. The other two men followed their example.

“What’s happened here?” demanded Kreff. “Has anyone hurted you, Chita?”

“No, I’m all right,” she replied. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Get
your horse, Luis, and take the message that I gave you. I’ll be starting
back for the ranch now. I’ll be waiting there. Tell him that I shall be
waiting there for him.”

Kreff looked on, puzzled, as Wichita gave her instructions to Luis. He
saw the youth mount and ride up the canyon side. Then he turned to the
girl. “Where’s he goin’?” he demanded. “Who you goin’ to wait fer?”

“For Shoz-Dijiji,” she replied. “He did not kill Dad—it was Cheetim.
Come along, now; I want to go home.”




                            Chapter Nineteen


                           The Last War Trail

=T=HROUGH the descending dark an Apache rode along the war trail,
following the tracks of an enemy. He saw that the man ahead of him had
been urging his mount at perilous speed down the rocky gorge, but the
Apache did not hurry. He was a young man. Before him stretched a
lifetime in which to bring the quarry to bay. To follow recklessly would
be to put himself at a disadvantage, to court disaster, defeat, death.
Such was not the way of an Apache. Doggedly, stealthily he would stalk
the foe. If it took a lifetime, if he must follow him across a world,
what matter? In the end he would get him.

What was that, just ahead? In the trail, looming strange through the
dusk, lay something that did not harmonize with the surroundings. At
first he could not be quite certain what it was, but that it did not
belong there was apparent to his trained senses.

Cautiously he approached. It was a horse lying in the trail. It was
alive. It tried to rise as he came nearer, but it stumbled and fell
again—and it groaned. He saw that it was saddled and bridled. He waited
in concealment, listening. There was no other sound. Creeping nearer he
saw that the horse could not rise because one of its legs was broken. It
suffered. Shoz-Dijiji drew his butcher knife and cut its throat, putting
it out of its misery. Cheetim had ridden too fast down this rocky gorge.

On foot now, leading Nejeunee, Shoz-Dijiji followed the faint spoor of
the dismounted man. He found the place where it turned up the
precipitous side of the gorge where no horse could go, and here
Shoz-Dijiji abandoned Nejeunee and followed on alone.

All night he followed. At dawn he knew that he was close upon the man he
sought. Small particles of earth were still crumbling back into the
depression of a footprint where Cheetim had stepped but a few moments
before.

Did Shoz-Dijiji hasten forward? No. On the contrary he followed more
cautiously, more slowly than before, for he gave the enemy credit for
doing precisely what Shoz-Dijiji would have done had their positions
been reversed—except that Shoz-Dijiji would have done it hours earlier.

With infinite patience and care he crept up each slope and from the
summit surveyed the terrain ahead before he proceeded. He knew that
Cheetim was just ahead of him and that he would soon stop to rest, for
the spoor told him that the man was almost exhausted. For a long time
Shoz-Dijiji had guessed that the other knew he was being
followed—before that he had only feared it. The end must be near.

Shoz-Dijiji crept slowly up a hillside. Just below the summit he stopped
and took a red bandanna from his pouch. This he wrapped loosely about
the stock of his rifle; and then, holding the piece by the muzzle,
raised it slowly just above the hill top. Instantly there came the
report of a rifle from beyond the hill; and Shoz-Dijiji, almost smiling,
jerked the bandanna from sight.

Quickly he hastened to the right, keeping well below the line of vision
of his adversary; and when he crept upward again it was behind a low
bush, through the branches of which he could see without being seen.

A hundred yards away Cheetim lay behind a boulder upon another hill top.
He was peering out from behind his shelter. Shoz-Dijiji took careful
aim—not at the head of his enemy, which was in plain sight, but at his
shoulder. Shoz-Dijiji had plans.

He pressed his trigger, and with the report Cheetim jumped convulsively
and slumped forward. Slowly the Apache arose and keeping his man covered
with his rifle walked toward him. He found the white man, just as he had
expected, stunned by the shock of the wound but not dead.

Shoz-Dijiji removed Cheetim’s weapons from his reach and sat down and
waited. With the patience that is an Apache’s he waited. Presently
Cheetim opened his eyes and looked into the painted face of the Apache
Devil. He shuddered and closed them again, but Shoz-Dijiji knew that the
man was conscious.

The Indian spoke no word as he bent and seized Cheetim by the hair.
Again the man opened his eyes. He saw the butcher knife in the hand of
the Indian and screamed.

“Fer God’s sake don’t!” he cried. “I’ll give you whiskey,
money—anything you want ef you’ll let me go.”

Shoz-Dijiji did not answer him. The keen blade sank into the flesh of
the white man. Cheetim screamed and struggled. There was a quick, deft,
circular motion of Shoz-Dijiji’s hand, and a bloody scalp-lock dangled
from the fingers of the war chief. It was then that Cheetim fainted.

Shoz-Dijiji sat down and waited. Five, ten, fifteen minutes he waited
before Cheetim gave signs of returning consciousness. Still Shoz-Dijiji
waited. At last the white man was fully cognizant of his surroundings.
He began to weep—tears of self pity. Shoz-Dijiji arose and bent over
him.

“What are you going to do?” shrieked his victim, but the Apache did not
answer him—in words. Instead he took some buckskin thongs from his
pouch and making a running noose in one end of each he slipped one upon
each wrist and ankle of the prostrate man. Then with his butcher knife
he cut some stakes from stout shrubs that grew about them. Returning to
Cheetim he turned the man upon his back and, stretching each arm and leg
to its full extent, out spread, he staked the screaming coward to the
ground.

Rising, he stood looking down at Cheetim for a long minute. Then, in
silence, he turned and walked away, back along the trail he had come.

“Don’t leave me!” screamed Cheetim. “Fer God’s sake come back! Come back
and kill me. Don’t leave me here to die alone—like this!”

Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, walked on in silence. Not
once did he turn to look back in the direction of the first enemy he had
ever tortured. Had he, he would have seen a vulture circling high
against the blue on stationary wings above the last victim of the Apache
Devil.

Where he had left Nejeunee Shoz-Dijiji found Luis Mariel waiting for
him.

“I knew that you would come back to your pony,” said Luis.

“Why did you follow me?” demanded the Apache.

“The Senorita sent me after you.”

“Why?”

“She wished me to say to you that you are to come back to her.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was dark when Luis Mariel and Shoz-Dijiji rode into the ranch yard of
the Crazy B. Wichita Billings was standing beneath the cottonwood trees
that grew in front of the ranch house as they rode up to her and
dismounted.

“Luis,” she said, “take his horse and yours and turn them into the east
pasture; then go to the cook house. Chung will give you supper.”

Shoz-Dijiji said nothing. He watched Luis leading Nejeunee away. He
waited. Wichita came close to him and laid her hands upon his breast as
she had once before, long ago. Again came the terrible urge to take her
in his arms, but this time he did not surrender to it.

“You sent for me?” he asked.

“To ask you to forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For everything,” she replied.

“There is nothing to forgive. You did not understand—that is all.”

“I understand now.”

“I am glad,” he said simply. “Is that all?”

“No. Kreff has left. I do not know why. He wouldn’t even stop for
supper. Just got his stuff and his check and rode away. I need another
foreman. Will you take the job?”

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will take it. Now I go to the bunk house.”

“Wait.”

“Is there something more?”

“Yes. You know there is. Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, are you a man or a stone?” she
cried.

“I am an Apache, Senorita,” he said. “Do not forget that. I am an
Apache, and you are a white girl.”

“I do not care. I love you!” She came very close to him again.

“Are you very sure, Chita?” he asked. “You must make no mistake this
time.”

“I am very sure, Shoz-Dijiji.”

“We shall see,” he said, “for we must both be sure. Shoz-Dijiji will be
very happy if he finds that you can love him even though he is an
Indian—then he will tell you something that you will be glad to know,
but not now.”

“There is something that you could tell me now that I should like to
hear, Shoz-Dijiji,” she whispered.

“What is that?”

“You have not told me that you love me.”

The war chief took his mate into his arms and looked down into her
tear-filled eyes.

“Shoz-Dijiji no sabe,” he said, smiling. Then he bent and covered her
lips with his.

In the east pasture a filly nickered, and a pinto stallion arched his
neck and answered her.

                                THE END




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur. Contractions have been standardized to include apostrophes on the
following: won’t, don’t, ain’t, agin’, hain’t, an’, ’em, ’ere, and ’ary.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.

A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK APACHE DEVIL ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.