The  War  Chief
                         Edgar  Rice  Burroughs




           Text copyright 1927 by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.




                                CONTENTS

          CHAPTER                                           PAGE
                I GO-YAT-THLAY                                 1
               II SHOZ-DIJIJI                                 15
              III YA-IK-TEE                                   37
               IV THE NEW WAR CHIEF                           57
                V ON THE WAR TRAIL                            74
               VI THE OATH OF GERONIMO                        94
              VII RAIDED                                     114
             VIII VAQUEROS AND WARRIORS                      135
               IX LOVE                                       157
                X WICHITA BILLINGS                           177
               XI WAR CHIEF OF THE BE-DON-KO-HE              202
              XII THE SCALP DANCE                            223
             XIII “SHOZ-DIJIJI IS DEAD!”                     241
              XIV “FIFTY APACHES”                            260
               XV HUNTED                                     280
              XVI TO SPIRIT LAND                             299
             XVII THE TRAIL AND ITS END                      314
            XVIII THE WAR DANCE                              337
              XIX WHITE AND RED                              354
               XX COME BACK                                  374




                             The War Chief




                               CHAPTER I
                              GO-YAT-THLAY


NAKED but for a G-string, rough sandals, a bit of hide and a buffalo
headdress, a savage warrior leaped and danced to the beating of drums.
Encircling fires, woman-tended, sent up curling tongues of flame,
lighting, fitfully, sweat-glistening shoulders, naked arms and legs.

Distorted shadows, grotesque, mimicking, danced with the savage and his
fellows. Above them, dark and mysterious and weirdly exaggerated by the
night, loomed the Grampian Hills.

Rude bows and arrows, stone-shod spears, gaudy feathers, the waving
tails of animals accentuated the barbaric atmosphere that was as yet
uncontaminated by the fetid breath of civilization—pardon me!—that was
as yet ignorant of the refining influences of imperial conquest, trained
mercenaries and abhorrent disease.

Here was freedom. Agricola was as yet unborn, the Wall of Antoninus
unbuilt, Albion not even a name; but Agricola was to come, Antoninus was
to build his wall; and they were to go their ways, taking with them the
name of Albion, taking with them freedom; leaving England, civilization,
inhibitions.

But ever in the seed of the savage is the germ of savagery that no
veneer of civilization, no stultifying inhibitions seem able ever
entirely to eradicate. Appearing sporadically in individuals it comes
down the ages—the germ of savagery, the seed of freedom.

As the Caledonian savages danced through that long-gone night, a
thousand years, perhaps, before the prototypes of Joseph Smith, John
Alexander Dowie and Aimee Semple McPherson envisaged the Star of
Bethlehem, a new sun looked down upon the distant land of the
Athapascans and another scene—American Indian savages.

Naked but for a G-string, rough sandals, a bit of hide and a buffalo
headdress, a savage warrior moved silently among the boles of great
trees. At his heels, in single file, came others, and behind these
squaws with papooses on their backs and younger children tagging at
their heels.

They had no pack animals, other than the squaws, but they had little to
pack. It was, perhaps, the genesis of that great trek toward the south.
How many centuries it required no man knows, for there were no
chroniclers to record or explain that long march of the Apaches from
northwest Canada to Arizona and New Mexico, as there have been to trace
the seed of the Caledonian savage from the Grampian Hills to the New
World.

The ancestors of Jerry MacDuff had brought the savage germ with them to
Georgia from Scotland in early colonial days, and it had manifested
itself in Jerry in two ways—filled him with a distaste for civilization
that urged him ever frontierward and mated him with the granddaughter of
a Cherokee Indian, in whose veins pulsed analogous desires.

Jerry MacDuff and Annie Foley were, like nearly all other pioneers,
ignorant, illiterate, unwashed. They had nothing of the majesty and
grandeur and poise of their savage forebears; the repressive force of
civilization had stifled everything but the bare, unlovely germ of
savagery.

They have little to do with this chronicle, other than to bring Andy
MacDuff into the world in a dilapidated wagon somewhere in Missouri in
the spring of 1863, and carry him a few months and a few hundred miles
upon the sea of life.

Why Jerry MacDuff was not in one army or another, or in jail, in 1863, I
do not know, for he was an able-bodied man of thirty and no coward; but
the bare fact is that he was headed for California along the old Santa
Fe trail. His pace was slow, since dire poverty, which had always been
his lot, necessitated considerable stops at the infrequent settlements
where he might earn the wherewith to continue his oft-interrupted
journey.

Out of Santa Fe, New Mexico, the MacDuffs turned south along the Rio
Grande toward the spot where the seeds of the ancient Caledonian and
Athapascan warriors were destined to meet again for the first time,
perhaps, since they had set out upon opposite trails from the birthplace
of humanity in the days when ferns were trees, and unsailed seas lashed
the shores of continents that are no more.

Changed are the seas, changed are the continents, changed the mortal
envelope that houses the germ of humanity that alone remains unchanged
and unchangeable. It abode in the breast of Go-yat-thlay, the Apache
and, identical, in the breast of Andy MacDuff, the infant white.

Had Andy’s forebears remained in Scotland Andy would doubtless have
developed into a perfectly respectable caddie before he became a
God-fearing, law-abiding farmer. Back of him were all the generations of
civilization that are supposed to have exerted a refining influence upon
humanity to the end that we are now inherently more godlike than our
savage ancestors, or the less-favored peoples who have yet to emerge
from savagery.

Back of Go-yat-thlay there was no civilization. Down through all the
unthinkable ages from the beginning the savage germ that animated him
had come untouched by any suggestion of refinement—Go-yat-thlay, born a
Ned-ni Apache in No-doyohn Canyon, Arizona, in 1829, was stark savage.
Already, at thirty-four, he was war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, the tribe
of his first wife, Alope, which he had joined after his marriage to her.
The great Mangas Colorado, hereditary chief of the Be-don-ko-he, thought
well of him, consulted him, deferred to him upon occasion; often sent
him out upon the war trail in command of parties of raiders.

Today Go-yat-thlay was thus engaged. With four warriors he rode down the
slopes of Stein’s Peak range, dropped into a hollow and clambered again
almost to the top of an eminence beyond. Here they halted and
Go-yat-thlay, dismounting, handed his reins to one of his fellows. Alone
he clambered noiselessly to the summit, disturbing no smallest pebble,
and lying there upon his belly looked down upon a winding, dusty road
below. No emotion that he may have felt was reflected in those cruel,
granitic features.

For an hour he had been moving directly toward this point expecting that
when he arrived he would find about what he was looking down upon now—a
single wagon drawn by two mules, a dilapidated wagon, with a soiled and
much-patched cover.

Go-yat-thlay had never before seen this wagon, but he had seen its dust
from a great distance; he noted its volume and its rate of progress, and
he had known that it was a wagon drawn by two mules, for there was less
dust than an ox-drawn vehicle would have raised, since oxen do not lift
their feet as high as horses or mules, and, too, its rate of progress
eliminated oxen as a possible means of locomotion. That the wagon was
drawn by mules rather than horses was but a shrewd guess based upon
observation. The Apache knew that few horses survived thus far the long
trek from the white man’s country.

In the mind of Go-yat-thlay burned a recollection of the wrongs that had
been heaped upon his people by the white man. In the legends of his
fathers had come down the story of the conquests of the Spaniards,
through Coronado and the priests, three-hundred years before. In those
days the Apache had fought only to preserve the integrity of his domain
from the domination of an alien race. In his heart there was not the
bitter hatred that the cruelty and injustice and treachery of the more
recent American invaders engendered.

These things passed through the mind of the Apache as he looked down
upon the scene below; and too, there was the lure of loot. Mules have
value as food, and among the meager personal belongings of the white
emigrants there was always ammunition and often trinkets dear to the
heart of the savage.

And so there were greed and vengeance in the heart of Go-yat-thlay as he
watched the wagon and Jerry MacDuff and Annie, but there was no change
in the expression upon the cruel and inscrutable face.

The Indian drew himself down below the crest of the sun-scorched hill,
out of sight of the unsuspecting whites, and signalled to his
companions. Three of them crept upward toward him; the fourth,
remaining, held the ponies of the others. He was a youth undergoing
preparation for admission to the warrior class.

Go-yat-thlay spoke to the three. Separating, the four bucks crept to the
hilltop. The mules plodded through the dust; their brown hides were
streaked with it and by little rivulets of sweat.

Jerry MacDuff stuffed a large portion of fine-cut inside his cheek and
spat copiously at nothing in particular. Annie Foley relit her pipe.
They seldom spoke. They had not spoken for many hours; they were never
to speak again.

Almost before the report of the first shot reached his ears Jerry
MacDuff heard a soft _plop_ and saw Annie crumple and lurch forward. As
he reached out to catch her a slug struck him in the left shoulder and
he lurched to the ground on the right side of the wagon as Annie, dead
now, slipped softly and silently beneath the left front wheel. The mules
brought up suddenly by this unexpected obstacle, and being unurged,
stopped.

When the warriors reached the scene, Jerry was trying to drag himself
upward to the wagon box from whence he could reach his rifle.
Go-yat-thlay struck him over the head with the butt of a Yauger and
Jerry sank back into the soft dust of the road.

The sun shone down out of a blue sky; a Sabbath peace lay upon the
scene; a great, white lily bloomed beside the road, mute evidence of the
omnipotence of the Creator.

Jerry lay upon his back close beside the wagon. Go-yat-thlay detached a
broken stake from the wagon and, with a shovel that was strapped to the
side, drove it through Jerry and into the ground. Jerry groaned, but did
not regain consciousness—then. For the first time the expression upon
the face of the Be-don-ko-he underwent a change—he smiled.

One of his fellows called him to the opposite side of the wagon, where
Annie lay, and pointed to the dead woman’s sun-tanned face and straight,
black hair, and the high cheek bones that her Cherokee grandsire had
bequeathed her.

“Indian,” he said to Go-yat-thlay.

The war chief nodded.

A second Indian emerged from the wagon, where he had been rummaging. He
was grinning broadly. By one foot he held up for their inspection wee
Andy MacDuff, whom he was about to swing heavily against the nearest
iron tire when Go-yat-thlay stopped him with a gesture and holding out
his hand received the descendant of one, long dead, who had been equally
as savage as he. From northwestern Canada and from the Grampian Hills
the seeds had met at last.

Wee Andy had seemingly inherited, through his mother, more Indian blood
than flowed in her veins; at least he looked more an Indian than she,
with his round face, his big, dark eyes, his straight, black hair.

Go-yat-thlay thought him an Indian; upon no other hypothesis can be
explained the fact that instead of destroying him the savage chief
carried him back to the hogans of his own people, notwithstanding the
grumblings of Juh, who had wished to brain the spawn of the pindah
lickoyee.

Thus, in the dome-shaped, thatched brush hut of Go-yat-thlay, in the
arms of Sons-ee-ah-ray, his youngest squaw, ended the life history of
Andy MacDuff and began that of a nameless, little Indian baby.

That night to the camp of the Be-don-ko-he and the Ned-ni came a runner
from the headwaters of the Rio Mimbres. For over a hundred miles he had
come on foot, across parched desert burning beneath the fiery rays of
Chigo-na-ay, and over rugged mountains that no horse could travel, in
sixteen hours.

Moccasins, of heavy buckskin with the toes turned up at right angles and
terminating in a disc an inch and a quarter in diameter that formed a
part of the rawhide sole, protected his feet and legs from the sharp
stones and the cactus; a narrow head band of Apache-tanned doeskin kept
his long, black hair from falling across his eyes; these and a G-string
were his apparel. Some parched corn and dried meat that he had carried
he had eaten on the way and he had drunk a little water from a bottle
improvised from a piece of the large intestine of a horse. The only
weapon that he carried was a knife.

His body glistening in the firelight, he stood before the warriors who
had quickly gathered at his coming. He glanced about the circle of grim
faces surrounding him. His eyes, passing over the features of Juh, Chief
of the Ned-ni, and Mangas, the eighteen-year-old son of the chief of the
Be-don-ko-he, stopped at last upon those of Go-yat-thlay, the Yawner.

“Bi-er-le the Cho-kon-en bring bad news to the Be-don-ko-he,” he
announced; “from Fort McLane he brings word that Mangas Colorado, Chief
of the Be-don-ko-he, is dead.”

From among the squaws and children gathered behind the warriors arose
anguished wails—the wives and children of Mangas Colorado had heard.

“Tell the Be-don-ko-he how their chief died,” said Go-yat-thlay.

“The hearts of the white-eyes are bad,” continued Bi-er-le. “With smiles
upon their lips the soldiers of the great White Father came to your
camp, as you know, and invited your chief to a council.

“With four warriors he went, trusting to the honor of the pindah
lickoyee, who are without honor; and when they had come to the fort,
where there are many soldiers, the five were seized and thrust into a
hogan with strong doors and iron bars at the windows, and at night
soldiers came and killed Mangas Colorado.

“Cochise, Chief of the Cho-kon-en, heard of this and sent Bi-er-le to
his friends the Be-don-ko-he, for his heart grieves with the hearts of
his friends. Great was the love of Cochise for Mangas Colorado. This
word, too, he sends to the Be-don-ko-he: Wide is the war trail; many are
the warriors of the Cho-kon-en; filled are their hearts with rage
against the pindah lickoyee; if the Be-don-ko-he take the war trail for
revenge the warriors of Cochise will come and help them.”

A savage rumble of approval rolled round the circle of the warriors.

“Cochise takes the words of Juh from his mouth.” Thus spoke the Chief of
the Ned-ni. “Juh, with his warriors, will take the war trail with the
Be-don-ko-he against the white-eyes.”

That night the warriors of the Be-don-ko-he sat in council, and though
Mangas, son of Mangas Colorado, the dead chief, was present,
Go-yat-thlay was elected chief, and the next morning smoke signals rose
from mountain peaks a hundred miles apart. Go-yat-thlay was calling his
allies to him and Cochise, the great chief of the Chihuicahui Apaches,
was answering the call; and bloody were the fights that followed as the
relentless avengers, following the example of the foe, took toll of
innocent and guilty alike.

But of all this wee Andy MacDuff recked naught. His big, brown eyes
surveyed the world from the opening in his tsoch, in which he rode
fastened securely to the back of Sons-ee-ah-ray. He gurgled and smiled
and never cried, so that Morning Star and Go-yat-thlay were very proud
of him and he was made much of as are all Apache babies.

Back and fourth across New Mexico and Arizona, beneath blistering sun,
enduring biting cold, drenched by torrential rains, Andy jounced about
upon the back of Morning Star and laughed or crowed or slept as the
spirit moved him, or in camp, his tsoch suspended from the bough of a
tree swayed gently with the soft evening winds.

During that year his little ears became accustomed to the cry of the
coyote at night, the sudden _ping_ of the white man’s bullets, the wild
war whoops of his people, the death shrieks of men, and of women, and of
children; and the next year he made his first descent upon Old Mexico.

Upon that raid, in 1864, the Be-don-ko-he brought back live cattle for
the first time; but it was gruelling work, caring for the wounded and
keeping the cattle from straying, for the Apaches were on foot; so the
following year Go-yat-thlay organized a mounted raid into Sonora; but
this time the women and children were left at home. However, Wee Andy
was busy learning to walk, so he did not care.




                               CHAPTER II
                              SHOZ-DIJIJI


THE years rolled by—happy, exciting years for the little boy, whether
sitting at the feet of Morning Star listening to the legends of their
people, or learning of the ways of the sun and the moon and the stars
and the storms, or praying to Usen for health, for strength, for wisdom,
or for protection, or being hurried to safety when enemies attacked. The
chase, the battle, the wild dances, fierce oaths, loving care, savage
cruelties, deep friendships, hatred, vengeance, the lust for loot,
hardship—bitter, bitter hardship—a little ease; these were the
influences that shaped the character of the growing boy.

Go-yat-thlay told him of the deeds of his forefathers—of Maco, the
grandfather of Go-yat-thlay, who had been a great warrior and hereditary
chief of the Ned-ni; of Delgadito and of Mangas Colorado. He taught him
how to make and use the bow and the arrow and the lance, and from fierce
and terrible Go-yat-thlay, who was never fierce or terrible to him, he
learned that it was his duty to kill the enemies of his people—to hate
them, to torture them, to kill them—and that of all the enemies of the
Shis-Inday the Mexicans were the most to be hated, and next to the
Mexicans, the Americans.

At eight the boy was more proficient at trailing and hunting than a
white man ever becomes, nor was he any mean marksman with his primitive
weapons. Already he was longing to become a warrior. Often, while
Go-yat-thlay talked to him, he sat and fondled the Spencer rifle that
the chief had taken from a dead soldier, his fingers itching to press
the trigger as he dropped the sights upon a soldier of the white-eyes.

It was in the spring of 1873 that a boy of ten, armed with bow and
arrows, moved silently up a timbered canyon along the headwaters of the
Gila. He was almost naked, but for loin cloth and moccasins. A strip of
soft buckskin, which the loving hands of Sons-ee-ah-ray had made
beautiful with colored beads, bound his brow and his straight, black
hair. In a quiver of mountain lion skin he carried his arrows behind his
left shoulder. He was tall for his age and very straight, his skin was
reddish-brown and of that wondrous texture that belongs alone to the
skin of healthy childhood; his movements were all grace, like those of a
panther.

A mile below him, upon the rocky spur of the mountains, lay the camp of
his people, the Be-don-ko-he Apaches, and with them were the Cho-kon-en
and the Ned-ni. The boy played that he was a scout, sent out by the
great Cochise, to spy upon the enemy. Thus always, surrounded by a world
of stern realities, he lived in a world of make-believe that was even
sterner—so is it with children.

The boy was alone in mountains filled with dangerous beasts—panthers,
lions, bears; and in a country filled with dangerous enemies—white men;
but he was not afraid. Fear was one of the things that he had not been
taught by Morning Star or Go-yat-thlay.

The fragrance of the cedar was in his nostrils, the thin, pure mountain
air filled his growing lungs and imparted to his whole being an
exhilaration that was almost intoxication. If ever there was joy in life
it belonged to this chief’s son.

He turned a rocky shoulder that jutted across the narrow trail, and came
face to face with shoz-dijiji, the black bear. Fear he had not been
taught, but caution he had. He had learned that only a fool risks his
life where there is nothing to be gained by the hazard. Perhaps the
ancient Caledonian warriors from whose loins his seed had sprung had not
learned this—who knows? At any rate the boy did not seek safety in
retreat. He stopped and fitted an arrow to his bow, at the same time
placing two more arrows between the second and third and third and
fourth fingers of his right hand, ready for instant use.

The bear had stopped in his tracks and stood eyeing the boy. He was of a
mind to run away, but when the bow twanged and a piece of sharpened
quartz tore into his neck where it joined his left shoulder he became
suddenly a terrible engine of revengeful destruction, and voicing
thunderously growl after growl, he rushed upon the boy with open jaws
and snarling face.

The lad knew that now it was too late to retreat and his second arrow,
following close upon the first, sank even deeper into the bear’s neck,
and the third, just as shoz-dijiji reared upon his hind legs to seize
him, entered between the ribs under the foreleg.

Then the black bear was upon him and together the two toppled from the
narrow trail and rolled down among the cedars growing below. They did
not roll far—fifteen feet, perhaps—when they were brought up by the
bole of a tree. The boy hit with his head and lost consciousness.

It was several minutes before the lad opened his eyes. Beside him lay
the dead body of shoz-dijiji; the last arrow had penetrated his savage
heart. The son of Go-yat-thlay sat up and a broad smile illumined his
face. He rose to his feet and executed a war dance around the body of
his vanquished foe, bending to the right and left, backward and forward
until his body was parallel with the ground; now leaping high in air,
now stepping with measured tread, he circled the dead bear time and time
again. Fierce shouts rose to his lips, but he held them in check for he
knew that the white soldiers were searching for his people.

Suddenly he stopped dancing and looked down at shoz-dijiji, and then
glanced back along the trail toward the camp that was out of sight
beyond the many turns of the winding canyon. Then he stooped and tried
to lift the bear, but his young muscles were not equal to the effort.
Withdrawing his arrows from the bear’s body and recovering his bow he
clambered to the trail and set off at a brisk trot toward camp. He was
sore and lame and his head ached, but what matter? Never had he been
more happy.

As he entered the camp he was discovered by some playing children.
“Come, son of Go-yat-thlay!” they cried. “Come and play with us!” But
the son of Go-yat-thlay passed them haughtily. He went directly to where
several warriors were squatting, smoking, and waited until they noticed
him.

“Where is Go-yat-thlay?” he asked.

One of the warriors jerked a thumb down the canyon. “Go-yat-thlay hunts
antelope in the valley,” he said.

“I, the son of Go-yat-thlay,” said the boy, “have killed shoz-dijiji. I,
alone, shee-dah, have done this thing; but alone I cannot bring in my
kill. Therefore will you, Natch-in-ilk-kisn, come and help bring in the
body of shoz-dijiji, yah-tats-an?”

“You no kill shoz-dijiji, you lie,” said Natch-in-ilk-kisn. “You only
little ish-kay-nay.”

The lad drew himself up to his full height. “The son of Go-yat-thlay,
the chief, does not lie—to his friends,” he added. Then he pointed to
the scratches and the blood upon him. “Think you I got these playing tag
with the other children?” he asked. “The meat of shoz-dijiji is good.
Would Natch-in-ilk-kisn rather have the wolf, the coyote and the vulture
eat it than to eat it himself?”

The warrior rose. “Come, little ish-kay-nay,” he said, laughing.
“Natch-in-ilk-kisn joked. He will go with you.”

That night was a proud night for the son of Go-yat-thlay; for at the age
of ten he had killed big game and won a name for himself. Henceforth he
was to be known to man as Shoz-Dijiji, and not just as ish-kay-nay—boy.
He had had a name for a long time of course, but, also of course, no one
ever mentioned it in his presence, since if the bad spirits ever learned
his name they could, and undoubtedly would, cause him a great deal of
trouble, even to sickness and death.

Go-yat-thlay was not Go-yat-thlay’s name either, for he too, as all
other Apaches, had a secret name that was really his though no one ever
used it; and though he lived to be eighty years old and was better known
all over the world than any Indian who ever lived, with the possible
exception of the Sioux medicine man, Sitting Bull, yet to this day no
white man knows what his name was, and few indeed were those who knew
him even as Go-yat-thlay. By another name was he known, a name that the
Mexicans gave him, a name that held in fear and terror a territory into
which could have been dumped the former German Empire and all of Greece,
and still had plenty of room to tuck away Rhode Island—Geronimo.

That night Go-yat-thlay was proud, too, for Shoz-Dijiji was all that the
proudest Apache father could expect of any son; and according to the
custom of the Apaches the boy was as much the son of Go-yat-thlay as
though he had been the blood of his own blood.

Before the lad was sent to bed he sat at the knee of the grim chieftain
and the man stroked the boy’s head. “You will be a brave in no time,
Shoz-Dijiji,” he said. “You will be a warrior and a great one. Then you
can go forth and spread terror among the pindah lickoyee, slaying them
where you find them.”

“You hate the white-eyes,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “They are men like we; they
have arms and legs, as do we, and they walk and talk. Why do they fight
us? Why do we hate them?”

“Many years ago they came into our country and we treated them well,”
replied Go-yat-thlay. “There were bad men among them, but also there are
bad men among the Apaches. Not all men are good. If we killed their bad
men then they killed us. If some of our bad men killed some of them they
tried to punish all of us, not seeking out just the bad men among us who
had made the trouble; they killed us all, men, women and children, where
they found us. They hunted us as they would wild beasts.

“They took away our lands that Usen gave us. We were told that we could
not hunt where our fathers had hunted since the beginning of the world;
where we had always hunted. But they hunted there, where they would.
They made treaties with us and broke them. The white-eyed men do not
keep their promises and they are very treacherous. I will tell you now
of just a single instance that you may not forget the perfidy of the
white man and that you may hate him the more. This happened many years
ago, while Mangas Colorado was still living.

“Some of the chiefs of the white soldiers invited us to a council at
Apache Pass. Mangas Colorado, with many others, went, believing in the
good intentions of the white chiefs. Just before noon they were all
invited into a tent where they were told that they would be given food,
but instead they were set upon by the white soldiers. Mangas Colorado
drew his knife and cut his way through the side of the tent, as did
several other warriors, but many were killed and captured.

“Among the Be-don-ko-hes killed then were San-za, Kla-de-ta-he,
Ni-yo-ka-he and Go-pi. Remember these names and when you see a white man
think of them and revenge them.”

It was another day. The squaws brewed tizwin. In a group sat the
warriors and the chiefs. Go-yat-thlay was still boasting about the
exploit of his little Shoz-Dijiji.

“He will make a great warrior,” said he to Cochise, hereditary chief of
the Cho-kon-en and war chief of all the Apaches. “I knew it from the
first, for when he was taken from the wagon of his people he did not
cry, although Juh dragged him out by one leg and held him with his head
down. He did not cry then; he has never cried since.”

“He is the child of the white man,” growled Juh. “He should have been
killed.”

“He looked like one of us, like a Shis-Inday,” replied Go-yat-thlay.
“Long time after I learned at the agency, when we had come back from
Sonora, that his mother was a white woman.”

“You know it now,” said Juh.

A terrible expression crossed the cruel face of Go-yat-thlay. He leaped
to his feet, whipping out his knife as he arose. “You talk much, Juh, of
killing Shoz-Dijiji,” he said in a low voice. “Ten times have the rains
come since first you would have killed him and you are still talking
about it. Now you may kill him; but first you must kill Go-yat-thlay!”

Juh stepped back, scowling. “I do not wish to kill Shoz-Dijiji,” he
said.

“Then keep still. You talk too much—like an old woman. You are not
Naliza; when Naliza talks he says something.” Go-yat-thlay slipped his
knife into his belt and squatted again upon his heels. With silver
tweezers he plucked the hairs from about his mouth. Cochise and Naliza
laughed, but Juh sat there frowning. Juh! that terrible man who was
already coming to be known as “the butcher.”

Shoz-Dijiji, from the interior of his father’s hut, heard this talk
among his elders and when Go-yat-thlay sprang to his feet and
Shoz-Dijiji thought that blood would be spilled he stepped from the
doorway, in his hands a mesquite bow and a quartz-tipped arrow. His
straight, black hair hung to his shoulders, his brown hide was
sun-tanned to a shade even deeper than many of his full-blood Apache
fellows. The trained muscles of his boyish face gave no hint of what
emotions surged within him as he looked straight into Juh’s eyes.

“You lie, Juh,” he said; “I am not a white-eyes. I am the son of
Go-yat-thlay. Say that I am not a white, Juh!” and he raised his arrow
to a level with the warrior’s breast. “Say that he is not white or
Shoz-Dijiji will kill you!”

Cochise and Naliza and Go-yat-thlay, grinning, looked at Juh and then
back at Shoz-Dijiji. They saw the boy bend the bow and then Cochise
interfered.

“Enough!” he said. “Go back to the women and the children, where you
belong.”

The boy lowered his weapon. “Cochise is chief,” he said. “Shoz-Dijiji
obeys his chief. But Shoz-Dijiji has spoken; some day he will be a
warrior and then he will kill Juh.” He turned and walked away.

“Do not again tell him that he is white,” said Cochise to Juh. “Some day
soon he will be a warrior and if he thinks that he is white it will make
his heart like water against the enemies of our people.”

Shoz-Dijiji did not return to the women and children. His heart was in
no mood for play nor for any of the softer things of life. Instead he
walked alone out of the camp and up a gaunt, parched canyon. He moved as
noiselessly as his own shadow. His eyes, his ears, his nostrils were
keenly alert, as they ever were, for Shoz-Dijiji was playing a game that
he always played even when he seemed to be intent upon other things—he
was hunting the white soldiers. Sometimes, with the other boys, he
played that they were raiding a Mexican rancheria, but this sport
afforded him no such thrill as did the stalking of the armed men who
were always hunting his people.

He had seen the frightened peons huddled in their huts, or futilely
running to escape the savage, painted warriors who set upon them with
the fury of demons; he had seen the women and children shot, or stabbed,
or clubbed to death with the men; he had seen all this without any
answering qualm of pity; but it had not thrilled him as had the
skirmishes with the soldiers of Mexico and the United States—ah, there
was something worthy the mettle of a great warrior!

From infancy he had listened to the stories of the deeds of the warriors
of his people. He had hung breathless upon the exploits of Victorio, of
Mangas Colorado, of Cochise. For over three hundred years his people had
been at war with the whites; their lands had been stolen, their
warriors, their women and their children had been ruthlessly murdered;
they had been treated with treachery; they had been betrayed by false
promises.

Shoz-Dijiji had been taught to look upon the white man not only as a
deadly enemy, but as a coward and a liar; even as a traitor to his
fellow whites, for it was not unknown to this little Apache boy that
there were many white men who made a living selling rifles and
ammunition to the Indians while their own troops were in the field
against them. It was no wonder Shoz-Dijiji held the whites in contempt,
or that to be called white was the bitterest insult that could be placed
upon him.

Today, as he moved silently up the sun-scorched canyon he was thinking
of these things and listening, listening, always listening. Perhaps he
would hear the distant thud of iron-shod hoofs, the clank of a saber,
and be the first to warn his people of the approaching enemy. He knew
that there were scouts far afield—eagled-eyed men, past whom not even
klij-litzogue, the yellow snake, could glide unseen; yet he loved to
dream, for he was a boy.

The dreaming that Shoz-Dijiji practiced did not dull his senses; on the
contrary it was thus that he made them more alert, for he lived his
dreams, rehearsing always the part of the great warrior that he hoped
some day to play upon the stage of life, winning the plaudits of his
fellows.

And so it was that now he saw something behind a little bush a hundred
feet away, although the thing had not moved or otherwise betrayed its
presence. For an instant Shoz-Dijiji became a bronze statue, then very
slowly he raised his mesquite bow as he strung his quartz-tipped arrow.
With the twang of the string the arrow leaped to its mark and after it
came Shoz-Dijiji. He had not waited to see if he had made a hit; he knew
that he had, also he knew what had been hiding behind the bush and so he
was not surprised nor particularly elated when he picked up ka-chu, the
jack rabbit, with an arrow through its heart; but it was not ka-chu that
he saw—it was the big chief of the white soldiers. Thus played
Shoz-Dijiji, the Apache boy.

As he came into camp later in the afternoon he saw Cochise squatting in
the shadow of his hut with several of the men of the village. There were
women, too, and all were laughing and talking. It was not a council, so
Shoz-Dijiji dared approach and speak to the great chief.

There was that upon the boy’s mind that disturbed him—he wished it
settled once and for all—yet he trembled a little as he approached this
company of his elders. Like all the other boys he stood in awe of
Cochise and he also dreaded the ridicule of the men and women. He came
and stood silently for what seemed a long time, looking straight at
Cochise until the old chieftain noticed him.

“Shoz-Dijiji is a little boy,” said the lad, “and Cochise is a great
chief; he is the father of his people; he is full of wisdom and true are
the words that he speaks. Juh has said that Shoz-Dijiji is white.
Shoz-Dijiji would rather be dead than white. The great chief can speak
and say if Shoz-Dijiji be a true Apache that after this Juh may keep a
still tongue in his head.”

Cochise arose and placed his hand on the boy’s head and looked down upon
him. A fierce and terrible old man was this great war chief of the
Apaches; yet with his own people and more often with children was his
heart soft, and, too, he was a keen judge of men and of boys.

He saw that this boy possessed in a degree equal to his own a pride of
blood that would make of him a stalwart defender of his own kind, an
implacable enemy of the common foe. Year by year the fighting forces of
the Apache were dwindling, to lose even one for the future was a
calamity. He looked up from the boy and turned his eyes upon his
warriors.

“If there be any doubt,” he said, “let the words of Cochise dispel it
forever—Shoz-Dijiji is as true an Apache as Cochise. Let there be no
more talk,” and he looked directly at Juh. “I have spoken.”

The muscles of Juh’s cruel face gave no hint of the rage and malice
surging through his savage breast, but Shoz-Dijiji, the Black Bear, was
not deceived. He well knew the relentless hatred that the war chief had
conceived for him since the day that Go-yat-thlay had thwarted Juh’s
attempt to dash out his infant brains against the tire of his murdered
father’s wagon, even though the lad knew nothing of the details of that
first encounter and had often wondered why Juh should hate him.

As a matter of fact Juh’s hatred of the boy was more or less impersonal,
in so far as Shoz-Dijiji was concerned, being rather a roundabout
resentment against Go-yat-thlay, whom he feared and of whose fame and
prestige he was jealous; for Go-yat-thlay, who was one day to become
world famous by his Mexican-given name, Geronimo, had long been a power
in the war councils of the Apaches; further, too, the youngest and
prettiest of his squaws had also been the desired of Juh. It was she who
had the care of Shoz-Dijiji; it was she, Morning Star, who lavished love
upon the boy. To strike at the woman who had spurned him and the man who
had inflamed his envy and jealousy, Juh bided his time until he might,
with impunity, wreak his passion upon the lad.

Now no one had time for thoughts of anger or revenge, for tonight was to
be a great night in the camp of Cochise the war chief. For two days the
bucks had eaten little or nothing in preparation for the great event;
the women had brewed the tizwin; the drums were ready.

Night fell. Before the entrance to his hogan stood Go-yat-thlay with his
women and his children. From a beaded buckskin bag he took a pinch of
hoddentin and cast it toward the moon.

“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!” he cried, and the women
prayed: “Gun-ju-le, klego-na-ay—be good, O Moon!”

Darkness deepened. Lured by the twinkling camp fires of the Chihuicahuis
myriad stars crept from their hiding places. The purple hills turned to
silver. A coyote voiced his eerie wail and was answered by the yapping
pack within the camp. A drum boomed low. A naked warrior,
paint-streaked—yellow, vermilion, white, blue—moved into a slow dance.
Presently others joined him, moving more rapidly to the gradually
increased tempo of the drums. Firelight glistened upon sweat-streaked
bodies. The squaws, watching, moved restlessly, the spell of the dance
was taking its hold upon them.

That night the warriors drank deep of the tizwin the women had brewed,
and as little Black Bear lay in his blankets he heard the shouting, the
wild laughter, the fighting and dreamed of the day when he, too, should
be a warrior and be able to sit up and drink tizwin and dance and fight;
but most of all he wanted to fight the white man, not his own people.

Stealing the brains of the warriors was the tizwin until their actions
were guided only by the stark brutish germ of savagery. Thus it came
that Juh, seeing Go-yat-thlay, bethought himself of Shoz-Dijiji and his
hate. Leaving the firelight and the revellers, Juh moved quietly through
the outer shadows toward the hogan of Go-yat-thlay.

Black Bear lay wide awake, listening to the alluring, savage sounds that
came to him through the open doorway that similarly revealed to his
childish eyes occasional glimpses of the orgy. Suddenly, in the opening,
the figure of a man was silhouetted against the glimmering firelight
beyond. Shoz-Dijiji recognized Juh instantly and, too, the knife grasped
in the war chief’s sinewy hand and knew why he had come.

Beside the child lay the toys of a primitive boy—toys today, the
weapons of the coming warrior tomorrow. He reached forth and seized his
bow and an arrow. Juh, coming from the lesser darkness without, was
standing in the doorway accustoming his eyes to the gloom of the hogan’s
interior.

Keen-eared savage that he was he heard no sound, for Shoz-Dijiji, too,
was a savage and he made no sound—not until his bow string twanged; but
that was too late for Juh to profit by it as already a quartz-tipped
shaft had torn into his right hand and his knife had slipped from
nerveless fingers to the ground.

With a savage Apache oath he leaped forward, but still he could not see
well in the darkness, and so it was that Black Bear slipped past him and
was out of the hut before Juh could seize him. A dozen paces away the
boy halted and wheeled about.

“Come out, Juh,” he cried, “and Shoz-Dijiji will kill you! Come out, gut
of a coyote, and Shoz-Dijiji will feed your heart to the dogs.”
Shoz-Dijiji said other things, that are unprintable, but Juh did not
come out, for he knew that the boy was voicing no vain boast.

An hour passed and Juh was thinking hard, for the effects of the tizwin
had lessened under the stress of his predicament. Suppose the squaws
should return and find him held prisoner here by a boy—he would be
laughed out of camp. The thought sobered him completely.

“Juh had it not in his heart to harm Shoz-Dijiji,” he said in a
conciliatory tone. “He did but joke.”

“Ugh!” grunted Black Bear. “Juh speaks lies.”

“Let Juh come out and he will never harm Shoz-Dijiji again,” dickered
the chief.

“Juh has not yet harmed Shoz-Dijiji,” mocked the lad in whose mind was
slowly awakening a thought suggested by Juh’s offer. Why not make
capital of his enemy’s predicament? “Shoz-Dijiji will let you go,” he
said, “if you will promise never to harm him again—and give him three
ponies.”

“Never!” cried the chief.

“The women and the children will laugh at you behind their hands when
they hear of this,” the boy reminded him.

For a moment Juh was silent. “It shall be as Shoz-Dijiji says,” he
growled presently, “so long as no one knows of this thing that has just
happened, other than Juh and Shoz-Dijiji. Juh has spoken—that is all!”

“Come forth, then, Juh, and go your way,” said the boy; “but remember
they must be good ponies.”

He stood aside as the warrior strode from the hogan, and he was careful
to stand out of the man’s reach and to keep his weapon in readiness, for
after all he had no great confidence in the honor of Juh.




                              CHAPTER III
                               YAH-IK-TEE


ANOTHER year rolled around. Once again were the Be-don-ko-he, the
Cho-kon-en and the Ned-ni camped together and with them were the
Chi-hen-ne, with Victorio, old Nanáy and Loco. Together they had been
raiding in Chihuahua and Sonora. It had been a prosperous year for the
tribes, a year rich in loot; and for little Shoz-Dijiji it had been a
wonderful year. Bright, alert, he had learned much. He had won a name
and that had helped him too, for the other boys looked up to him and
even the great chiefs took notice of him.

Cochise had developed a real affection for the stalwart youngster, for
he saw in a lad who could face fearlessly a renowned chief such as Juh
was, even at that time, a potential leader of his people in the years to
come.

Often the old war chief talked to Shoz-Dijiji of the exploits of his
people. He told him of the many wars with the Comanches and the Navajos,
of raids upon the villages of the Pimos and the Papagos; and he filled
his heart with yearning to emulate the glorious deeds of the great
warriors who had made terrible the name of the Apaches, the Shis-Inday,
the Men of the Woods, from the Arkansas River in Colorado on the north,
south to Durango, Mexico, more than five hundred miles below the border;
and from the California line on the west to San Antonio, Texas, on the
east—an empire as large as Europe.

“And of all this, I, Cochise, am war chief,” cried the old warrior.
“Soon you will be a brave. So fight that you will fill our enemies with
fear and our warriors with admiration so that, perhaps, you some day may
be war chief of all the Apaches.”

It was May. Flowers starred the rolling pasture land, green with grama
grass on which the ponies were fattening after the gruelling months of
raiding south of the border. The braves loafed much about the camp,
smoking and gambling. The squaws and the children tilled a little patch
of ground, and once again some of the women brewed tizwin, for there was
to be a great dance before the tribes scattered to their own countries.
The crushed corn had been soaked and was fermenting; the mescal was
roasting upon hot stones in its pit; a Yuma squaw, a prisoner of war,
was making a paste of soaked maize in a metate. The paste she patted
into thin, round cakes and baked.

Little Ish-kay-nay watched her, for she loved tortillas and wished to
learn how to make them. Ish-kay-nay was eleven, very dirty, almost naked
and entirely lovely. Her lithe young body approximated perfection as
closely as may anything mortal. Her tangled hair fell over a
mischievous, beautiful face from which laughing eyes, serious now,
watched intently every move of the Yuma. The long, black lashes and the
arched brows had not yet been plucked, for Ish-kay-nay still had three
years of childhood before her. Her name means _boy_, and to see her romp
and play was all that was necessary to make one understand why she was
given that name.

Night had come. The sacrificial hoddentin had been offered to the
evening and to the moon. The dancing, the feasting, the drinking
commenced. Among the dancers moved the medicine men, the izze-nantan of
the Apaches, tossing hoddentin, mumbling gibberish, whirling their
tzi-ditindes to frighten away the evil spirits.

That night the braves got gloriously drunk. Perhaps the medicine of the
izze-nantan was good medicine, for the Mexican soldiers who had come up
out of the south to raid them made camp a few miles away instead of
attacking that night. Had they done so the flower of the six tribes of
the Apaches would have been wiped out, for even Cochise, the war chief,
lay unconscious in the grip of the tizwin.

The following day the braves were tired and cross. They lay around the
camp and there was much quarrelling. Cochise was very sick.
Go-yat-thlay, Victorio, Juh, Hash-ka-ai-la, Chief of the White Mountain
Apaches, and Co-si-to, Chief of the Chi-e-a-hen, foregathered and
discussed the wisdom of immediately separating the tribes before there
was an open break. Well they knew their savage followers. Not for long
could the tribes associate without squabbles, brawls and bloody duels.
Tomorrow, at the latest, they decided, each tribe would take up its
trail to its own hunting grounds.

Shoz-Dijiji, tiring of play with the other children, took his bow and
arrows and his lance and started up the ridge above camp. Today he was a
scout under orders from Cochise. The enemy was thought to be close and
because Shoz-Dijiji had the eyes of itza-chu, the eagle, and was as
brave as shoz-litzogue, the yellow bear, Cochise had sent him out alone
to discover the whereabouts of the foe. Thus dreamed Shoz-Dijiji as he
moved silently and swiftly up the steep mountain, taking advantage of
every cover, noiseless, invisible. Thus learned Shoz-Dijiji the ways of
his people—the ways of the Apache.

From the headwaters of the Gila far south into the Sierra Madre
mountains in Mexico, Shoz-Dijiji already knew every canyon, every peak,
every vantage point. He knew where water ran or stood the year round; he
knew where it stood after each rain and for how long; he knew where one
might discover it by scratching in the bed of a dry stream, and where
one must dig deep for its precious boon. This was but a fraction of the
countless things that Shoz-Dijiji knew about his own country. He knew
nothing about Latin or Greek; he had never heard of Rome or Babylon; but
he could take care of himself better at eleven than the majority of
white men can at their prime and he had learned more useful things from
actual experience than the white boy ever learns.

Therefore, this day, though he played, he played with judgment, with
intelligence. He did not just fare forth and make believe that he was
scouting for an enemy—he did scout. He moved to the best position
within a radius of fifty miles, and when he reached it he knew just
where to look for an enemy; he knew the trails they must follow to reach
his people’s camp; and the first thing that he saw when he looked toward
the south, toward Sonora, toward the land of their hereditary enemies,
brought a wave of savage exultation surging through his brown body.

There on the plain, twenty miles away, moving steadily toward the camp
of the Shis-Inday was a long column of dust. All the six tribes lay
unsuspecting below him, so it would not be Apaches that were advancing
toward them, and if it were not Apaches it must be an enemy. His eyes
were keen, but the column was enveloped in dust; however, he was
confident from the formation that he was looking at a body of mounted
troops.

For just an instant longer he watched them, while he revolved in his
mind the plan of action best to follow. The enemy was ten miles south of
camp, Shoz-Dijiji was ten miles north. They were mounted but it would
take them longer to ascend the rocky trail than it would take
Shoz-Dijiji to descend the mountain and give the warning; otherwise he
would have resorted to smoke signals to apprise his people of their
danger. That he might still do, but the enemy would see the signals,
too, and know that the Indians were near and aware of their presence.
Shoz-Dijiji pictured instead a surprise ambush in a narrow canyon just
below the Apaches’ camp.

Already he was leaping swiftly down the mountainside. Speed, now, meant
everything and he was less careful of concealment, yet neither did he
entirely neglect it, for to the Apache it was second nature. He did not
fear detection by the main body of the enemy, but he knew that they
might have scouts far out in front, though his keen eyes had seen
nothing of them. With streaming hair the boy flew down the steep
declivity, as trailless as the Mountains of the Moon. If he could reach
camp ten minutes ahead of the enemy his people would be saved. He knew
that he could do so; there was no guess work about it.

The warriors were, for the most part, sleeping off the effects of the
tizwin. Some were gambling. Others were still quarrelling. The squaws,
as usual, were working, caring for their babies, cooking food, preparing
hides, gathering firewood, carrying water. The bosom friends, Victorio
and Go-yat-thlay, were emerging from the shelter of Cochise, who was
still very sick, when Shoz-Dijiji bounded into camp and ran directly to
the two chiefs.

“Soldiers!” he said, and pointed down toward the plain. “From the
mountaintop Shoz-Dijiji saw them. There are many soldiers and they come
on horses. There is yet time, if you make haste, to hide warriors on
either side of the canyon before the pindah lickoyee pass through.”

The chiefs asked him a few brief questions, then they ran quickly
through the camp calling the warriors to arms. There was little noise,
but there seemed to be a great deal of confusion. The squaws gathered up
their few belongings preparatory to taking to the mountains if hard
pressed. The warriors caught up their weapons and gathered around their
chiefs; the Be-don-ko-he around Go-yat-thlay; the Chi-hen-ne, or Warm
Springs Apaches, around Victorio; the Chi-e-a-hen to Co-si-to; the White
Mountain Apaches to Hash-ka-ai-la; the Ned-ni to Juh; and the
Cho-kon-en, or Chihuicahui, to Na-chi-ta, the son of Cochise.

There was hasty daubing of paint on swart faces as the chiefs led them
out from camp to take the places that Go-yat-thlay, acting war chief,
had allotted to each tribe. Stripped to loin cloth, moccasins and head
band or kerchief the fighting men of the Apaches moved silently down
among the cedars to their positions. Ahead of them Go-yat-thlay had sent
scouts to ascertain the position of the enemy and before the warriors
reached the place of ambush one of these had returned to say that the
soldiers were but a mile from the lower mouth of the canyon.

There was ample time to dispose of his forces to the best advantage and
this Geronimo did like the able war chief that he was. Swiftly, silently
the savage defenders moved into position and in five minutes both sides
of the canyon’s rim were bristling with unseen weapons—bows, with
arrows of quartz and iron, lances similarly shod, ancient Mississippi
Yaugers, Spencer carbines, Springfield rifles, six-shooters from the
house of Colt; filled cartridge belts were strapped around slim waists,
or carried across broad shoulders.

Behind the advance line there were reserves; in camp were the old men
and the boys, left to guard the women and the children; though the women
were often as savage fighters as their men.

From the bottom of the canyon there was no sign of all this. A soft wind
soughed through the cedars and the pines; there was no other sound. Only
the trees and the birds and the squirrels, it seemed, inhabited this
sylvan world.

The scouts of the enemy, wary, entered the canyon. They were but a short
distance in advance of the main body which consisted of a company of
Mexican cavalry, well mounted, well armed, well officered; veteran
Indian fighters, they were, to the last man.

Go-yat-thlay waited until that last man was well inside the jaws of
death, then he raised his carbine to his shoulder and fired. It was the
signal. Mingling with the staccato of the rifle fire were the war whoops
of the Apaches, the commands of the officers, curses; the moans and
screams of the wounded. There was no cover for the troops as the Apaches
were firing down upon them from above. Terrified horses, riderless, or
unmanageable from pain or fright, added to the confusion wrought by the
unexpected attack. Courageous as they might be the Mexicans had no
chance, and that their officers realized this at the first volley was
apparent by the effort they made to extricate as large a part of their
force from the trap as was humanly possible.

With six or eight troopers the commander opened fire on the hidden foe,
aiming at the spurts of smoke that alone revealed the position of the
Indians, and thus reduced their fire while the bulk of his command
turned and raced for the mouth of the canyon, where the braves that
Geronimo had placed advantageously against this very emergency fired
down upon them from both sides of the rim of the canyon’s lower end.

Like sheep they went to the slaughter, only a few escaping, while the
handful that had remained to offer their fellows this meager chance for
life were wiped out to the last man.

Shoz-Dijiji, slipping away from the camp, had sneaked to a vantage point
from which he might witness the battle, and as he watched his heart
filled with pride at realization of the superior generalship and
strategy of his savage sire. His blood leaped to the excitement of the
moment and his brown fingers itched to draw the bow against the enemy.

He saw the rout of the Mexicans and he joined the rush of yelling,
whooping braves that swarmed down the sides of the canyon to dispatch
the wounded and loot the dead. In his path a wounded Mexican raised
himself upon one elbow and Shoz-Dijiji shot him through the throat. As
the trooper sank to earth again the lad drew his hunting knife and
scalped him, and his eyes blazed with the deep fire of what was almost
religious exaltation as he consummated this act in the Apaches’ sacred
drama—war.

All about him the warriors were torturing the living and mutilating the
dead and Shoz-Dijiji watched, interested; but he did not follow their
examples in these things. Why he did not, he could not have told. He
felt neither pity nor compassion, for he had been taught neither one nor
the other by precept or example. Deep within him, perhaps, there was
forming, nebulously, the conviction that in after years guided him in
such matters, that it added nothing to the luster of a warrior’s fame to
have the blood of the defenseless upon his weapons.

He could kill with savage delight, but he took no joy in the sufferings
of his victims; and in this respect he was not the only exception among
his fellows to the general rule that all Apaches took delight in
inflicting diabolical sufferings upon the helpless. This was not the
first time that he had seen Mexican soldiers fight, and having found
them fearless and worthy foes he had conceived for them that respect
which every honorable fighting man feels for a brave antagonist. To have
killed one, then, was a high honor and Shoz-Dijiji was filled with
justifiable pride as he viewed the dripping trophy of his prowess.

Geronimo, blood-spattered, grim, terrible, saw him and smiled, and
passed on to send a small party after the retreating Mexicans who had
escaped, that he might be assured that there was not a larger party of
the enemy to the south, or that the others did not turn back to seek
revenge.

The grim aftermath of an Apache victory completed, the victorious
warriors, laden with loot and bearing a few scalps, returned, exulting,
boasting, to the camp, where the women and children greeted them with
shrill cries of praise.

That night there was feasting and dancing—the scalp dance—and the loot
was divided.

The following day four of the tribes withdrew to separate camps short
distances apart, leaving only the Be-don-ko-he and the Cho-kon-en in the
main camp, and there they waited until the trailers had returned and
reported that the Mexicans had crossed the border in retreat; then they
scattered to their own hunting grounds.

Cochise was yet very ill and so Geronimo held his tribe with the
Cho-kon-en, for to him the old war chief was as a second father. He
exhorted Nakay-do-klunni and Nan-ta-do-tash, the medicine men, to exert
their utmost powers in behalf of the old warrior; but though they made
their best medicine Cochise grew weaker day by day. And then one day he
called Geronimo to him where he lay in his rude shelter upon blankets
and furs.

“My son,” said the old chief, “the spirits of the white men that he has
killed are clamoring for the life of Cochise. Nakay-do-klunni and
Nan-ta-do-tash cannot make medicine strong enough to drive away the
spirits of the white-eyes.

“Send then for all the great chiefs of the Apaches. Tell them to come
and help Nakay-do-klunni and Nan-ta-do-tash frighten away the spirits of
the pindah lickoyee, for they fear our war chiefs more than they do our
izze-nantan. Go, Geronimo, or Cochise will surely die.”

And so Geronimo sent runners to the four tribes, summoning Nanáy and
Victorio and Loco, Hash-ka-ai-la, Co-si-to and Juh; and they all came
and with Geronimo and the warriors of the Be-don-ko-he and the
Cho-kon-en they sat before the wigwam of Cochise and while some beat
upon hides stretched over sticks they all chanted songs that would fill
the spirits of the white-eyed men with fear and drive them from the body
of their war chief.

They sat in a circle about a large fire beside which lay Cochise.
Nakay-do-klunni and Nan-ta-do-tash, wearing the sacred izze-kloth and
elaborate medicine headdress, danced in a circle about the sick man and
the fire. The bodies of the izze-nantans were painted a greenish brown
and upon each arm was a yellow snake with the heads toward the shoulder
blades.

Upon the breast of Nakay-do-klunni was painted a yellow bear and on his
back were zigzag lines denoting lightning, while Nan-ta-do-tash had
lightning upon both back and breast. Dancing, bending low to right and
left, forward and back, spinning first in a circle upon the left foot
and then around again in the opposite direction upon the right, they
voiced a weird whistling sound. Now Nan-ta-do-tash advanced toward
Cochise and sprinkled hoddentin upon his arms and legs in the form of a
cross and as he backed away to resume the dancing Nakay-do-klunni took
his place beside the dying chieftain and made similarly the mystic
symbol upon his head and breast.

For six weeks Cochise lay ill and for nearly all of this time the
warriors and medicine men, working in relays and assisted by the women
and the children, sought continuously by day and by night to frighten
away the malevolent spirits by incantation and by noise.

Shoz-Dijiji added his bit, for he was fond of Cochise in whom he had
always found an understanding as well as a powerful friend. Genuine was
the sorrow of the lad in the sickness of his friend, and often he went
alone into the mountains and prayed to Usen, asking him to let Cochise
live; but not all the big medicine of the greatest of living
izze-nantans, or even the love of a little boy could avail, and so it
was that early in June, 1874, Cochise, the war chief of all the Apaches,
went out upon the long, last trail.

All that night there was wailing and chanting and the beating of drums
and early in the morning Geronimo and Victorio who had closed the dead
chief’s eyes after he had died, came and painted his face afresh as for
the war trail. They dressed him in his best buckskin shirt and moccasins
and wrapped him in his finest blanket, while outside the rude shelter
the tribes gathered to do honor for the last time to a wise and
courageous leader.

The warriors and the women were arrayed in their finest: fringed
buckskin and silver and bead work; heavy earrings of turquoise and
silver; necklaces of glass beads, berries and turquoise, some of them a
yard long, fell, a dozen or more perhaps, over a single deep, savage
chest. The chiefs and the izze-nantans wore gorgeous war bonnets or
medicine headdresses and each grim face was made more terrible by the
pigments of the warpath. And always there was the wailing and the sound
of the es-a-da-ded.

Apart from the others sat a boy, dry-eyed and silent, sorrowing for the
loss of a kindly, gentle friend. In the mind of Shoz-Dijiji, who could
not recall the time when he had not known the great chief, the name of
Cochise suggested naught but courage, wisdom, honor and loyalty. Shocked
and angry would he have been could he have sensed the horror that that
grim name aroused in the breasts of the pindah lickoyee.

Three warriors came, each leading one of Cochise’s best ponies, and two
stalwart braves raised the dead chieftan and lifted him astride that one
which had been his favorite, in front of Chief Loco, who held the corpse
in an upright position.

They bore his arms before him as they started for the grave, the
procession led by four great chiefs, Geronimo, Victorio, Nanáy and Juh,
with the balance of his people trailing behind the two ponies that were
led directly in rear of the dead chief.

Juh, glancing back, saw a lad fall into the procession directly behind
the last pony and a fierce scowl made more terrible his ugly, painted
face. He halted the funeral cortege and the other chiefs turned and
looked at him questioningly.

“Only those of the blood of the Shis-Inday may follow a great chief to
his last resting place,” he announced. The others grunted acknowledgment
of the truth of that statement. “Shoz-Dijiji, the son of a white-eyed
man, follows the war ponies of Cochise,” said Juh, angrily. “Send him
away!”

The inscrutable blue eyes of Geronimo regarded the chief of the Ned-ni,
but he did not speak. His hand moved to the hilt of his knife, that was
all.

“Cochise himself proclaimed the boy an Apache,” said Nanáy. “That is
enough.”

“Let the boy come to the grave of his friend,” said Victorio. “Cochise
loved him. He is, too, as good an Apache as you or I. Did he not warn
the tribes and save them from the Mexicans. With my own eyes I,
Victorio, saw him slay and scalp. Let him come!”

“Let him come!” said Nanáy.

“He _is_ coming,” announced Geronimo as he resumed the march toward the
grave.

With a scowl Juh fell in behind the chief of the Be-don-ko-he and the
procession took up again its winding way along the trail toward the
burial place, the mourners chanting in wailing tones the deeds of valor
of the dead chief as they bore him into the mountain fastness.

For twelve miles they marched until they came to a new-made grave,
hill-hidden from the eyes of foemen. It was a large grave with its sides
walled up with stone to a height of three feet. Upon its floor they laid
thick blankets and upon these they laid Cochise, wrapped in his two
finest; beside him they placed his weapons and his most cherished
belongings; across his breast was his izze-kloth, or sacred medicine
cord, and inside his buckskin shirt they tucked an amulet, a tzi-daltai,
made of lightning-riven wood, carved and painted by the chief himself
and blessed by a great izze-nantan.

Then across the grave they laid poles of mescal, resting upon the stone
walls, and over these they placed blankets to keep the dirt which they
now shovelled in from falling upon the corpse. Mixed with the dirt were
many stones, that the coyotes might not disturb the chief’s last sleep.

During the last rites the wailing of the mourners rose and fell, merging
with the drums and the chants and cries of the medicine men; and then
his three ponies were led away to the northwest in the direction of the
Grand Canyon three hundred miles away. At two hundred yards one of them
was shot, and another a mile from the grave and the third, the favorite
war pony of the dead chief, still another mile farther on, that he might
be well mounted on his way to the Spirit Land.

Sorrowfully the tribes turned back toward camp, where the blood
relatives of Cochise destroyed all their belongings and the tribe all
its provisions, so that for forty-eight hours thereafter they were
without food, for such is the custom of the Apaches.

Cochise, war chief of all the Apaches, was dead. Cochise, war chief of
all the Apaches, was yah-ik-tee.




                               CHAPTER IV
                           THE NEW WAR CHIEF


THE council gathered, the chiefs and the warriors sitting in a great
circle about a central fire. Naliza, the orator, arose and stepped
within the circle.

“Men of the Shis-Inday listen to Naliza,” he began. “Cochise is not
present. We have many brave chiefs, but we have no war chief to whom all
the tribes will listen and whom they will follow upon the war trail. It
is not well that we should be thus unprepared against our enemies.
Tonight we must select one who will by his bravery set our warriors an
example upon the field of battle and by his wisdom lead us to victory.

“The war chief of the Be-don-ko-he has suffered great wrongs at the
hands of our enemies and he has wrought upon them a great revenge. He
has led his people, and often ours, many times upon the war trail
against the foe. Cochise trusted him. Cochise knew that he was a great
leader and upon his death bed Cochise counselled us to name Geronimo war
chief of all the Apaches when Cochise should be tats-an. I, Naliza, have
spoken.”

Others spoke, then, some for Geronimo, some for Victorio and some for
Juh, for each was a great warrior and a great chief. Then, one after
another, around the great circle, each warrior cast his vote and
Geronimo became war chief of all the Apaches; and later in the evening
Na-chi-ta, son of Cochise, was accepted by the Cho-kon-en to succeed his
father as chief of that most warlike of tribes, the Chihuicahui Apaches.

Shoz-Dijiji was squatting near the wives of the dead Cochise listening
to them wail when suddenly out of the deep woods came the hoot of an
owl. Instantly all was silence; the wailing ceased and the women looked
at one another in terror.

“Listen!” whispered one of the squaws. “It is the spirit of Cochise, he
has returned and he is trying to speak to us. What does he want?”

“Have we not done everything to make him happy on his journey to
chidin-bi-kungua, the house of spirits?” demanded another.

“He is not happy, he has come back,” whimpered a young squaw and then
with a muffled scream, she lifted a shaking finger and pointed toward
the black woods. “Look! It is he, come back.”

They all looked. To their overwrought imaginations, harried by days of
mourning and ages of superstition, anything was possible, and so it was
not strange that they should see the vague and nebulous outlines of a
warrior standing among the deep shadows of the trees. They shuddered and
hid their faces in their blankets, and when they dared look again the
apparition had disappeared.

Attracted by their screams some warriors had joined them, and when they
heard the cause of the women’s terror they sent for Na-kay-do-klunni to
arrange for a feast and a dance that the spirit of Cochise might be
appeased and made happy on its journey to chidin-bi-kungua.

The sorrows of death do not lie heavily or for long upon the spirit of
youth and so on the morrow the children romped and played and
Shoz-Dijiji organized a rabbit hunt with Gian-nah-tah, his best friend,
and a dozen others who could borrow or steal ponies for the purpose.
Laughing and joking, they rode down to the plain at the foot of the
mountains, each lad armed with a hunting club.

A mile behind them a childish figure astride a pinto pony lashed its
mount with a rawhide quirt in an effort to overtake the loping ponies of
the boys, and when the latter halted to discuss their plans the belated
one overtook them. The first boy to discover and recognize the newcomer
raised a shout of derision.

“A girl! A girl!” he cried. “Go back to camp. Only warriors follow the
chase, go back to camp with the squaws and the children.”

But the little girl did not go back. Her dishevelled hair flying, she
rode among them.

“Go back!” shouted the boy, and struck at her pony with his hunting
club.

“Go back yourself!” shrilled the little girl as she lashed him across
the head and shoulders with her quirt, pushing her pony against his
until he fled in dismay. The other boys screamed in derision at the
discomfited one, yet some of them could not resist the temptation to
bait the girl and so they rode in and struck at her pony with their
clubs. Lashing to right and left her stinging quirt fell impartially
upon them and their mounts, nor did she give a foot of ground before
their efforts to rout her, though by the very force of their numbers it
was evident that she must soon succumb in the unequal struggle.

It was then that Shoz-Dijiji rode to her side and swung his club against
her tormentors, and Gian-nah-tah, following the example of his friend,
took a hand in her defense.

Shoz-Dijiji, having killed a bear and scalped an enemy, stood high in
the estimation of his fellows who looked upon him as a leader, so that
now, when he had taken his stand upon the girl’s side, the outcome of
the battle was already a foregone conclusion for immediately the
majority lined themselves up with Shoz-Dijiji. The vanquished scattered
in all directions amid the laughter and the taunts of the victors while
both sides felt gingerly of numerous bumps and abrasions. It was then
that some of the boys again demanded that the girl return to camp.

She looked questioningly at Shoz-Dijiji, her great brown eyes pleading
through dishevelled raven locks.

The lad turned to his fellows. “Ish-kay-nay plays like a boy, rides like
a boy, fights like a boy. If Ish-kay-nay does not hunt with us today,
Shoz-Dijiji does not hunt. I have spoken.”

Just then one of the lads cried “ka-chu!” and, turning, lashed his pony
into a run; a jack rabbit had broken cover and was bounding away across
the plain in long, easy jumps. Instantly the whole pack was after him
and Ish-kay-nay was in the van. Clinging with naked knees to the bare
backs of their wiry little mounts the savage children streaked after the
fleeing ka-chu. The foremost lad, overhauling the rabbit, leaned far
forward over his pony’s shoulder and struck at the quarry with his
hunting club. The rabbit turned directly at right angles across the
pony’s track and as the latter, as accustomed to the sport as the boys
themselves, turned sharply in pursuit, the rider, far overbalanced
following the blow he had aimed, tumbled from his mount and rolled over
and over upon the turf.

With wild whoops the children followed the chase and as the rabbit
turned and doubled many were the spills of his pursuers. Sometimes a
boy, almost within striking distance, would hurl his club at the quarry,
but today ka-chu seemed to bear a charmed life until at last the plain
was dotted with riderless ponies and unhorsed riders, and only two were
left in pursuit of the rabbit.

Knee to knee raced Shoz-Dijiji and Ish-kay-nay. The rabbit, running upon
the boy’s right was close to the pony’s forefoot when Shoz-Dijiji leaned
down and forward for the kill, but again ka-chu turned, this time
diagonally across the front of the pony. Shoz-Dijiji missed, and at the
same instant Ish-kay-nay’s pinto stepped in a badger hole, and turning a
complete somersault catapulted the girl high in air to alight directly
in the path of Shoz-Dijiji’s pony as it turned to follow the rabbit, and
as the boy toppled from its back the active little beast leaped over
Ish-kay-nay’s head and galloped off with head and tail in the air.

Shoz-Dijiji rolled over twice and stopped in a sitting posture at the
girl’s side. They looked at each other and the girl grinned. Then she
reached beneath her and withdrew the flattened body of the rabbit—in
falling, the girl had alighted upon the hapless ka-chu.

“Ish-kay-nay should have been a boy,” said Shoz-Dijiji, laughing, “for
already she is a mighty hunter.”

Together they arose and stood there laughing. Their copper bodies,
almost naked, shot back golden highlights to the sun, as the two tousled
black heads bent close above the prey. The lad was already a head taller
than his companion and well-muscled for his age, yet they looked more
like two lads than a boy and a girl, and their attitude toward one
another was as that of one boy to another, and not, as yet, as of the
man to the maid. Two little savages they were, blending into Nature’s
picture of which they were as much a part as the rolling brown plain,
the tree-dotted foothills, or the frowning mountains.

Ish-kay-nay’s pony, none the worse for its spill, had scrambled to its
feet and trotted away a short distance, where it was now contentedly
feeding upon the grama grass. Still farther away the boy’s mount
browsed. Shoz-Dijiji looked toward it and whistled—once, shrilly. The
pony raised its head and looked in the direction of the sound, then it
started toward its master, slowly at first; but at the second whistle,
more peremptory than the first, it broke into a gallop and came rapidly
to stop before the lad.

Shoz-Dijiji mounted and drew Ish-kay-nay up behind him, but when they
sought to catch the girl’s pony it snorted and ran away from them.
Herding it toward camp the two rode in the direction of their fellows,
some of whom had regained their ponies; and so, several of them mounted
double, driving the riderless animals ahead, they came back to camp.

Thus the happy days rolled by with hunting, with games, with play; or
there were long trails that led down into Sonora or Chihuahua; there
were raids upon Mexican villages; upon wagon trains; upon isolated
ranches; there were the enemy’s attacks upon their own camps. In the
springs there was the planting if the tribe chanced to be in a permanent
camp and then, with wooden hoes, the children and the squaws broke the
ground, planted the corn in straight rows, melons and pumpkins at
haphazard about the field, and the beans among the corn.

Sometimes the children, tiring of so much work, would run away to play,
staying all day and sneaking into camp at dark, nor were they ever
chided by their elders; but woe betide them should one of these discover
them in their hiding place, for the ridicule that was sure to follow was
more bitter to the Apache taste than corporal punishment would have
been.

As the boys, playing, learned to use the weapons of their people, to
track, to hunt, to fight, so the girls learned the simple duties of
their sex—learned to prepare the maguey for each of the numerous
purposes to which their people have learned to put this most useful of
plants; learned to grind the mesquite bean into meal and make cakes of
it; learned to dry the fruit of the Spanish bayonet; to dress and tan
the hides that the braves brought in from the chase.

And together the children, under the admiring eyes of their elders,
learned the gentle art of torture, practicing upon birds and animals of
the wild and even upon the ponies and dogs of the tribe. Upon these
activities Shoz-Dijiji looked with interest; but for some reason, which
he doubtless could not have understood had he tried to analyze it, he
found no pleasure in inflicting pain upon the helpless; nor did this
mark him particularly as different from his fellows, as there were
others who shared his indifferences to this form of sport. Apaches are
human and as individuals of other human races vary in their
characteristics, so Apaches vary. The Apaches were neither all good, nor
all bad.

In the early summer of Shoz-Dijiji’s fourteenth year Geronimo and Juh,
with half a dozen other warriors, were preparing to make a raid into
Mexico, and when Shoz-Dijiji heard the talk about the camp fires he
determined, by hook or by crook, to accompany the war party. He told
Gian-nah-tah, his best friend, of this hope which occupied his thoughts
and Gian-nah-tah said that he would go too, also by hook or by crook.

“Go to Geronimo, your father,” counselled Gian-nah-tah, “and tell him
that Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah wish to become warriors, and if his
heart is good he will let us go out upon the war trail with him.”

“Come with me, then, Gian-nah-tah,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, “and I will ask
him now before chigo-na-ay sets again and yan-des-tan grows dark.”

Squatting beneath a tree and holding a small mirror in his left hand,
Geronimo was streaking his face with vermilion, using the index finger
of his right hand in lieu of a brush. He looked up as the two boys
approached. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes as he nodded to them.

With few preliminaries Shoz-Dijiji went to the point. “Shoz-Dijiji and
Gian-nah-tah,” he said, “will soon be men. Already has Shoz-Dijiji slain
the black bear in fair fight and upon the field of battle taken the
scalp of the enemy he had killed. No longer do Shoz-Dijiji and
Gian-nah-tah wish to remain in camp with the old men, the women and the
children while the braves go upon the war trail. Shoz-Dijiji and
Gian-nah-tah wish to go upon the war trail. They wish to go with the
great Geronimo tomorrow. Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah await the answer
of the great war chief of the Apaches.”

Geronimo was eying them keenly while he listened in silence until the
boy had finished, nor was there any change in expression to denote how
he was receiving their appeal. For a while after the boy became silent
the chief did not speak. He seemed to be weighing the proposition
carefully in his mind. Presently he opened his lips and spoke in the
quiet, low tones that were his.

“Geronimo has been watching Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah,” he said, “and
is pleased with them. They are both young, but so too was Go-yat-thlay
when first he went upon the war trail. The time is short. Go, therefore,
this very night to the high places and pray to Usen. Make your medicine,
strong medicine, in the high places. Nakay-do-klunni will bless it in
the morning. Go!”

Never were two boys more elated, more enthusiastic, more imbued with a
desire to shout and dance; but they did nothing of the sort. Stolidly,
without a change of expression, they turned and walked away. They were
Apaches and they were on the high road to becoming warriors. There are
times when warriors shout and dance; but such an occasion was not one of
them.

Together the two boys left the camp, heading deep into the mountains,
Shoz-Dijiji leading, Gian-nah-tah stepping directly in his tracks. They
did not speak, but moved silently at a dog trot, for the time was short.
Better would it have been to have spent days and nights in preparation,
but now this could not be. A mile from camp Gian-nah-tah turned to the
left, following a branch of the main canyon up which Shoz-Dijiji
continued for a matter of several miles, then, turning abruptly to the
right he scaled the sloping base of the canyon wall.

Where the fallen rubble from above ended against the rocky cliff side
the blackened stump of a lightning-riven pine clung precariously. Here
Shoz-Dijiji paused and, searching, found a flat splinter of wood not
three inches long nor an inch wide and quite thin. With a slender
buckskin thong he tied the splinter securely to his G-string and
commenced the ascent of the nearly perpendicular cliff that towered high
above him.

Taking advantage of each crevice and projection the lad crept slowly
upward. Scarcely was there an instant when a single slip would not have
hurled him to death upon the tumbled rocks below, and yet he never
paused in his ascent, but moved as confidently as though on level
ground, up and up, until, three hundred dizzy feet above the canyon
floor he drew himself to a narrow, nichelike ledge. Settling himself
here with his back against the cliff and his legs dangling over the
abyss, he unfastened the pine splinter from his G-string and with his
hunting knife set to work to fashion it to his purpose.

For an hour he worked unceasingly until the splinter, smoothed upon its
two flat sides, suggested, roughly, the figure of a short legged,
armless man, and had been whittled down to a length of two and a quarter
inches and a width of about a sixth of its greatest dimension. Upon one
flat side he carved zigzag lines—two of them running parallel and
longitudinally. These represented ittindi, the lightning. Upon the
opposite side he cut two crosses and these he called intchi-dijin, the
black wind. When he had finished the carving he tied it firmly to a
thong of buckskin which formed a loop that would pass over his head and
hang about his neck.

Thus did Shoz-Dijiji, the Black Bear, fashion his tzi-daltai.

From a buckskin bag upon which Morning Star had sewn pretty beads the
boy took a still smaller bag containing hoddentin, a pinch of which he
sprinkled upon each side of the tzi-daltai, and then he tossed a pinch
out over the cliff in front of him and one over his left shoulder and
one over his right and a fourth behind him.

“Be good, O, winds!” he prayed.

Another pinch of hoddentin he tossed high in air above him. “Be good, O,
ittindi! Make strong the medicine of Shoz-Dijiji that it may protect him
from the weapons of his enemies.”

All night he stood there in the high place praying to Usen, to ittindi,
to the four winds. Making big medicine was Shoz-Dijiji, the Black Bear;
praying to be made strong and brave upon the war trail; praying for
wisdom, for strength, for protection; praying to the kans of his people;
and when morning came and the first rays of chigo-na-ay touched his
aerie he still prayed. Not till then did he cease.

As deliberately as he had ascended, the Black Bear climbed down the
escarpment and, apparently as fresh as when he had quit camp the
preceding day, trotted rapidly down the canyon and into camp. No one
paid any attention to him as he went directly to the shelter of
Nakay-do-klunni, the medicine man.

The izze-nantan looked up as the youth stopped before him, and grunted.

“Nakay-do-klunni,” said the lad, “Shoz-Dijiji goes upon the war trail
for the first time today. All night he has prayed in the high places.
Shoz-Dijiji has made strong medicine. He brings it to Nakay-do-klunni to
bless, that it may be very strong.” He held his tzi-daltai toward the
izze-nantan.

Nakay-do-klunni, squatting in the dirt, took the amulet and blew upon
it; he mumbled gibberish above it; sprinkled hoddentin upon it; made
strange passes in the air that thrilled Shoz-Dijiji—Shoz-Dijiji, who
could climb a sheer precipice without a thrill. Then he handed it back
to Shoz-Dijiji, grunted and held out his palm. The lad emptied the
contents of his little pouch into his own hand and selecting a piece of
duklij, the impure malachite that the whites of the Southwest call
turquoise, he offered it to the izze-nantan.

Nakay-do-klunni accepted the proffered honorarium, examined it, dropped
it into his own pouch and grunted.

As Shoz-Dijiji turned to depart he passed Gian-nah-tah approaching the
shelter of the medicine man and the two friends passed one another as
though unaware of each other’s existence, for the preparation of the
youth aspiring to become a warrior is a sacred rite, no detail of which
may be slighted or approached with levity, and silence is one of its
prime requisites.

An hour later eight warriors—grim, terrible, painted men—set out upon
the war trail and with them went two hungry youths, empty since the
morning of the preceding day.




                               CHAPTER V
                            ON THE WAR TRAIL


THROUGH rugged mountains Geronimo led his war party toward the south,
avoiding beaten trails, crossing valleys only after ten pairs of eagle
eyes had scanned them carefully from the hidden security of some lofty
eminence. Where there might be danger of discovery he sent a scout far
ahead. At night he camped upon the rocky shoulder of some mountain
inaccessible to cavalry. There the novitiates brought the firewood,
carried the water, if there was aught to carry, did the cooking and
performed whatever labor there was to be performed.

All this they did in silence, speaking only when directly addressed by a
warrior. They ate only what they were told they might eat and that was
little enough, and of the poorest quality. In every conceivable way were
their patience, nerve and endurance tried to the utmost, and always were
they under the observation of the warriors, upon whose final report at
some future council would depend their acceptance into the warrior
class.

On the third day they entered Mexico, and faced a long, waterless march
upon the next. That morning Shoz-Dijiji filled a section of the large
intestine of a horse with water and coiled it twice over his left
shoulder and beneath his right arm. Presently the water would become hot
beneath the torrid rays of chigo-na-ay, and the container had been
cleaned only according to Apache standards of cleanliness, yet its
contents would in no way offend their palates. In quantity there was
sufficient to carry them far beyond the next water hole.

Shoz-Dijiji hated to carry the water. The container sloshed about his
body and ever had a tendency to slip from his shoulder. With the
thermometer 118 in the shade, a hot water bag adds nothing to one’s
comfort, and, too, this one was heavy; but Shoz-Dijiji did not complain.
He stepped lightly along the trail, nor ever lagged or sulked.

Always he watched every move that the warriors made and listened with
strict attention to their few words, since the procedure and terminology
of war are sacred and must be familiar to every candidate for warrior
honors. The familiar names of articles used upon the war trail were
never spoken, only their war names being used and the observance of
every act, however trivial, was tinged with the hue of religion.

Perhaps during the long span of man’s existence upon Earth there has
never been produced a more warlike race than the Apaches. They existed
almost solely by war and for war. Much of their country was a semiarid
wasteland, producing little; their agriculture was so meager as to be
almost nonexistent; they owned no flocks or herds; they manufactured
nothing but weapons of war and of the chase and some few articles of
apparel and ornament. From birth they were reared with but one ambition,
that of becoming great warriors. Their living and their possessions
depended almost wholly upon the loot of war; and for three hundred years
they were the scourge of a territory as large as Europe, a thickly
settled portion of which they entirely depopulated.

Upon such facts as these had Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah been raised,
and now they were taking the first step toward becoming one of these
mighty warriors, the very mention of whose names was sufficient to bring
terror to an entire community of white men.

Sometimes when they were alone or unobserved the boys conversed, and
upon one of these occasions Shoz-Dijiji exclaimed: “How wonderful to
have been born an Apache! I should think that the white-eyed men would
prefer death to the shame of not being Apaches. They have no great
warriors or we should have heard of them and no one is afraid of them.
We kill their people and they fear us so that they promise to feed us in
idleness if we will kill no more. What manner of men are they who are so
without shame! If other men kill our people, do we feed them and beg
them to do so no more? No! we go among them and slay ten for every
Apache that they have killed.”

“There are many of them,” sighed Gian-nah-tah. “For every ten we kill,
there are a hundred more to come. Some day there will be so many that we
cannot kill them all; then what will become of the Apaches?”

“You have listened to the talk of Nanáy,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “He is
getting old. He does not know what he is talking about. The more
white-eyes there are the more we can kill. Nothing would suit
Shoz-Dijiji better. I hate them and when I am a great warrior I shall
kill and kill and kill.”

“Yes,” said Gian-nah-tah, “that will be great medicine, if it does not
happen that there are more white-eyes than we can kill. If there are we
are the ones who will be killed.”

In the mountains of Sonora Geronimo camped where he had an almost
impassable mountain fastness at his back and a view of a broad valley
spread out below him, and he was secure in the knowledge that no enemy
could reach him undetected.

The very first day their scouts discovered a wagon train winding up the
valley at their feet and Geronimo sent two braves down among the
foothills to spy upon it. All day the train wound up the valley and all
day savage, unseen eyes watched its every move, saw it go into camp, saw
the precautions that were taken to prevent attack, and carried the word
back to the war chief, who had been scouting in another direction.

“There are twenty wagons, each drawn by eight mules,” the scout reported
to Geronimo. “There are twenty Mexicans, well armed. They ride with
their weapons beside them. It is as though they feared attack, for they
are often peering this way and that, and always those in the rear keep
well closed up and glance back often—there are no stragglers.”

“And in camp?” inquired Geronimo.

“They form their wagons in a circle and inside the circle are the mules
and the men. There were two armed men on guard. They are vigilant.”

“They are men,” said Geronimo. “Some time they will relax their
vigilance.” He turned toward the youths who were busy at the camp fire.
“Shoz-Dijiji,” he called, “come here!”

The lad came and stood before the war chief.

“There, in the valley,” said Geronimo, pointing, “the Mexicans are
camped. Go and watch them. Creep as closely to them as you can. If they
see you you will be killed. Return at dawn and tell Geronimo all that
you have discovered. Do not alarm them and do not attack unless you are
discovered. Go!”

Supperless, Shoz-Dijiji faded into the twilight. A shadow, he moved in
denser shadows, keeping to the hills until he came opposite the camp
fires of the freighters. It was dark; the men around the camp fire could
not possibly see far out into the night; yet Shoz-Dijiji did not relax
his wariness.

Stooping low, sometimes creeping upon his belly, taking advantage of
whatever cover the plain offered, he advanced closer and closer to the
parked wagons. While yet a considerable distance from them he silently
whittled a bush from its stem, close to the ground, and when he had come
within a hundred yards of the nearest wagon he was crawling forward upon
his belly, holding the bush in front of him. He moved very slowly and
very cautiously, advancing by inches, for the art of successful stalking
is the art of infinite patience. After a short advance he would lie
still for a long time.

He could hear the voices of the men gathered about the fire. He could
see one of the armed guards, the one nearer him. The man moved back and
forth just inside the enclosure, occasionally pausing to watch and
listen at the gaps between the wagons. It was when he was turned away
from him that Shoz-Dijiji advanced. At last he lay within a foot of one
of the wagon wheels and directly behind it.

Now he could hear much of the conversation and what he heard he
understood fairly well, for his people had often traded amicably with
Mexicans, posing as friendly Indians, though the next day they might be
planning to massacre their hosts, and there had been Mexican prisoners
in the camps of the Be-don-ko-he. Through such contacts he had gained a
smattering of Spanish, just as he was to acquire a smattering of
English, above the border, within the next year or two.

He heard the guard, passing close in front of him, grumbling. “This is
foolish,” he called to someone at the camp fire. “We have not seen an
Indian or an Indian sign this whole trip. I do not believe that there is
an Apache within three hundred miles of us.”

A big man, with a black mustache, squatting before the fire, removed his
cigarette from his mouth.

“Neither do I,” he replied; “but I do not know. I am taking no chances.
I told you before we came out that we would stand guard every night,
turn and turn about, and as long as I am captain of this train we
shall.”

The other grumbled and turned to look out toward the mountains across
the pole of one of the wagons. Within six feet of him lay an Apache. All
night he lay there watching, listening.

He learned where they would halt during the heat of the following
midday; he learned where they would camp the next night and the night
following that; he saw that guards were changed every two hours and that
thus the men lost but two hours sleep every other night. There was no
reason, therefore, on this score, why they should be too sleepy to watch
efficiently. He saw that all of the men slept with their rifles and
six-shooters within easy reach. He knew that a night attack would find
them ready and would have little chance for success.

Shortly before dawn the wind, which had been blowing gently up the
valley, changed and blew from the hills behind Shoz-Dijiji and across
the camp. Instantly the Apache noted the change and watched the mules.
At the same time he commenced to worm himself away from the park,
holding the bush always as a screen between himself and the camp of the
enemy.

He saw a mule raise its head and sniff the air, then another and
another. They moved about restlessly and many of them were looking out
in his direction. This he could see in the light of the fire that the
sentries had kept burning all night. He retreated more rapidly for he
knew that the animals had caught the scent of an Indian, and he feared
that the men would interpret their restlessness correctly.

Already the nearer guard had called to his fellow and both were
straining their eyes out into the night, and then, just behind him,
Shoz-Dijiji heard the wail of a coyote. He saw the tense attitudes of
the men relax as they turned to resume their beats, and he smiled
inwardly as he realized that they attributed the restlessness of their
stock to the scent of the coyote. An hour later he entered camp as
silently as he had left it the previous evening.

Geronimo listened to his report, and, after the custom of the Apaches,
without interruption or comment until Shoz-Dijiji indicated that he had
done speaking. He gave no praise, but he asked no questions; rather the
highest praise that he could have bestowed, since it indicated that the
youth’s report was so clear and so complete as to leave no detail of
information lacking.

For two days and two nights thereafter the Apaches followed the
freighters, and there was scarcely a moment during that time that the
Mexicans were not under close observation as the Indians waited and
watched patiently for the moment that the guard of the quarry would be
momentarily lowered, the inevitable moment that the shrewd Geronimo knew
would come. Keeping to the hills, along the foot of which the wagon road
wound, the noiseless, invisible stalkers followed doggedly the slow
moving train.

In the gory lexicon of Apache military science there appears no such
word as chance. To risk one’s life, to sacrifice one’s warriors
needlessly, is the part of a fool, not of a successful war chief. To
give the other fellow a chance is the acme of asininity. In the event of
battle men must be killed. If all the killed are among the enemy so much
greater is the credit due the victorious chief. They have reduced the
art of war to its most primitive conception; they have stripped it stark
to its ultimate purpose, leaving the unlovely truth of it quite naked,
unadorned by sophistries or hypocrisies—to kill without being killed.

At length Geronimo was convinced of the truth he had at first
sensed—that the Mexicans were most vulnerable during their midday rest.
Then their wagons were not parked into a circular fortress. The men were
hot and tired and drowsy. They were lulled into a fancied security by
the fact that they could see to great distances in all directions.
Nothing as large as a man could approach them unseen. He had even noted
that upon one occasion the entire party had dozed simultaneously at a
noonday stop, and he made his plans accordingly.

From his intimate knowledge of the country, the trail, and the customs
of freighters he knew where the noon stop upon the third day of the
trailing would be made. That forenoon only one Apache trailed the
unsuspecting Mexicans; the others were far ahead.

Noon approached. The complaining wheels of the great wagons jolted over
the ruts of the road. The sweating mules pulled evenly and steadily. The
drivers, with their single lines and their great bull-hide whips, urged
their teams only sufficiently to keep the train well closed up.

Lackadaisically, soporifically, mechanically, they flicked the leaders
with their long, pliant lashes. They did not curse their mules in
strident voices as would American skinners. Sometimes they talked to
them in low tones, or, again, they sang, and the mules plodded on
through the dust, which rose in great clouds as they crossed a low,
alkali flat, from which they emerged about noon upon higher, sandy
ground, where the pulling was harder, but where there was no dust.

Presently the leading wagon stopped and the others drew up about it, but
in no regular formation. To their left the flat plain rose gently to
meet the hills a mile away. To the right, in front of them and behind
they could see to the distant mountains, empurpled by haze. A brilliant
sun seared down upon the scorched land, a pitilessly revealing sun in
the light of which nothing could hide. There was no breeze; nothing
moved and there was no sound. Just silence was there except as it was
broken by the breathing of the mules, the creaking or the jangling of a
bit of harness.

The captain of the train scanned the landscape in all directions.
Nothing moved, there was nothing irregular within his range of vision.
Had there been he would have seen it, for he had spent the best part of
his life tracking back and forth across Sonora.

“Keep a watch, Manuel,” he directed one of his men, for even now he
would not relax his vigilance.

Manuel shrugged, rolled a cigarette, and looked about. His companions
had crawled beneath several of the wagons, where they lay in the shade
smoking, or already dozing. As far as he could see the land lay
rollingly level, dotted with small bushes, not one of which would have
offered concealment to anything larger than a jack rabbit. The sun was
very hot and the shade beneath the wagons looked inviting to Manuel. He
walked along the edge of the teams to the rearmost one and then back
again. Glancing beneath a certain wagon he saw the captain curled up in
sleep.

The guard walked all around the twenty wagons, looking off as far as he
could. There were only Indians to fear and there were none in sight.
Jesus Garcia had said that there was not an Apache within three hundred
miles and Jesus was a famous Indian fighter. He had fought the Apaches
and the Yaquis both. Manuel yawned and crawled beneath a wagon, just to
finish his cigarette in the shade.

The mules had settled down to rest, sensible as mules always are. The
men dozed, even Manuel, though he had not meant to. Before there were
ears to hear there could not have lain upon the earth a deeper silence.
There seemed no life—but there was. Within twenty feet of Manuel a pair
of eager, savage eyes appraised him. Within a radius of two hundred feet
eight other pairs of eager, savage eyes watched the dozing forms of the
unconscious prey.

Lying prone, completely buried in the sand, except their eyes, their
pols hidden beneath cleverly held bushes, seven warriors and two youths
awaited the moment of attack. From the hills, a mile away, another
warrior watched. He would come leaping down to battle when the attack
was made. All day he had been following and watching the train, ready to
warn his fellows of any unforeseen danger, or inform them of a deviation
from the assumed plans of the quarry; but there had been no change. The
train had moved as though ordered by Geronimo.

Manuel slept and dreamed of a soft-eyed señorita in Hermosillo. Geronimo
moved and the sand fell from his painted naked body as he rose
noiselessly to his feet. Eight other grim figures arose from scattered
beds of sand. At a sign from Geronimo they crept forward to surround the
train.

The mules commenced to move restlessly. One of them snorted as a brave
approached it. Geronimo held his lance above his head; from nine throats
issued the blood-curdling war whoop of the Apaches. Manuel awoke and
scrambled from beneath the wagon, fumbling with his rifle. A young
Indian leaped toward him and as the Mexican raised his weapon an arrow
from the bow of Shoz-Dijiji, the Black Bear, transfixed his heart.

In old Hermosillo tears would come to the soft eyes of a señorita. Far
to the north, near the headwaters of the Gila, the fire of savage pride
would burn in the big, dark eyes of Ish-kay-nay when she heard of the
valor of her playfellow.

The Mexicans, utterly surprised, had no chance. Confused, startled,
seeing Indians in front of them they backed from beneath the wagons only
to receive lances and arrows in their backs from the Indians darting in
and out between the wagons of the train. Curses and screams, mingled
with the savage cries of the Apaches, added to the bewilderment of the
freighters who had not died with the first volley. There were but nine
Apaches, yet to the handful of men who survived the first onslaught
there seemed to be Indians everywhere, so quickly did the savage
warriors move from point to point, driving home a lance here, speeding
an arrow there, or grappling hand-to-hand as they plunged their knives
into the bodies of the foe.

The captain of the train, bleeding, staggered to his feet from beneath
the wagon in the shade of which he had been sleeping. As he arose he saw
a huge buck leaping toward him with bloody knife upraised. Clubbing his
rifle the Mexican swung the stock down upon the warrior’s head and as
the Indian collapsed at his feet he whipped his six-shooter from its
holster and stood at bay.

A few yards from him a stalwart Apache was on the point of driving his
lance through the chest of Jesus Garcia who had fought Apaches and
Yaquis all his life and knew that there was not an Indian within three
hundred miles. The captain raised his weapon and levelled it full at the
back of the Indian. Thus close was Geronimo to death; and then a young
Apache hurled himself violently upon the captain of the train and the
two went down together. It was Shoz-Dijiji who had intervened to save
the war chief’s life. Two warriors saw the act—one of them was Juh.

Rolling upon the ground the white man and the Indian lad struggled; the
one to use his firearm, the other to prevent that and to drive his knife
home. Shoz-Dijiji was strong for his age, but he was no match for the
Mexican except in agility; but he had one advantage in a hand-to-hand
struggle that the Mexican did not possess—he was naked and his body was
slippery with grease.

Shoz-Dijiji clung to the pistol wrist of his antagonist, while the other
grasped the boy’s forearm in an effort to prevent him from driving his
knife home. Rolling over and over the Mexican finally succeeded in
getting on top of the Apache. Slowly he forced his weapon toward the
boy’s head.

Shoz-Dijiji, struggling but making no outcry, thought that his hour had
struck; yet he did not relax his efforts, rather he redoubled them to
wrench free his knife-hand. He saw the finger of the Mexican pressing
upon the trigger of the six-shooter as the muzzle of the weapon drew
gradually in line with his forehead; then he gave a final terrific tug
at the arm of his enemy just as the latter fired.

The report deafened Shoz-Dijiji, the powder burned his brow; but at the
same instant he wrenched his wrist free from the slipping clutch of the
Mexican and drove his blade home between the other’s shoulders. The man
uttered a hoarse scream and fired again; but the shock and the pain of
the wound rendered this shot but the result of the spasmodic clutching
of his fingers and the bullet went into the ground beside Shoz-Dijiji’s
head.

Again and again the quick knife of the Be-don-ko-he was plunged home.
The body of the Mexican writhed, his agonized eyes glared down from his
contorted face upon the savage beneath him, he struggled once again to
level his weapon and then he slumped forward upon Shoz-Dijiji.

The youth wriggled from beneath the dead body of his adversary, leaped
to his feet and looked about him. The battle was over; its grim
aftermath was being enacted. A few of the Mexicans, less fortunate than
their companions, still lived. Upon these Geronimo, Juh and their
fellows wrought hideously. Gripped, seemingly, by a cold, calculating
frenzy of ferocity, that in another day and among a more enlightened
race would have passed for religious zeal, they inflicted unspeakable
torture upon the dying and nameless indignities upon the dead that would
have filled with envy the high minded Christian inquisitors of the
sixteenth century.

Shoz-Dijiji searching for loot upon the dead was conscious of the orgy
of blood about him, but if it aroused any marked emotion within him his
face did not reflect it. As he removed a cartridge belt from a Mexican
the man moved and opened his eyes. The Apache shoved the sharpened
quartz of his lance through the man’s heart and resumed his search for
plunder. He did not torture; he did not mutilate; but he was not
deterred therefrom through any sense of compassion. He felt none. These
were the enemies of his people.

They would have slain him had they had the opportunity. It was only fear
or caution that prevented them and their kind from hunting down him and
his kind and exterminating them; and it was through torture and
mutilation that the Apache kept green in the hearts of his enemies both
fear and caution. To most of them it was merely a well-reasoned
component of their science of war, which is, after all, but saying that
it was a part of their religion. To Geronimo it was something more.




                               CHAPTER VI
                          THE OATH OF GERONIMO


AROUSED by the shouts, the shots and the scent of the savages, the
mules had, during the battle, staged a divertisement of their own. Some
had kicked themselves free of restraining leather while others had but
entangled themselves the more. Many were down.

Their taste for blood temporarily glutted, or for lack of more blood to
spill, the Apaches turned their attention to the mules. While some cut
loose those that were down, others rounded up those that were loose. In
the meantime Geronimo and Juh had inspected the contents of the wagons
which contained a general store of merchandise consigned to many a small
merchant in the villages of northern Sonora.

Selecting what met their fancy or the requirements of their wild,
nomadic life, they packed their spoils of war upon the backs of the
captured mules and set out in a northeasterly direction toward the
Sierra Madre. All that afternoon and all of the following night they
pushed rapidly on until they emerged upon the eastern slopes of the
Sierra Madre and looked down upon Chihuahua. Not until then did Geronimo
order camp and a rest. A hundred miles behind them the ashes of the
burned wagon train still smouldered. Ten miles in his rear a single
scout watched the rear trail from a commanding peak and far ahead
another scout overlooked Chihuahua.

Around the camp fire that day, while the mules browsed the lush grasses
of a mountain meadow, the warriors recounted boastfully their deeds of
derring do.

Geronimo, sullen and morose, sat apart. Shoz-Dijiji, the camp duties of
the neophyte completed, lay stretched in rest beside his savage sire.
Geronimo, puffing at a cigarette, looked down at the boy.

“Shoz-Dijiji has done well,” he said. These were the first words of
approval that had fallen upon the youth’s ears since he had taken the
war trail. He remained silent. Geronimo puffed upon his cigarette before
he spoke again. “Juh says that Shoz-Dijiji has a heart of water; that he
did not join the other braves in torturing the wounded or mutilating the
dead.”

“Shoz-Dijiji killed three of the enemy,” replied the youth; “one in a
hand-to-hand fight. The coyote attacks the wounded and devours the dead.
Which is braver?”

“You saw me after the battle,” said Geronimo. “Am I a coyote?”

“You are a brave man,” replied Shoz-Dijiji simply. “There is no one
braver than Geronimo. Therefore I cannot understand why you waste your
time with the dead and the wounded. These, I should think, you would
leave to the squaws and the children. I, Shoz-Dijiji, take no pleasure
in fighting with a dead man who cannot harm me. I should not think that
Geronimo, who is so much braver than Shoz-Dijiji, would find pleasure in
it.”

“Listen, my son, to the words of Geronimo,” said the war chief. “But
seventeen times had the rains fallen upon me when I was admitted to the
warrior class. Then I was a Ned-ni, as my fathers before me had been;
but I loved Alope, the slender daughter of No-po-so of the Be-don-ko-he
and she loved me. I gave No-po-so the many ponies that he had asked for
Alope and took her with me. Then it was that I was adopted into the
tribe of my good wife. I became a Be-don-ko-he.

“Three children came to us in the twelve years that followed and we were
happy. There was peace between us and the tribes that were our
neighbors. We were at peace with the Mexican towns in Chihuahua and
Sonora.

“Happy, carefree, contented, the Be-don-ko-he, with all their women and
their children, went down through Sonora toward Casa Grande to trade,
but before we reached our destination we stopped at the Mexican village
which we called Kas-ki-yeh, making our camp just outside the town.

“I had brought my mother with me, as well as Alope and our three
children. With the other women and children they remained in camp under
the protection of a few warriors while the balance of the braves went
daily into the town to trade.

“Thus we had been living in peace and fancied security for several days
when one evening as we were returning to camp we were met by several of
our women and children. Their burning eyes reflected the sorrow and
righteous anger that blazed within their breasts as they told us that
during our absence Mexican troops had attacked our camp, slain the
warriors that had been left to guard it, run off our ponies, burned our
supplies, stolen our weapons and murdered many of our women and
children.

“Mangas Colorado, chief of the Ned-ni, who was with us with a few of his
people, was the ranking war chief and to him we turned now, for this was
war. He told us to separate and hide until darkness had fallen, and this
we did, assembling again in a thicket by the river. Then it was, when
all had come, that I discovered for the first time that my aged mother,
my young wife, my three small children were among the slain.

“Without ponies, without weapons, our force reduced, surrounded by the
enemy and far within his country, we were in no position to give battle.
In silence and in darkness, therefore, we took up the long trail toward
our own country, leaving our dead upon the field.

“Stunned by the sorrow that had overwhelmed me I followed behind the
retreating tribe, just within hearing distance of the soft footfalls of
moccasined feet. For two days and nights of forced marching I did not
eat, I did not speak, and no one spoke to me—there was nothing to say.

“At last we arrived at our own kunh-gan-hay. There was the tepee that I
had made for Alope, a tepee of buffalo hides. There were the bear robes,
the lion skins, the other trophies of the chase that I had placed there
for her. There were the little decorations of beads and drawn work on
buckskin made by Alope’s own slender fingers. There were the many
pictures that she had drawn upon the walls of our home, and there were
the playthings of our little ones.

“I burned them all. Also I burned my mother’s tepee and destroyed all
her property. It was then I took an oath to be revenged upon the
Mexicans, to kill them wherever I found them, to give them no quarter
and to show them no mercy.

“My mother, Alope, our three children have been avenged many times over,
but the end is not yet. Now, perhaps, Shoz-Dijiji too will see the same
pictures of the mind that Geronimo sees when the war trail crosses the
path of the Mexicans—an old woman and a young woman lying in their
blood, three little children huddled together in terror before the
bullets or the gun butts of the Mexican soldiers stilled their sobs
forever.”

The wrinkled war chief arose and walked silently away. In silence
Shoz-Dijiji sat—in silence and in thought.

And all during the long, arduous marches that followed he thought upon
what Geronimo had told him until he too came to hate the enemies of his
people with a bitterness that was but to be increased with each closer
association with them, whether in war or in peace; but Shoz-Dijiji
discriminated less between Mexicans and Americans than did Geronimo, for
he knew that upon the whole the former had sinned against them less than
the latter.

Always watching for attack from in front, for pursuit from the rear, the
Apaches drove the laden mules northward toward home, keeping as much to
inaccessible mountains as the limitations of the mules permitted;
passing the few habitations that lay in their way silently by night,
with the single exception of an isolated Mexican ranch not far from the
border. This they attacked by day, slaying its owner, his wife and
children.

Again Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah conducted themselves well, thus
having two engagements to their credit of the four necessary before they
could be accepted into the warrior class; but again Shoz-Dijiji
abstained from torture or mutilation, though he watched Juh, the
butcher, with interest, if nothing more.

The meager loot from the pitiful Mexican home they loaded upon a spare
mule, set fire to the interior of the adobe house and continued their
way, leaving the wounded but conscious Mexican staked out upon a bed of
cactus within sight of the mutilated remains of his family, to die of
thirst.

As they passed on toward the farther hills Shoz-Dijiji saw a coyote
giving them a wide berth as it slunk down toward the ranch.

That night they crossed the border into New Mexico and camped in
timbered mountains by a running spring. Here they killed a mule and
feasted, for at last they felt reasonably safe from pursuit.

A few days later they came to their home camp and that night there was
dancing and feasting in honor of the victorious warriors and a great
deal of boastful recounting of valorous deeds and displaying of loot.
Another mule was killed and cooked and presents were given to each
member of the tribe. It was a memorable night. Tomorrow the work of the
squaws would commence, for all the remaining mules must be killed, their
meat jerked, their hides cured and the meat packed away in them for
future use.

Little Ish-kay-nay, cross-legged upon the ground, tore at a large piece
of mule meat with her strong, white teeth. A lock of glossy black hair
fell across her face and tickled her nose. She pushed it back with a
greasy hand.

But if her teeth were occupied with the feast her eyes were not—they
followed the figure of a handsome youth who moved about with the swagger
of a warrior, though it was noticeable that he kept out of the paths of
the warriors, swaggering most where the squaws and the children might
see.

Closer and closer to Ish-kay-nay his wanderings led him, yet he seemed
quite unconscious of her presence, until presently, without a word, he
came and squatted at her side. He did not speak. Ish-kay-nay did not
speak. Perhaps each wondered at the change that had come over their
relations. When the youth had gone away a few weeks before they had been
playfellows. There had never been reserve between them. Ish-kay-nay had
seemed like another boy to Shoz-Dijiji.

Now she seemed different. It seemed to Shoz-Dijiji that he was almost
afraid of her. To Ish-kay-nay there seemed a difference, too, but, being
a woman, she was less mystified than Shoz-Dijiji and she was not afraid.
She must only appear to be afraid.

Presently, timorously apparently, she extended her piece of mule meat
toward him and with his teeth he tore off a mouthful. Enjoined from
speech by necessity they sat there, side by side, chewing upon the tough
and fibrous flesh.

Ish-kay-nay looked up from beneath her tousled shock, caught his eye and
smiled. Then she looked down quickly and giggled. Shoz-Dijiji grinned
and leaned a little closer until his naked shoulder touched hers. Again
Ish-kay-nay looked up to smile, and down to giggle, shrugging her
shapely shoulders.

Laboriously the youth untied a soiled bundle that he had carried for
many days fastened to his loin cloth. It was wrapped in a bit of the
tail of a cotton shirt that Manuel, the freighter, had bought in
Guaymas.

A vile odor pervaded it, an odor that waxed in insolence and insistence
as Shoz-Dijiji, with exaggerated deliberation, slowly unwrapped the
package, while Ish-kay-nay, now leaning quite brazenly against him,
watched with increasing interest. Neither appeared to note the odor
which arose like material matter as the youth threw aside the last fold
of cloth and held up to the girl’s admiring gaze three putrid scalps.

“I, Shoz-Dijiji, have slain the enemies of my people,” he said. “Upon
the war trail with the warriors of my tribe I have slain them and here
is the proof.”

“Shoz-Dijiji will soon be a great warrior,” whispered Ish-kay-nay,
snuggling closer.

The boy opened the buckskin bag in which he kept his treasures. From it
he drew a silver crucifix and a rosary. “Take these, Ish-kay-nay,” he
said. “Shoz-Dijiji took them in battle for Ish-kay-nay.”

The eyes of the little savage maiden were wells of gratitude and pride,
and as Shoz-Dijiji slipped an arm about her she looked up into his face
and pressed closer to him. Now she did not giggle, for the light of a
great understanding had suddenly flooded the consciousness of
Ish-kay-nay.

For some time they sat there in silence, oblivious of the yells of the
dancers, the beating of the es-a-da-ded, wrapped in the dawning
realization of the wonder that had come into their lives. It was
Shoz-Dijiji who first spoke.

“Ish-kay-nay will soon be a woman.”

“At the next moon,” replied the girl.

“Twice again must Shoz-Dijiji take the war trail with the braves of his
tribe before he can become a warrior,” continued the youth. “Not until
then may he tie his pony before the tepee of Ish-kay-nay, to await her
answer to his suit. Ish-kay-nay is beautiful. Many warriors will desire
her. Already has Shoz-Dijiji seen them looking at her. Will Ish-kay-nay
wait for Shoz-Dijiji?”

“Until Chigo-na-ay gives forth no heat and the waters cease to run
Ish-kay-nay will wait,” whispered the girl.

During the month that followed the tribe travelled to a small salt lake
that lies in the Gila Mountains, and there replenished its supply of
salt. There were Navajoes there, too, and a small band of Pimos, but
there was no fighting, for such is the unwritten law of the Indians who
have come hither for ages after their salt.

Even the birds and the beasts are safe here, for no creature may be
killed upon its sacred shore. Here the gossip of the wild country passed
from mouth to mouth, the braves traded or gambled, the squaws recovered
the salt, and when the supply was garnered each tribe took up its
separate way in safety back to its own country.

Shortly after they reached home the father of Ish-kay-nay, being a man
of importance and considerable means, sent runners to the Apache tribes
living nearest them, inviting all to a great dance and feast in honor of
the coming of his daughter into the full bloom of womanhood, for
Ish-kay-nay was fourteen and no longer a child.

For days the preparations went forward. The young bucks grinned and
giggled at Ish-kay-nay, who tittered and hid her eyes behind her hand.
And Shoz-Dijiji laughed in his blanket.

The roasted mescal had been mixed with water and allowed to ferment.
Other pulpy sections of the maguey were being steamed in rock-lined
pits, the stones in which had first been superheated with leaping,
crackling greasewood fires before a layer of maguey was laid upon them
and covered with wet leaves and grasses, upon which was laid a second
layer of maguey, another layer of leaves and grasses, thus alternating
until the pit was filled and the whole covered tightly over with earth
from which protruded several of the long bayonet spikes of the mescal,
the lower ends of which were embedded in the roasting pulp.

For three days had the maguey been cooking. The tribes were gathered.
The fermented mescal was ready and, lest their hospitality be impeached,
Ish-kay-nay’s mother had brewed an ample supply of tizwin against the
needs of the occasion. The Yuma slave woman cooked tortillas by a fire
of her own making. There were jerked venison, lion, bear and beef; fresh
turkey, grouse and mule; there were cakes of the meal of ground mesquite
beans; there was the sun-dried fruit of the Spanish bayonet.

During the afternoon the squaws were engaged in the final preparations
for the feast; the braves, with mirror and pigment, were making
themselves gorgeous for the ensuing nights of dancing, feasting and
celebration, or, the painting done, arraying themselves in their finest
buckskin, beaded, and silver or turquoise hung; placing necklaces, often
to the number of a dozen, about their savage necks; adjusting earrings
of silver or turquoise.

Little Ish-kay-nay was being prepared, too. She had donned a new and
elaborately beaded robe of buckskin, the skirt of which was fringed with
tiny silver bells, as were the sides of her high moccasins; and she was
hung heavy with barbaric necklaces, some of which merely encircled her
throat, while others fell below her waist.

Much of her wealth of silver and turquoise was hidden by the long, heavy
fringe that fell from the edges of her voluminous sleeves and,
encircling her skirt above her knees, swept the ground about her richly
beaded moccasins; but there was enough in evidence to fix the wealth and
social status of her sire.

Lengthening shadows heralded the coming of the guests. By ones and twos
and threes they came, Chi-hen-ne, White Mountain, Chi-e-a-hen,
Cho-kon-en and Ned-ni, to the camp of the Be-don-ko-he, to celebrate the
coming of Ish-kay-nay, the bud, into the full flower of womanhood. A
full September moon shone down upon them as they gathered about the open
space from which the grass had been cut for the dancing. The potent
mescal and tizwin was passed freely among them.

In nearby tepees the braves who were to start the dance put the last
touches to their toilets. In a great lodge at one side of the dance
ground the chief men of the six tribes assembled and there too sat
Ish-kay-nay, looking very small; but, being Ish-kay-nay, neither
overawed nor fearful. With poise and dignity she sat among the great,
but doubtless in her elfin heart she was laughing at some of the grim
old chieftains, as youth, the world over, is prone to laugh at age.

The squaws had drawn the bayonet stalks from the roasting maguey and
sampling the lower ends had found them cooked to a nicety. Now they were
uncovering the feast. A fire was burning in the center of the space
reserved for the dancing, and at one side a dried hide had been laid
upon the ground. About this sat several old warriors armed with long,
tough sticks. Gently they began beating upon the surface of the bull
hide. Just behind them two other old warriors smote es-a-da-deds.
Ish-kay-nay’s father began to sing in time to the beating of the crude
drums, his voice rising and falling monotonously as he chanted of the
beauty of Ish-kay-nay, of her docility, of her strength, of her many
accomplishments. Gradually the guests joined in, chanting in unison with
him a wordless chant that drowned out the balance of the list of
Ish-kay-nay’s attractions.

Suddenly there burst from the tepees at the head of the dance ground a
series of blood-curdling whoops and yells. The beating of the drums
increased in tempo and volume until the sound rolled forth in thunderous
waves. From several tepees young men sprang, leaping high in air,
turning, twisting, bending, whooping. Onto the dance ground they rushed,
circling the central fire—weird, grotesque, barbaric figures disguised
beneath the heads and skins of bear and deer and buffalo and lion.

Four times about the fire they danced when other warriors armed with
lances, bows and arrows sprang upon the dance ground and circling the
other dancers threatened them with their weapons. Unintimidated the
beasts danced on until at last the hunters threw down their weapons.

At this signal the young women of the tribes joined in the dance. As the
first of them ran upon the field the young bucks gave voice to a wild
yell that rolled out across the still Arizona night to reverberate and
echo in the gloomy canyons and gorges of the moon-mysteried mountains
that hemmed them about. They crouched, they leaped, they shook their
shoulders and their hips as they formed a circle about the fire, facing
outward, as the girls took their places in an outer circle, each girl
opposite and facing a warrior.

The drums boomed, the dancers bent double, whirled about first upon one
foot and then upon the other. The men advanced, the girls retreated to
the outer edge of the dance ground. Among them, grotesque, painted,
decked out in the finery of their most gorgeous medicine headdress,
their finest izze-kloths, whirling their tzi-ditindes, the izze-nantans
whirled and leaped and danced, sprinkling the sacred hoddentin upon the
youths and maidens.

Nakay-do-klunni was there with Nan-ta-do-tash and many another famous
medicine man of the six tribes of the Apaches, speaking volumes for the
wealth and power of the father of little Ish-kay-nay. Now the men
retreated, backing toward the fire, and the girls advanced, and thus,
forward and back, they danced for hours, chanting the sacred songs of
their people, doing honor to Ish-kay-nay.

And all the time the girl remained in the great lodge, taking no part in
the festivities and catching but an occasional glimpse of what was going
on without. At the end of the fourth night the food was gone, the mescal
and the tizwin had been consumed, the dancers were exhausted and the six
tribes repaired to their several camps to sleep off the effects of their
prolonged orgy. On the following day Ish-kay-nay’s eyebrows were
carefully plucked—the last official symbol of her emergence from
childhood to the marriage market. A month later her eye lashes would be
pulled out.

Shoz-Dijiji was not happy. He had had no part in the festivities, other
than a free hand at the food, and he had tried to smoke—with dire
results. This he might have done long before, having killed big game and
won the right to smoke like a grown man; but he had not cared to until
recently. Seeing Ish-kay-nay stepping suddenly from childhood to
womanhood had awakened within him, or rather had stimulated within him
an already overwhelming desire to appear mature.

From the tepee of Geronimo he had taken a few leaves of tobacco and
these he rolled in the dried leaf of an oak. With an ember from a camp
fire he lighted his primitive cigarette, and for several minutes he
derived great satisfaction from parading nonchalantly about, puffing
clouds of smoke to the moon; but shortly he crawled away out of sight
and lay down behind a bush. For a while he was quite helpless, but
presently he was able to unwrap his tzi-daltai, and to it he prayed that
the bad spirit that had entered his stomach with the smoke be driven
out. He prayed for a long time, until he fell asleep; and when he awoke
he knew that his medicine was strong medicine, for the sickness was
gone, leaving him only a little weak and a bit wabbly upon his feet.

Perhaps the sickness helped to make Shoz-Dijiji unhappy, but there were
other causes, too. One of them was the attitude of the young warriors
toward Ish-kay-nay, and that of some of the old warriors, as well. Never
before had Shoz-Dijiji realized how wonderful and how desirable was
Ish-kay-nay, and he saw that other youths and men thought that she was
desirable. Once, shortly after the great feast, he saw ten ponies tied
before her tepee, and among them was the war pony of Juh, the chief of
the Ned-ni.

For four days he watched them standing there, as their owners watched
them; but Ish-kay-nay did not come forth and feed any one of them or
lead one to water, and at the end of the fourth day, disgruntled, the
disappointed swains came and took away their ponies. After that
Shoz-Dijiji was happier and when it was dark, that very night, he found
Ish-kay-nay and sat down beside her and held her hand and heard her say
over again that she would wait for him—forever.




                              CHAPTER VII
                                 RAIDED


ONE day as Shoz-Dijiji squatted beside Geronimo listening to the great
chief’s tales of the war trail a runner came and stopped before them.

“Geronimo,” he said, “I am sent by the officers of the white soldiers.
They want you to come to their camp. They have sent a runner to Victorio
also, and he is coming.”

“What do the chiefs of the white soldiers want of Geronimo and
Victorio?” demanded the chief.

“I do not know,” replied the runner.

“Perhaps they are calling a council,” suggested Geronimo.

“Perhaps,” replied the runner, an Apache scout in the service of the
government.

“Tell them Geronimo will come,” said the chief, and the scout turned and
trotted away, disappearing among the trees below the camp.

“Fetch my pony, Shoz-Dijiji,” said Geronimo.

“And mine?” asked the youth.

Geronimo smiled and grunted an affirmative and the lad was gone after
the two ponies. When he returned Geronimo was ready and together they
rode down the mountainside in the direction of the little town near
which the soldiers were camped.

Early the following morning they saw a small band of Indians moving in
the same direction as were they, and evidently toward the camp of the
white soldiers which lay beside the village of Hot Springs which they
could already see in the distance.

“Victorio,” grunted Geronimo, nodding his head.

Shoz-Dijiji nodded. However the two approached the other party, as their
trails converged, with careful wariness, and it was not until they had
actually recognized individual members of the band and been recognized
in turn that they finally joined them.

The two chiefs rode together, exchanging occasional monosyllables, but
for the greater part of the time in silence. Shoz-Dijiji took the
station befitting a youth among warriors and rode in the rear and the
dust. At the edge of town the party was met by soldiers, two companies
of scouts, and before Geronimo or Victorio could realize their
intentions the party was surrounded, disarmed and arrested. Surprised,
chagrined and angry the Apaches were conducted to military headquarters,
and for the first time Shoz-Dijiji came into close contact with the
pindah lickoyee.

Closely surrounded by armed soldiers the Apaches were herded into a tent
where several officers were seated behind two camp tables. Ignoring his
guards Geronimo strode forward and faced the officers across the tables.

“Why have the soldiers done this to Geronimo and his friends?” he
demanded. “You sent for Geronimo as a friend and he came as a friend. Is
this the way to treat a friend?”

The senior officer turned to a Mexican standing near him. “What does he
say?” he demanded.

The Mexican, in turn, addressed a half-breed squatting at his side.
“What does he say?” he asked in Spanish. The half-breed translated
Geronimo’s words into Spanish and the Mexican translated them into
English for the senior officer.

“Tell him it is because he left Apache Pass without permission,” replied
the officer. “Ask him why he did this,” and again the Mexican translated
the officer’s words into Spanish and the half-breed translated them from
Spanish to Apache. Thus the entire proceedings were carried out. Perhaps
the translations were accurate—perhaps not. At any rate the principals
in the matter did not know.

Geronimo mused over the question before he replied. Then he addressed
himself directly to the senior officer, ignoring the interpreters. “I do
not think that I ever belonged to those soldiers at Apache Pass,” he
said, “or that I should have asked them where I might go. This is my
country. I have lived here all my life. It is the country that Usen gave
to the Apaches when he created them. It has always belonged to us. Why
should we ask the soldiers of the white-eyes for permission to go from
one part of our own country to another part?

“We have tried to live in peace with the white-eyes. We even tried to
stay at Apache Pass when they asked us to do so; but the white-eyes do
not know the ways of the Apaches as do the chiefs of the Apaches. They
did not know what they asked. The six tribes of the Apaches cannot all
live together in peace. The young men quarrel. This we knew would
happen, yet we tried to live together because we were told that it was
the wish of the Great White Chief.

“Some of the young men got drunk on whiskey that was sold to them by a
white-eyed man. They fought and some were killed. We, who are the chiefs
of our people, we, who are responsible for their welfare and happiness,
held a council and there we all agreed that the tribes could no longer
live in peace together.

“The Chi-hen-ne and Be-don-ko-he have always been friendly and so
Victorio and I quietly withdrew together with our people. We did not
think this was wrong. Our hearts were not wrong. That is all. Geronimo
has spoken. Now let us return to our homes.”

The officer questioned Victorio and several other Indians. He asked
about each one present and Shoz-Dijiji heard himself mentioned, heard
the half-breed say that he was but a youth and not yet a warrior, for
Shoz-Dijiji understood some Spanish. Now he realized that it would be
advantageous to understand the language of the pindah lickoyee as well.

The proceedings did not last long. The officers issued some orders to
the soldiers and the Apaches were herded from the tent. Geronimo and
seven other Apaches were taken to the guardhouse and placed in chains.
Victorio and the others, including Shoz-Dijiji, were released; but the
youth did not wish to leave his father. With that mixture of timidity
and courage which often marks the actions of creatures of the wild in
the presence of white men, Shoz-Dijiji, keeping at a distance, followed
Geronimo to the guardhouse.

He saw the Indians disappear within, he saw the door closed. He wondered
what they were going to do with his father and his friends, these
white-eyed men whose actions he could no more understand than he could
their language. He crept to a window and looked in. His pupils dilated
with horror at the thing he saw; they were placing great chains upon
Geronimo, upon the chief of the Be-don-ko-he, upon the war chief of all
the Apaches, and fastening him to the wall like a wild beast.

Shoz-Dijiji shuddered. The humiliation of it! And the hideous injustice.
Savage that he was, Shoz-Dijiji sensed keenly and felt acutely the
injustice, for he knew that Geronimo did not know why he was being
punished. He knew that the soldiers had said that it was because he had
left Apache Pass, but to Shoz-Dijiji as well as to Geronimo, that was
worse than no reason at all since they both knew that it had been the
right thing to do.

Shoz-Dijiji, through the window, heard Geronimo ask the soldiers why he
was being chained in the guardhouse; but they did not understand him.
One, who was quite a joker, mimicked the old war chief, making the other
soldiers laugh, thus demonstrating beyond cavil the natural superiority
of the white race over these untutored children of the wild who sat now
in majestic silence, their immobile faces giving no hint of the thoughts
that passed within their savage brains, or the sorrows within their
hearts.

Doubtless, had their positions been reversed, the Apaches would have
tortured the soldiers; but it is a question as to whether they could
have inflicted upon the white men any suffering more real, more
terrible, than are imprisonment and ridicule to an Indian.

As Shoz-Dijiji watched through the guardhouse window, his whole being
was so occupied by the numbing terror of what he saw within that he did
not hear the approach of a white soldier from his rear, nor was he
conscious of any other presence about him until a heavy hand was laid
upon his shoulder and he was wheeled roughly about.

“What the hell are you doing here, you dirty Siwash?” demanded the
trooper, and at the same time he gave Shoz-Dijiji a shove that sent him
sprawling in the dust.

Shoz-Dijiji did not understand the white man’s words. He did not
understand why he had been attacked. All he knew was that, his heart
filled with sorrow, he had been watching the humiliation of his father;
but as he arose slowly from the dust he became conscious of a new force
within him that crowded sorrow into the background—a deep, implacable
hatred of the pindah lickoyee. Through level eyes, his face an
imperturbable mask, he looked at the white soldier and saw that he was
heavily armed. About the guardhouse were other armed soldiers.
Shoz-Dijiji turned and walked away. Apachelike he bided his time.

In the camp of his people Shoz-Dijiji took up again his accustomed life,
but he was not the same. The last vestige of youth had fallen from him.
Quiet, serious, even morose he was, and more and more often did he spend
nights and days upon end in the high places, praying and making big
medicine, that he might be strong against the enemies of his people.

He talked with Gian-nah-tah about the wrongs that the pindah lickoyee
would inflict upon the Shis-Inday. He visited Victorio and talked much
with that savage, terrible old warrior, for Shoz-Dijiji wanted to know
“why.” No one seemed to be able to enlighten him. Usen had made this
country for the Apaches, of that they were all quite sure; but why Usen
had sent the white-eyes, no one could tell him. Victorio thought that
Usen had nothing to do with it; but that some bad spirits who hated Usen
were really responsible.

“The bad spirits have sent the white-eyed men to kill the Apaches,” he
explained, “so that Usen will have no one to guard him. Then they will
be able to kill Usen.”

“Then we should kill the enemies of Usen,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

“It is right to kill them,” said Victorio. “Do they not kill us?”

Shoz-Dijiji knew that they did. He knew that when he was hunting, deep
in his own country, he had ever to keep an alert eye open for wandering
white men—hunters, prospectors, cowboys, soldiers—scarce one of whom
but would shoot him first and inquire into his friendliness afterward,
if at all.

In primitive places news travels with a celerity little short of
miraculous. Thus it was that the day that Geronimo was transferred to
the guardhouse at San Carlos the fact was known to the Be-don-ko-he in
their hidden camp, deep in inaccessible mountains. Shoz-Dijiji spoke to
Morning Star, wife of Geronimo, the only mother he had ever known.

“Sons-ee-ah-ray,” he said, “I, Shoz-Dijiji, go to be near my father,
Geronimo. The hearts of the pindah lickoyee are bad. Perhaps they have
taken him away to kill him.”

“Go!” said Morning Star. “If the pindah lickoyee harm Geronimo return
quickly and bring the word. Then, if the hearts of the Apache braves
have not turned to water, they will go upon the war trail and drive the
white-eyed men from the land of the Shis-Inday forever. If they do not,
then the squaws will spit upon them and take their weapons from them and
go upon the war trail in their places.”

So Shoz-Dijiji set out alone and afoot for the fort at San Carlos. Deep
in his heart was a purpose that he had not confided to Morning Star or
to any other, not even to Ish-kay-nay when he had bid her farewell. In
the high places Shoz-Dijiji had had much opportunity for thought and for
reflection, and more and more during those solitary hours among the
silent rocks and the murmuring pines there had been borne into his
consciousness a realization of the fact that he had first vaguely
comprehended at the trial of Geronimo at Hot Springs, that his people
were handicapped in their struggle against the white-eyed oppressor by
their inability to understand his language.

Shoz-Dijiji had recalled the night that he had lain close beside the
parked wagon train of the Mexican freighters and overheard their plans
for the ensuing days, and because he knew their language it had been
possible for his people to profit by what he heard. How great might be
his advantage upon similar occasions in the conflict with the whites, if
he understood their tongue, he thoroughly realized. Imbued with this
thought as well as a desire to be near his father and learn more of what
the whites intended for Geronimo, the youth made his lonely way toward
San Carlos.

With a handful of parched corn, a few strips of jerked venison and a
primitive water bottle of horse gut, he trotted silently along his
untracked way. Always alert for signs of the enemy, no sound escaped his
trained ears; no broken twig, no down-pressed bunch of grass, no turned
stone escaped his watchful eyes; and all that he saw he read as quickly
and as accurately as we read the printed page; but with this difference,
possibly—Shoz-Dijiji understood what he read.

Here he saw where klij-litzogue, the yellow snake, had passed through
the dust of the way an hour before; there was the spoor of
shoz-lickoyee; and in the bottom of a parched canyon he saw signs of the
pindah lickoyee. Two days before a white man had ridden down this canyon
toward the plain upon the back of a mare with a white right hind foot
and a black tail. All this Shoz-Dijiji read quickly from a spoor so
faint that you or I would not have noticed it at all. But then, it was
Shoz-Dijiji’s business to know, as it is our business to know that if we
ignore certain traffic signals at a crowded corner we may land in the
receiving hospital.

On the second day Shoz-Dijiji crept to the summit of a low divide and
looked down upon the frontier post of San Carlos, upon the
straw-thatched buildings of adobe brick, upon the winding Gila and upon
the straggling villages of the reservation Indians, and that night he
slipped silently down among the shadows and merged with his people.
There were many tribes there, but among them were Apaches whom
Shoz-Dijiji knew, and these he sought, seeking word of Geronimo first.
They told him that the chief was still chained in a guardhouse, but that
he was well. What the white-eyes intended doing with him they did not
know.

Shoz-Dijiji asked many questions and learned many things that night.
With the braves he laughed at the white fools who fed the Apaches
between raids while the blood of other white men was scarce dry upon
them, and, who, while feeding them, sought to cheat them out of the bulk
of the rations the Great White Chief had sent them; thus increasing
their contempt for the whites, arousing their anger against them, and
spurring them on to further outbreaks.

“Our women and our children are hungry,” complained an old warrior, “and
yet they will neither give us passes to go out on the hunting trail or
issue us sufficient rations to sustain us. We see the agent growing rich
and fat upon the money that should buy us beef. We see our war chief and
our friends chained in prison. To make us content they wish to give us
shovels and hoes and make us do the work of squaws. They wish us to go
to school and learn the strange language of the white-eyes.

“We are men, we are warriors; it is not fit that men and warriors should
do these things. It is our land, not theirs. Usen gave it to us and he
gave the white-eyes other lands. Why do they not stay in the land that
Usen gave them, as we have? We do not want them here.”

Shoz-Dijiji heard a great deal of such talk, for the Indians,
discontented, aired their grievances freely among themselves. They
talked of little else, and the young bucks spoke continually of war.
These matters did not, however, greatly excite Shoz-Dijiji. He knew that
when the time came there would be war. There always was. What interested
him more was the statement of the old warrior that the white-eyed men
wished his people to learn their language. He spoke often upon this
subject, asking many questions.

“You wish to learn the language of the pindah lickoyee?” demanded a
scarred warrior who talked the loudest and the longest about war.

“Yes,” admitted Shoz-Dijiji.

“That is labor,” sneered the warrior. “The men of the Apaches do not
labor. You should have been a squaw.”

“The men of the Apaches make their own weapons wherewith to fight the
enemies of their people, do they not?” inquired Shoz-Dijiji.

“That is the work of men, of warriors,” exclaimed the other.

“The language of the white-eyes can be turned into a weapon against them
if we understand it,” said the youth. “Now they use it against us. That
I saw at Hot Springs when Geronimo and the other warriors were made
prisoners. It was all done with the talk of the white-eyes; no other
weapon did they use. Had I known how to use that weapon—had Geronimo,
or any other of us known—we might have defeated them, for we had the
right upon our side.”

“Shoz-Dijiji makes good talk,” said an old man. “At the post they have a
school where they wish us to send our children and to come ourselves to
learn their language. There are but three children in this school and
they are all orphans. If they had had parents they would not have been
permitted to go. The pindah lickoyee will be glad to have you come.”

And so it was that Black Bear attended the school of the pindah lickoyee
and learned their strange language. He stayed and worked in the school
after the class was dismissed that he might ask questions of the teacher
and learn more rapidly. His teacher, the wife of an officer, pointed to
him with pride and told her friends that the example set by Black Bear
would probably do more toward pacifying and civilizing the Apaches than
all the soldiers in the United States Army could accomplish.

“If they understand us they will learn to respect and love us,” she
said; “and they cannot understand us until they understand our
language.”

And to his people Shoz-Dijiji said: “The pindah lickoyee are fools and
their tongue is the tongue of fools; but it is well to know it. Already
I have learned things about them that otherwise I could never have
known, and when I take the war trail against them as a man there will be
no arrow in my quiver with which I can inflict more harm upon them than
with this—my knowledge of their language.”

For three months Shoz-Dijiji attended school regularly, studied
diligently, learned quickly. His teacher was transported into raptures
whenever she had occasion to mention him in the presence of her friends,
and that was often, as the topics of conversation at a frontier army
post are meager at the best. Her husband was skeptical, as were all of
the older officers.

“He’s an Indian,” they said, “and the only good Indian is a dead
Indian.”

Thus understandingly, sympathetically, has the Indian question been
approached by many army men, and by practically all of the civilians of
the frontiers. To have said: “He is an Indian. He stands in the way of
our acquisition of his valuable possessions. Therefore, having no power
to enforce his rights and being in our way, we will destroy him,” would
have been no more ruthless than the policy we adopted and cloaked with
hypocrisy. It would have had the redeeming quality of honesty, and would
have been a policy that the Apaches could have understood and admired.

One morning Shoz-Dijiji did not come to school. He never came again. His
teacher made diligent inquiry which always ended against the dead wall
of an Indian, “No savvy.” She did not connect Black Bear’s disappearance
with the release of Geronimo from the guardhouse the previous afternoon,
because she did not know that Black Bear was Geronimo’s son.

She knew nothing about Black Bear. From her he had learned all that he
sought to learn; from him she had learned nothing; for which there is
just one good and sufficient reason—Black Bear was an Apache. Of all
the great Indian tribes that have roamed North America none has been in
contact with white men longer than the Apache, and of none is there less
known.

Ugly, morose, vengeful, Geronimo came back to his people, and that same
night they slipped away toward the south. Every member of the tribe was
mounted and their meager belongings, their store of provisions, were
packed upon the backs of spare ponies.

Shoz-Dijiji was happy. The three months spent at San Carlos under the
petty restrictions of a semi-military regime had seemed an eternity of
bondage to his free, wild nature. Now again he could breathe, out in the
open where there were no fences, no walls, as far as the eye could
reach, and the air was untainted by the odor of white men.

He looked up at the moon-silvered mountains and out across the dim,
mysterious distance of the plain. He heard the old, familiar voices of
the night, and her perfumes were sweet in his nostrils. He drank deep of
it, filling his lungs. He wanted to leap into the air and dance and
shout; but he only sat stolidly astride his pony, his face reflecting
nothing of all that filled his heart.

Travelling by night, hiding by day, Geronimo led his people to a hidden
valley, deep in the mountains, far from the trails and settlements of
the pindah lickoyee. There they lived in peace and security for a long
time, making occasional journeys into Mexico to trade, or to neighboring
Indian tribes for the same purpose.

Shoz-Dijiji grew taller, stronger. Few warriors of the Be-don-ko-he
could hurl a lance as far as he, and none could send an arrow with
greater accuracy to its goal; he could out-run and out-jump them all,
and his horsemanship brought a gleam of pride to the cruel, blue eyes of
Geronimo.

The long period of peace broke down the discipline of the tribe and even
astute old Geronimo nodded. An individualist in the extreme sense of the
word, an Apache takes orders from no one except as it suits him to do
so. Their chiefs are counsellors; they may not command. Only the war
chiefs in time of battle or upon the war trail are vouchsafed anything
approaching absolute authority. It is the ambition of every youth to
become a warrior so that he may do whatever he wishes to do, without let
or hindrance.

Thus lived the tribe in the dangerous insecurity and laxity of peace. No
longer did the keen eyes of scouts watch the trails leading away into
the lands of their enemies. For days at a time the ponies pastured
without a guard.

It was upon such a day, following a successful hunt, that the warriors
were dozing about the camp. Gian-nah-tah and Shoz-Dijiji, tiring of the
monotony, had wandered away into the hills. They were moving quietly
along, seeing everything, hearing everything, when the son of Geronimo
stopped suddenly and raised his hand. Like a golden bronze by a master
hand they stood motionless and silent. Faintly from afar came the
rolling of distant thunder, scarcely heard. But Shoz-Dijiji and
Gian-nah-tah knew that it was not thunder. Just for an instant they
stood there listening and then both dropped almost simultaneously to the
ground, pressing ears against the turf.

Shoz-Dijiji was the first to leap to his feet. “Return to camp,
Gian-nah-tah,” he said, “and tell Geronimo what we have heard.”

“What is it, Shoz-Dijiji?” asked the other.

“The herd has been stampeded. They are running away from camp—south,
toward Chihuahua. Only enemies would run it off. Tell Geronimo that the
Mexicans have raided us.”

Gian-nah-tah wheeled about and raced down the mountainside, while
Shoz-Dijiji clambered straight up toward a lofty point that would afford
him a wide view of the country toward the south. His ear had told him
that the ponies were running wildly; therefore they must be frightened.
Nothing in these hills could so frighten those ponies as could mounted
men urging them rapidly from the rear—that Shoz-Dijiji knew. The
diminishing volume of the sound had told him that the ponies were moving
away from him, toward the south. The rest was, of course, but shrewd
inference.

From the summit he sought he could see nothing but a cloud of dust
receding down a canyon, and so he moved on after the retreating herd.
For three hours he followed without catching a glimpse of ponies or
thieves until he came out into the foothills and overlooked the plain
beyond. Far out toward the south he saw just what he had expected to
see, all the ponies and mules of the Be-don-ko-he. Driving them was a
detachment of Mexican troopers and in their rear rode the balance of the
company.

To follow was useless. He turned and trotted back toward camp. Halfway
up the canyon he met Geronimo and some twenty braves already on the
trail. Gian-nah-tah was with them. Shoz-Dijiji told Geronimo what he had
seen, and when the party resumed the pursuit, not being forbidden, he
fell in behind with Gian-nah-tah.

“Two more battles and we shall be warriors,” whispered Shoz-Dijiji.

Far behind the mounted troopers, dogged, determined, trailed the
twenty—grim and terrible.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                         VACQUEROS AND WARRIORS


DOWN into Sonora the trail of the raiders led them, but the Mexicans,
versed in the ways of the Apaches, loitered not upon the trail. Pushing
their stolen stock to the utmost of the endurance of man and beast they
kept ahead of their pursuers. Yet to accomplish it they were compelled
to average from sixty to seventy miles a day through rough mountains and
across fiery, dust-choked flats, thirst-tortured, wearied, quirting on
their jaded mounts in sullen effort to outdistance the avenging red
demons that they never saw, but who experience, torture-won, told them
followed relentlessly just below the northern horizon. Brave men, these,
whose courage on countless savage, unsung fields deserves a fairer
recognition than it has received at the hands of the chroniclers north
of the Line.

Exhausted, half-starved, the troopers rode at last into a cattle ranch
near Nacozari, where, after turning the stock over to a dozen cowboys,
they were asleep almost before they could satisfy the pangs of hunger.

Twenty miles behind them, their deep chests rising and falling
unhurriedly, trotted the twenty upon their trail. There were old men
among them and youths yet unmatured, but nowhere was there sign of
fatigue, though for three days and nights they had hung doggedly to the
trail of mounted men, gaining in the last day almost all the distance
they had lost while the horses of the Mexicans were fresh.

Just before dark they halted within sight of the ranch and from vantage
points of concealment saw their herd grazing under the watchful eyes of
the dozen vaqueros. Quenching their thirst in the nauseous, sun-heated
contents of their septic water bottles, allaying their hunger with bits
of dried meat, tough as leather and stinking to heaven, they waited.
They were not resting, they were merely waiting.

Mighty men were these, as nearly immune to fatigue as human flesh may
ever be, or ever has been. Some there were among them, however, who,
feeling perhaps a hint of rebellion upon the part of overdriven muscles,
cut switches from ready mesquite and lashed recalcitrant legs until they
bled, scarifying them to renewed life and vitality.

Shoz-Dijiji was not of these. He had not tired. Prone behind a little
bush, chewing upon a bit of strength-giving carrion, his sober,
unchanging eyes bored through the dusk down to the unsuspecting vaqueros
and the herd. They held mostly upon a browsing pinto, Nejeunee, friend,
as his name implied, pal, comrade, prized possession of this son of
Geronimo. Shoz-Dijiji owned two other ponies. They, too, were there; but
they were not to him as was Nejeunee.

The youth chafed to move forward to the battle. He glanced behind him in
the direction of Geronimo who would give the signal for advance and
attack. He saw that the old chief and the other warriors had removed
their shirts and cotton drawers. They were stripped now to moccasins,
G-strings, head handkerchiefs, and they were greasing their bodies and
painting their faces. Shoz-Dijiji thrilled. The war paint! Ah! how it
had always filled his brain with fire and his breast with savage
emotions that he could not fathom, that he could only feel as they
raised him to an exaltation, to a fanaticism of the spirit such as the
old crusaders must have felt as they donned their armor to set their
lances against the infidels. Deep within him smouldered the savage fires
of his Caledonian ancestry that made him one with the grim crusaders of
the past and with the naked descendants of the Athapascans preparing for
battle.

The hearts of the crusaders were upheld by the holiness of their cause;
the soldiers of the Sultan Saladin died defending Allah and the right;
Usen looked down upon the Be-don-ko-he and was pleased. Who may judge
where the right lay?

Geronimo sent a warrior to relieve Shoz-Dijiji that he might strip and
prepare for battle. Dusk deepened into a moonless night canopied by a
star-shot heaven so clear and close that the stars seemed friends that
one might reach out and touch. The Apaches, lovers of Nature, sensed
beauties that many a dull frontier clod of the usurping superior race
lacked the soul to see. Even on the verge of battle they felt and
acknowledged the wonders and beauties of the night, casting hoddentin to
the heavens and the winds as they prayed to their amulets and consulted
their phylacteries.

The time had come. The war chief had issued his orders. Each brave knew
his position and his duties. One by one they crept from the concealment
of the mesquite thicket behind which they had made their preparations.
Below them and up wind was the herd. No bush was too small to offer them
concealment as they crept down toward the enemy.

Half the band was to circle to the opposite side of the herd, which,
being composed principally of Indian stock, would not be excited by the
scent of Indians. Geronimo went with this detachment. At his signal the
Apaches would attack simultaneously upon all sides. Certain braves were
to be the first to seize mounts and attempt to drive off the balance of
the stock. Shoz-Dijiji was one of those chosen for this duty. He would
rather have remained and fought, but the word of the war chief was law
to Shoz-Dijiji.

Following the braves with Geronimo, the youth, belly to the ground,
crept stealthily to the rear of the herd, giving the vaqueros a wide
berth. The warriors, increasing their distances, spread out until a thin
line entirely surrounded the Mexicans and their charges; then they
closed in. The Apaches worked with almost the precision of trained
troops but without word of command.

Geronimo saw a vaquero a few yards in front of him turn in his saddle
and peer intently at the shrub behind which the war chief lay. For a
long moment the Mexican watched intently; then, apparently satisfied, he
looked in another direction. Geronimo took deliberate aim and pressed
the trigger of his Springfield. There was a flash and roar. The Mexican
fell forward upon his horse’s neck.

Simultaneously the quiet of the night was blasted by a bedlam of hideous
war whoops. From all sides, from all directions they fell upon the ears
of the vaqueros. There was the cracking of rifles and the shouts and
curses of men. Shoz-Dijiji, Gian-nah-tah and another rushed into the
midst of the herd. The Black Bear whistled shrilly and Nejeunee, at a
distance, half-frightened by the noise and confusion, about ready to
break for liberty and safety, heard. Halting, he turned with up-pricked
ears and looked back in the direction of the familiar sound. Again the
youth whistled and there was an answering nicker from the stallion.

Arrows and lances and bullets flew thickly through the air. Only the
fast movement of the participants, and the darkness, held down the
casualties. The Mexicans, separated, surprised, outnumbered, readily
assumed the attacking force much greater than it was, yet strove
valiantly to protect the herd and hold it from stampede. The Apaches
profiting by the darkness, advantaging by the shrewd strategy of
Geronimo, carried through their well-planned attack with whirlwind
rapidity.

Shouldering through the frightened herd Nejeunee galloped to his master.
A vaquero, catching sight of the youth, wheeled his mount and bore down
upon him. Shoz-Dijiji hurled his lance and missed as the other fired
point-blank at him from a distance so close that the next stride of his
horse brought him abreast the youthful brave. The powder from the
six-shooter of his assailant burned Shoz-Dijiji’s cheek as the bullet
whizzed by his ear, and at the same instant the Apache leaped for the
vaquero, caught his arm, and swung to the horse’s rump behind the saddle
of the Mexican.

The frightened horse leaped forward as its rider, dropping the reins the
better to defend himself, sought to rid himself of the savage Nemesis
upon his back. At their side raced Nejeunee, harking to the low words of
Shoz-Dijiji urging him on. About the neck of the Mexican went a sinewy
left arm, a well-greased, muscular, copper-colored arm, as the Apache’s
right hand drew a hunting knife from its sheath.

As they flashed by them Geronimo and two other warriors saw and voiced
their applause of the Black Bear in savage whoops of approbation. His
black hair flying from beneath his head band, his muscles tensed to the
exigencies of mortal combat, his black eyes flashing fierce hatred,
Shoz-Dijiji with a forearm beneath his adversary’s chin had forced back
the latter’s head until now they rode cheek to cheek while the knife of
the Apache hovered above the back-stretched throat of the Mexican. For
but an instant it hovered. Seeing, the terrified vaquero voiced a single
shriek which ended in a bloody gurgle as the keen blade cut deep from
ear to ear.

Slipping from the horse’s rump clear of the falling corpse, Shoz-Dijiji
leaped to Nejeunee’s back and, bridleless, guided him in a circle that
rounded the rear of the herd, where, whooping, yelling, he commenced the
task of turning it toward the north, assisted by Gian-nah-tah and the
warrior who had been detailed for this duty. One by one the other
warriors of the party caught mounts from the milling, frightened
herd—in itself a highly arduous and dangerous undertaking amid the
flying heels and bared teeth of the half wild, wholly frightened
animals—as the remaining vaqueros, believing themselves attacked by the
full strength of the six Apache tribes raced for the camp of the
soldiers. Of the twelve two were dead, and one, his horse shot from
beneath him, rode behind a comrade.

Awakened by the shots and the war whoops the sleepy soldiers were
stumbling to arms under the oaths and urgings of their officers as the
ten vaqueros galloped into camp with as many excited versions of the
attack and the battle as there were survivors. The commanding officer
listened, asked questions, swore luridly when he discovered that not
only all the stock that he had won from the Apaches in the face of
torture, death and unspeakable hardship had been run off by the
renegades, but all the horses of his command, as well as those belonging
to the ranch, with the exception of the nine that had come back from the
scene of battle.

Bad as this was it did not constitute his greatest concern, for if the
Indians numbered but a fraction of what the vaqueros reported, their
force was sufficient to wipe out his entire command; and it was not at
all unlikely that, after starting the herd at a safe distance on the way
toward Arizona, they would return in force and attack his camp. Thoughts
of defense, therefore, were paramount to plans of pursuit, and the
officer set about placing a strong guard about his position.

But no attack materialized. The Apaches did not reappear. They were far
away upon the northern trail, urging their ponies to greater speed as
they drove the captured herd ahead all during the long night. In their
rear rode Geronimo, Shoz-Dijiji and another warrior to guard against a
surprise attack by pursuers. Stopping often to watch and listen they
fell far behind.

“Shoz-Dijiji did well,” said Geronimo. “You are young, but already you
have three battles to your credit—a fourth and the council of warriors
can accept you. Geronimo is proud. He laughed when he saw you cut the
throat of the Mexican. That was well done. Kill them, Shoz-Dijiji, kill
them—always.”

“But Geronimo does not always kill them,” said the youth. “Sometimes
Geronimo goes among them to trade, and laughs and jokes with them.”

The war chief grunted. “That,” said he, “is the wisdom of an old chief.
Go among them and trade and laugh and make jokes so that when you come
the next day to cut their throats they will not be prepared to resist
you.”

A simple, kindly soul was the old chief when compared with the diplomats
of civilization who seek by insidious and false propaganda to break down
the defenses of whole nations that they may fall easier prey to the
attacks of their enemies. Yet ever will the name of Geronimo be held up
to a horrified world as the personification of cruelty and treachery,
though during his entire life fewer men died at the hands of the six
tribes of the Apaches than fell in a single day of many an offensive
movement during a recent war between cultured nations.

This was the first time that Shoz-Dijiji had been permitted to enter
into conversation since the war party had left in pursuit of the
Mexicans and so, while far from garrulous, he made the most of it, as he
never tired of listening to the too infrequent tales of his sire, and
tonight, as they rode side by side, he felt that Geronimo was in good
humor and ripe for narrative.

“Shoz-Dijiji knows why Geronimo hates the Mexicans,” said the youth,
“and Shoz-Dijiji hates them, too—also, he hates the pindah lickoyee.
But before the Mexicans murdered the mother of Geronimo and his wife and
children, and the soldiers of the white-eyes slew the Apaches they had
invited to have food with them, and before Mangas Colorado was
treacherously murdered, did the Apaches have reason to hate the Mexicans
and the white-eyes?”

“Many years ago,” commenced Geronimo, “when Go-yat-thlay was yet a
youth, El Gobernador del Chihuahua put a price upon the scalps of
Apaches, just as the pindah lickoyee do upon the scalps of wolves. For
each Apache scalp brought to him he offered to pay thirty dollars, nor
was this for the scalps of warriors only, but included the scalps of
women and children. They treated us even then you see, not like men but
like wild beasts. But even this offer, large as it was, did not bring
him many scalps of Apaches, for few there are who will hunt scalps who
have scalps to lose and always, then as now, the name of the Apache
turned the hearts of his enemies to water.

“But there was a pindah lickoyee called Gal-lan-tin whose heart was very
bad. He was chief of a band of white-eyes so wicked that everyone feared
them. This Gal-lan-tin determined to become rich by killing Apaches and
taking their scalps to El Gobernador; but collecting the scalps of
Apaches is not either a safe or easy pastime.

“We drove Gal-lan-tin and his band from our country, but later we
learned that he was collecting much money for ‘Apache’ scalps. Then we
heard that we had been raiding the villages of the Papago, the Opatah
and the Yaqui, killing many, and that we had entered Mexico upon the war
trail and killed many Mexicans. All this time we had been in our own
country, not having made a raid into Mexico, or upon any other Indian
tribes. We were not at war. We were at peace.

“After a while Gal-lan-tin and his band were caught by Mexican troops in
the act of scalping some Mexicans they had killed, and then everyone
knew, what the Apaches had known for a long time, that it was
Gal-lan-tin who had killed the Papagos, the Opatahs, the Yaquis and the
Mexicans; and we laughed in our blankets when we thought of El
Gobernador del Chihuahua paying out good silver for the scalps of his
neighbors and his friends.

“Thus, by accident, was the truth learned in this case; but there were
many other murders committed by white-eyes and Mexicans that were blamed
upon the Apaches. That is the way of the pindah lickoyee. They are
fools. They find a dead man and they say he was killed by Apaches. The
Apaches find a dead man and they can read all about him the story of his
death. They do not have to guess. Not so the pindah lickoyee.”

“What became of Gal-lan-tin?” inquired Shoz-Dijiji.

“He escaped from the Mexican soldiers and brought his band to New
Mexico. There they bought some sheep and stole more than
nah-kee-go-nay-nan-too-ooh, making in all some twenty-five hundred head,
and with these they started for the country which the pindah lickoyee
call California.

“On the shores of a great river which separates that country from ours
the Yuma Indians fell upon them and killed them all. The Apaches were
sorry that it had not fallen to their lot to kill Gal-lan-tin and his
band, for they had many sheep.”

Shortly after daylight the Apaches camped while Geronimo, Shoz-Dijiji
and one other watched the trail behind. The Indians made no fire lest
pursuers might be attracted by the smoke. A few held the herd in a
grassy canyon while the others slept. Far to the south of them Geronimo
and the warrior dozed in the shade of a stunted cedar on a hillside
while Shoz-Dijiji watched with untiring eyes the rearward trail.

Having eaten, Shoz-Dijiji quenched his thirst from his water bottle,
drawing the liquid into his mouth through his drinking reed, a bit of
cane, attached to his scanty apparel by a length of buckskin, for no
water might touch his lips during his four novitiate excursions upon the
war trail. Treasured therefore was his sacred drinking reed without
which he must choose between death by thirst and the loss of credit for
all that he had performed upon the war trail, together with the
attendant ridicule of the tribe.

Only slightly less esteemed was another treasure dangling from a second
buckskin thong—a bit of cedar three inches in length and less than half
an inch in width. This was his scratch stick, an article that he found
constant use for, since he might not scratch himself with his fingers
during this holy period of initiation into the rites and mysteries of
the sacred war trail. These two necessary adjuncts to the successful
consummation of his ambition he had fashioned in the high places under
the eyes of Usen; he had sanctified them with prayer and the sacrificial
offering of hoddentin and he had brought them to Nakay-do-klunni, the
great izze-nantan, to be blessed, and so he set great store by them, but
he was glad that soon he would not have to carry them upon the war
trail.

With one more test of his fitness, which might come this very day or the
next, he would be ready to go before the council prepared to lay away
forever the last vestiges of his youth; and so he strained his eyes in
an effort to discover the first signs of pursuit which might afford him
the opportunity he craved.

A warrior! The young blood surged hot and savage in his veins, conjured
by that magic word. A warrior! To come and go as he wished, master of
his own destiny, answerable to none; his achievements limited only by
the measure of his own prowess. He saw himself a great chief—war chief
of all the Apaches. And in the vivid picture that imagination projected
upon his screen of dreams the same figures, the same scenes recurred
interminably; the war trail, where he fought the blue-clad soldiers of
the pindah lickoyee side by side with his best friend, Gian-nah-tah; the
council, with the sinister figure of Juh thwarted, confounded at every
turn and finally locked with Shoz-Dijiji in a duel to death; the camp,
where in his own tepee he rested after the war trail and the chase in
the arms of Ish-kay-nay.

Geronimo awoke and relieving the youth told him to sleep. The day wore
on, the three relieving one another in turn. Shoz-Dijiji had led the
three horses to a tiny spring to water them and to fill the water
bottles of his companions and his own. Geronimo was watching—back
toward the south.

Throw yourself prone beside this savage sentinel and follow his gaze
along the back trail. Your eyes just top the summit of a ridge which
hides your body from an enemy approaching from the south. A small bush,
from which you have broken a few branches that you may have an
unobstructed field of vision, masks that portion of your head that rises
above the ridge. An enemy might approach you up the southern slope of
the ridge to within a few feet of the concealing bush and not detect
your presence.

Just below, to the south, is a tiny meadow, its grasses sere and yellow;
for the rains passed months ago. Beneath a single tree at the upper end
of the meadow is a mud hole where Shoz-Dijiji, having filled the water
bottles, is letting the ponies drink. Farther on the canyon widens where
it debouches on a rolling plain that stretches on and on to hazy
mountains in the south. There are mountains to the west, too; and close
at hand, in the east, rise the more imposing Sierra Madre.

The plain shimmers in the heat that is still intense, though the sun is
low. The sage and the greasewood point long, shadowy fingers toward the
Mother of Mountains. Nowhere in all that vast expanse that your eye can
see is there a sign of life. You might be looking; upon a dead world or
a painted canvas. The slow lengthening of the shadows is imperceptible.
You see nothing that might even remotely suggest life, beyond the
solitary brave watering the ponies below you; but that is because the
asthenia of civilization has left you half blind as well as half deaf,
for where you see nothing and hear nothing Geronimo is conscious of
life, movement and sound—of rodents, reptiles and birds awaiting,
quiescent, the lessening heat of dusk.

Of these things he is merely conscious, his attention being centered
upon some tiny specks moving in the haze of the distant horizon. These
you could not see if they were pointed out, much less recognize; but
Geronimo has been watching them for some time. He has recognized them,
counted them. He half turned toward his companion who was freshening the
paint upon his face.

“The vaqueros are coming after their ponies,” he said. “There are nine
of them.”

The other crawled to his side and looked. “They will camp here tonight,”
he said. “It is the first water.”

Geronimo nodded and grunted some brief instructions. The warrior made
his way leisurely down to the water hole, which Shoz-Dijiji had now
left. Arrived at his destination he proceeded to carry out the
instructions of his chief, muddying the water hole and then befouling it
beyond use by man or beast. Disgusting? Hideous? Cruel? Do not forget
that he was on the war trail. Do not forget that he was only a savage,
primitive Apache Indian. Make allowances for him. Had he had the
cultural advantages of the gorgeous generals of civilization he might
have found the means to unloose a poison gas that would have destroyed
half the population of Sonora.

For two hours the three Be-don-ko-hes watched the approaching Mexicans.
Then Geronimo told the warrior to take three ponies and go northward
along the trail of the herd for a mile or two, awaiting there the coming
of him and Shoz-Dijiji.

It was nine o’clock before the nine vaqueros, tired, hot, dusty,
thirsty, threw themselves from their saddles in the little meadow and
sought the water hole. Presently there arose upon the still night air
lurid profanity. Above, looking down upon the starlit scene, the two
watchers grinned while the vaqueros held council. Should they press on
or should they remain here in a dry camp for the night?

Their horses were jaded. It was ten miles to the next water; but most
serious of all, they might overtake the Apaches in the dark defiles of
the mountains, and they did not want the Apaches to know that they were
following until they found a place where they might strike with greater
likelihood of success. To be discovered by the enemy now, at night,
would be to court extermination. They decided to remain where they were
until dawn, and so they left one man on guard while the others slept.
Just above them lay the war chief of all the Apaches with his son,
Shoz-Dijiji, watching their every move.

An hour passed. The tethered horses of the Mexicans, jaded, stood with
drooping heads. The camp slept, even to the single sentry. He was but a
youth—a very tired youth—who had fought manfully against sleep until
it had become torture. Then he had succumbed.

Geronimo whispered to Shoz-Dijiji and the young brave slipped silently
over the summit of the ridge and wormed his way down toward the sleeping
bivouac. With the caution of a panther moving upon its prey he crept. No
loosened stone, no complaining twig, no rustling grasses bespoke his
passing. The shadow of a floating cloud had been as audible. Above him,
his Springfield cocked and ready, Geronimo covered the youth’s advance,
but there was no need.

Shoz-Dijiji went quietly to the horses, calming them with soothing,
whispered words. Quickly he cut both ends of the picket line to which
they were tethered, and grasping one loose end in his hand moved slowly
up the canyon, the horses following him. Half a mile from the camp
Geronimo joined him. Behind them the vaqueros slept on undisturbed,
their lives preserved by the grim humor of the Apache war chief.

Geronimo was pleased. He derived immense satisfaction by picturing the
astonishment and chagrin of the Mexicans when they awoke in the morning
and found themselves afoot many weary, waterless miles from the nearest
rancho. He visualized their surprise when they realized that Apaches had
been in their camp while they slept; and he guessed that they would not
loiter on the trail toward the south, for he justly appraised, and
gloried in, the fear that that name aroused in the hearts of his
enemies.

Presently Geronimo voiced the call of the owl and faintly from afar he
heard it answered ahead of them, and knew that their companion was
awaiting there with their ponies.

At noon the next day they overtook their fellows and turned the newly
captured stock in with the balance of the herd. With great gusto they
recounted their exploit. That is, Geronimo and the warrior did. The ban
of silence kept Shoz-Dijiji’s tongue still in his head, but it did not
prevent him strutting just ever so little.




                               CHAPTER IX
                                  LOVE


THERE was rejoicing in the camp of the Be-don-ko-he when the war party
returned with its spoils. Victorio and Juh were there with a hunting
party of Chi-hen-ne and Ned-ni and they joined in the jubilation, the
feasting and the drinking and in the council of the warriors that was
held in the open, the braves sitting in a circle about a small fire
while Geronimo, eloquent with tizwin, narrated the exploits of his
party, his style fettered by no embarrassing restraint of modesty.

To Shoz-Dijiji he gave full credit for the stealing of the horses of the
Mexicans, pointing out that while no fight ensued this exploit was fully
as much to the youth’s credit as any engagement with arms, since it
required craft, cunning and bravery of a high order. He expatiated upon
Shoz-Dijiji’s strength and courage in his duel with the mounted vaquero,
and in his peroration called upon the council to vote Shoz-Dijiji’s
admission to the warrior class.

When he had sat down others arose and spoke of the valor of the
candidate, of his prowess upon the war trail, his skill and tirelessness
in the chase, of his exemplary conduct during his novitiate. Victorio
spoke for him and many another noted warrior, and then Juh arose,
sullen, scowling.

“Chiefs and warriors of the Shis-Inday,” he said, “a warrior is known
not alone by the things that he does but by those that he fails to do.
The names of Delgadito, Mangas Colorado, Cochise, Victorio, Geronimo and
Juh strike terror to the hearts of their foes.

“The enemy is filled with fear and ready to retreat at the mention of
these names. Why? Because all these warriors made death or capture so
horrible that the hearts of all their enemies turn to water before a
weapon is raised in combat. Upon this fact more than upon their bravery
and skill rests their great value to the Shis-Inday.

“One who is afraid to torture is a coward and unfitted to be a warrior.
Such is Shoz-Dijiji. His heart is as soft as a woman’s breast. To most
of us Shoz-Dijiji is known best by his continued refusal to torture.
Even as a child he joined not with the other children in torturing the
birds and animals which they snared, and never once upon the war trail
has he inflicted pain upon a wounded or prisoner enemy. I, Juh, will not
vote to make Shoz-Dijiji a warrior.”

After he had resumed his seat there was silence around the council fire
for several minutes. Then Geronimo arose. In his heart was murder, but
in his cruel features, schooled to obey his will, there was no hint of
it.

“Juh, Chief of the Ned-ni, knows that a single voice raised against
Shoz-Dijiji now will prevent him from being admitted to the warrior
class until he has undergone another trial upon the war trail. Geronimo
knows that the words of Juh are not prompted by loyalty to the
Shis-Inday as much as they are by hatred of Shoz-Dijiji. This is not the
act of a brave warrior or a great chief. Such things bring strife among
the Shis-Inday. Does Juh wish to change his words before it is too
late?”

The chief of the Ned-ni sprang to his feet. “Juh has spoken,” he cried.
“Juh does not change his words. Let Shoz-Dijiji change his ways to the
ways of a warrior and Juh will, perhaps, speak differently at another
council.”

“The laws of the Shis-Inday were made by Usen,” said Geronimo, “and they
may not be lightly changed. The words have been spoken and not recalled.
Shoz-Dijiji must go again upon the war trail and prove himself once
again fit to become a warrior. I, Geronimo, war chief of the Apaches say
these words.” He sat down.

However keen the disappointment of Shoz-Dijiji when he was told of the
action of the council, he received the information with the stolid
indifference of an Indian, though within his breast the fires of his
hatred for Juh burned with renewed fury. Ish-kay-nay, understanding,
spoke words of praise and comfort, and Gian-nah-tah applied vile,
obscene Apache epithets to the great chief Juh—when he was sure that no
Ned-ni might overhear him.

Ish-kay-nay had a suggestion to make. “Upon the next raid, Shoz-Dijiji,”
she advised, “do not kill. Torture the living, mutilate the dead. Show
them that your heart is strong.”

“Never!” exclaimed Shoz-Dijiji. “If for no other reason, because Juh
wishes me to, I will not do it.”

“Why do you not torture?” asked Ish-kay-nay. “You are brave—everyone
knows that—so it cannot be that you are afraid.”

“I see no sense in it,” replied the young brave. “It gives me no
pleasure.” He paused. “Ish-kay-nay, I cannot explain why it is and I
have never told any one before, but when I see warriors torturing the
helpless wounded and the defenseless prisoner, mutilating dead men who
have fought bravely, something comes into my heart which is not pride of
my people. I am ashamed, Ish-kay-nay, of even my own father, Geronimo.

“I do not know why. I only know that I speak true words without
understanding them. I know that I am no coward; but I should not be so
sure of that had I plunged a red-hot king bolt into a screaming white
woman, as I have seen Juh do, and laughed at her agonies of death.”

“If you feel pity for the enemy you are weak,” said Ish-kay-nay,
sternly.

“I do not feel pity,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “I care not how much they
suffer. I only know that it gives me no pleasure to watch them and that
I do not think that it shows bravery to raise a weapon against any
creature which cannot inflict harm upon you in return, except in the
chase, where any man may kill for food.”

“Perhaps Shoz-Dijiji is right,” said Ish-kay-nay. “I had never thought
of it in this way before.”

“I know I am right, and I shall not torture if I never become a
warrior!”

But he had not a great while to wait before his chance came. Living, as
the Apache did, in constant danger of attack by the soldiers of two
civilized powers as well as by raiding parties of hostile Indian tribes,
he found it expedient, in the interest of survival, to maintain
constant, unflagging watchfulness. To this end Geronimo, however safely
he might consider his village hidden, kept scouts almost constantly in
the field.

To this duty, one in which he delighted, Shoz-Dijiji was often detailed.
It sent him alone into the solitudes that he loved, to play in stern
reality the games of his childhood. It kept him always hard and fit for
the war trail—the ultimate hope and ambition of the warrior. It
practiced him continually in the wood and plain craft in which he
already excelled.

Sometimes, astride Nejeunee, he covered prodigious distances in a day,
but oftener, on foot, he also covered prodigious distances. Forty,
fifty, at times a hundred miles of barren land would unroll beneath his
steady jog in a single day. His great lungs pushed out his giant chest.
The muscles of his mighty legs might, it almost seemed, turn a bullet,
so hard were they. He was a man now, by the standards of the Apache,
except for the fact that he had not yet been admitted to the warrior
class.

Among the Be-don-ko-he he was looked upon with respect and admiration,
for they knew that it was only the hatred of Juh that prevented him from
being a warrior. Upon the war trail and in the chase he had proved
himself all that a warrior should be and he carried himself with the
restraint and dignity of a chief. Ish-kay-nay was very proud of him, for
it was no secret in the tribe that when Shoz-Dijiji became a warrior his
pony would be tied before her tepee, nor was there one who believed that
she would wait the full four days before leading it to water and feeding
it.

Afoot, fifty miles from camp, Shoz-Dijiji was scouting. A few miles
ahead in the hills there was water and toward this he was making his way
one mid-afternoon. A blistering sun poured down upon him, the
superheated earth and rocks of the trail gave it back in searing
intensity. The country he had crossed had been entirely waterless, and
so it was that Shoz-Dijiji looked forward to the little spring hidden in
these seemingly arid hills, a spring known only to his people, sacred to
the Apaches.

Suddenly there was wafted to the Indian’s nostrils the faintest
suggestion of an acrid odor and simultaneously he vanished from the
landscape, so quickly did he react to this tenuous hint of danger. A
greasewood hid him from the direction down which a barely moving current
of air had wafted this certain indication of the presence of man. From
straight ahead it came, from the direction in which he was going. Where
there was smoke there was man and man would not be making a fire in this
vicinity elsewhere than beside the water where Shoz-Dijiji was planning
to quench his thirst.

From beneath the greasewood his keen eyes looked out toward the low hill
behind which lay the water, and now he saw thin smoke arising. So little
was the smoke that Shoz-Dijiji almost felt that it had been made by
Indians, yet, too, he knew that near the water there was little
wherewith to make a fire, and so, perchance, the pindah lickoyee, who
ordinarily make great fires, foolishly, had been forced to make a small
fire from want of fuel. Therefore he could not be sure whether Indians
or whites were concealed behind that little hill. If they were the
former, and Apaches, well and good, but if they were not, then they were
enemies, for every man’s hand is against the Apache.

Shoz-Dijiji, with the patience that is only an Indian’s, lay silent,
motionless for hours. As he lay he broke branches from the greasewood,
which chanced to be an unusually large bush, until at last he had
gathered enough to form quite a respectable screen. Then, having seen or
heard no further signs of life from beyond the hill, he crawled forward
a few inches, keeping the screen before him. Again he lay motionless for
a while, watching, before he advanced a short distance.

This he kept up for a full hour, during which he had covered the
distance to the foot of the hill and up its slope almost to the summit.
Now he could hear voices, and they told him that he was approaching the
camp of white men—three of them.

Shoz-Dijiji felt the heat of just anger surge through him. What right
had these aliens at the water hole of the Shis-Inday? For a thousand
thousand years had this spring been hidden away from the sight of man,
just where Usen had placed it for the use of the six tribes. That three
white-eyed men should camp beside it, quench their thirst, cook their
food, sleep and move on, aroused, of itself, no resentment in the heart
of Shoz-Dijiji; it was the foregone conclusion of the aftermath that
caused his apprehension and his determination to prevent the natural
sequences of this event.

He and his people had seen the pindah lickoyee “discover” their hidden
springs and water holes many times before in the past. In ones or twos
or threes the white-eyed men had stumbled upon these gifts of Usen to
his people in the arid places, and presently a trail was beaten to them
and many of the white-eyed ones came, and the birds and the game were
frightened away. Often a fence was built around the water and a white
man with bushy whiskers, and dirt in his ears, guarded it, a rifle in
one hand, a bottle of whiskey in the other, making other white men pay
for the water, keeping the Indians away from it entirely.

Warriors of the Be-don-ko-he, fathers of his playmates, had been shot by
such men when they had sought to quench their thirst at springs from
which they had drunk since childhood, and that their fathers had used
before them beyond the memory of man. Such were the thoughts that filled
the heart of Shoz-Dijiji as he crept toward the summit of the hill that
hid the usurpers from his view.

At last his eyes looked down upon the scene beyond, burning pits of hate
in which there lived no slightest spark of aught but loathing and
contempt. The Comanche, the Navajo, the bear, the snake might awaken
admiration in the breast of the Apache, but the white man, never!

He saw three bearded men sprawled upon the ground. One of them was
frying bacon above a small fire. Two burros, thin, dejected, stood with
drooping heads. A third was stretched upon the ground, exhausted. Their
packs lay in disorder all about. The men appeared to be weak.
Shoz-Dijiji read their story at a glance.

Lost in this waterless wasteland, they had found the spring by accident
just in time to save themselves from death. He noted their sunken cheeks
and eyes; he saw their feeble movements. But there was no answering pity
in his heart. In his mind, however, there arose vividly the recollection
of a white soldier wantonly hurling him to the ground, and of his words,
the meaning of which he had learned at San Carlos: “What the hell are
you doing here, you dirty Siwash?” A shudder ran through the frame of
Shoz-Dijiji then, as it always did at recollection of the humiliation of
that moment at Hot Springs.

He noted carefully every detail of the scene below him. He saw that the
men, with scarce the strength to carry their own weight, had transferred
everything to the packs of the burros, even including their rifles and
revolvers, and these lay now at a little distance from them, entangled
in the piles of carelessly down-thrown tools, bedding and provisions
that go to make up the outfits of prospectors.

Shoz-Dijiji withdrew three arrows from his quiver and placed them
between his fingers, he grasped his bow and arose to his full height.
Silently, majestically he strode down toward the white men. He was
almost upon them before he who was watching the bacon discovered him.
The others had been lying with closed eyes. The white man gave a cry of
alarm, that cry that had sent the chill of fear along countless white
spines for three hundred years: “Apaches!” and staggered weakly in an
effort to reach his rifle.

“What the hell are you doing here, you dirty white-eyes?” demanded
Shoz-Dijiji in English; but he did not wait for a reply—the soldier who
had thrown him to the ground at Hot Springs had not and he had learned
his technique from the white soldier. Instead, his bow string twanged
and an iron-shod arrow pierced the heart of the prospector. The two
remaining whites sprang to defend themselves, one seizing a hand axe,
the other the hot frying pan, the only weapons within their reach. With
swift rapidity two more arrows leaped from the mesquite bow.

With the hand axe Shoz-Dijiji made assurance of death doubly sure, then
he scalped the three, selected from their persons and their packs
everything that could prove of value to an Apache, packed the loot upon
the two stronger burros, quenched his thirst and, leading the animals,
moved on into the hills for about two miles. Here he cached in a small
cave everything but a single rifle, a six-shooter and a belt of
ammunition, which he appropriated to his own immediate use, turned the
burros loose and started back toward the camp of his people, fifty miles
away.

Travelling in the lesser heat of the night, taking short cuts across
open valleys that he must avoid in the light of day, Shoz-Dijiji made
rapid progress, arriving in camp about two o’clock the following
morning, some eight hours after he had left his loot cached in the
mountains.

When he awoke, well after midday, he exhibited his newly acquired arms,
boasted of his exploit, and showed the three bloody scalps as proof of
his prowess.

“I, myself, Shoz-Dijiji,” he said, “crept alone upon the camp of the
pindah lickoyee. There were three of them, but Shoz-Dijiji knows not the
word fear. In the broad light of chigo-na-ay he walked down into the
camp of the white-eyes and slew them. He took much loot and hid it in a
cave in the mountains. Here are the scalp locks of the white-eyed men.
Here are the weapons of one of them.”

Geronimo grunted approvingly. Victorio fingered the rifle of the dead
prospector enviously. Juh was not there. With his Ned-ni he had returned
to his own country. To Shoz-Dijiji came an inspiration.

“There are two more rifles in the cave in the mountains,” he said; “one
for Geronimo and one for Victorio, and there are presents for many
braves and their women. If Geronimo speaks the words Shoz-Dijiji will
return with ponies and fetch these things for his friends.”

Geronimo nodded. “Go,” he said, “and take Gian-nah-tah with you. He can
help.” So that very night Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah set out upon
their ponies with two led animals upon which to pack the loot; and
Geronimo said to Victorio: “Shoz-Dijiji took the war trail and slew
three of the enemies of his people. If he returns with loot he has
proved that he is fit to be a warrior. We will hold a council and vote
again.”

“Yes,” agreed Victorio, “if he returns with many presents we will make
him a warrior. Juh is not here.”

Three days later Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah returned. The former
turned over all the loot, except one rifle, a revolver and ammunition
for himself, to Geronimo to distribute, announcing that he was going
that very night to the high places to pray to Usen, to make big medicine
and to prepare himself to become a warrior. His words and manner carried
a definite inference that he fully expected to be admitted to the
council of warriors before he returned. Geronimo laid his hand upon the
shoulder of his son and there were both pride and affection in the
gesture.

“When Shoz-Dijiji returns from the high places,” he said, “he will be a
warrior, or there will be a new chief of the Be-don-ko-he, for Geronimo
will be dead.”

But Geronimo did not die, and when Shoz-Dijiji returned after two days
of prayer he found himself a warrior. The first great ambition of his
life was achieved and now the road lay clear to any heights to which he
might aspire. He was his own master, free to go and come as inclination
prompted.

He could take a squaw, or as many of them as he could afford. Though he
had but three ponies, which were scarcely enough to compensate any fond
father for the loss of the least attractive of daughters, he was in no
way down-hearted. The girl of his choice would unquestionably command
several times three ponies, but Shoz-Dijiji knew that he would win her
and he was happy. He had no thought in his heart for any other mate.
Ish-kay-nay would never have a rival in the affections of Shoz-Dijiji.

Unquestionably he would take other squaws as the years passed, thus
lightening the domestic burdens of Ish-kay-nay, since nothing less could
be expected of an important and prosperous warrior who had a name and
dignity to uphold. Ish-kay-nay would expect at least this much
consideration, and she would be ashamed if he proved too poor a provider
or too penurious a mate to support an establishment commensurate with
the social standing of her family and his; but that would come later—at
first they would be alone.

Shoz-Dijiji had not seen Ish-kay-nay alone for a long time, but tonight
he found her and together they wandered into the forest and sat upon the
bole of a fallen tree. He held one of her hands in his and putting an
arm about her slim, young shoulders he drew her to him.

“My father is very angry,” confided Ish-kay-nay.

“Why?” asked Shoz-Dijiji.

“Because I did not feed and water the pony of Juh, chief of the Ned-ni.”

“You do not love Juh,” stated Shoz-Dijiji emphatically.

“I love only Shoz-Dijiji,” whispered the girl, snuggling closer to the
bronze chest. “But the father of Ish-kay-nay knowing that Juh is a
powerful chief thinks that it would be best for him if his daughter
belonged to Juh.

“He speaks often to me about it and he grows angry when I refuse. Juh
came last time to our village to make talk to my father of this matter.
My father talked to me, but still I would not listen. When he told him,
Juh was very angry and said that he knew who I was waiting for, but that
I would wait forever as he would see that Shoz-Dijiji never became a
warrior.

“Of course such talk is foolish talk and my father knew it and that
sooner or later you must become a warrior, for he is not blind to the
fact that you are already mighty upon the war trail and a great hunter;
but he sought to find another way to discourage Ish-kay-nay. He said
that he would demand so many ponies from you that you would be an old
man before you could gather them, and that unless I wanted a warrior
before it was too late I had better let him send for Juh again.”

“I will get the ponies,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

“If you cannot, I will run away with you,” said Ish-kay-nay.

Shoz-Dijiji shook his head. “I do not have to run away with my squaw,”
he said proudly. “I will take her before all men and give her father as
many ponies as he demands.”

“If it takes a long time Ish-kay-nay will wait,” announced the girl,
simply. Then, as though moved by a disturbing reflection, “But what if
Ish-kay-nay waits so long that she is old and wrinkled? Then Shoz-Dijiji
will not want her.”

The young brave laughed and pressed her closer. “Shoz-Dijiji will always
want Ish-kay-nay,” he insisted, “even though she be as wrinkled and old
as Tze-go-juni, the medicine woman of the Cho-kon-en; but Ish-kay-nay
will not have to wait so long as that, for tomorrow morning she will
find Nejeunee tied before her tepee.

“Poor Nejeunee! Always has he been fed and watered promptly when he was
not running free upon the range. He will be sad when he sees chigo-na-ay
rise and set four times while he stands thirsting for water and
hungering for good grama grass.” He bent and looked quizzically into the
girl’s face, half revealed by the rays of klego-na-ay filtering softly
silver through the spreading branches of the pines.

Ish-kay-nay looked up and smiled. “Nejeunee shall be fed and watered at
dawn,” she told him.

“No,” he said, “Ish-kay-nay must wait at least two days, lest the girls
and the women make fun of her and think her immodest, or too anxious to
have a warrior.”

The girl threw her head up haughtily. “No one will dare say that of
Ish-kay-nay,” she cried fiercely. “Nor will anyone think it. Does not
every one know that I can have Juh, or any of a dozen of the bravest
warriors of the Be-don-ko-he, Cho-kon-en, the Ned-ni or the Chi-hen-ne?
Is it any secret that Shoz-Dijiji loves me, or that I love Shoz-Dijiji?
Such foolishness is for fools.”

“Ish-kay-nay will be the mother of war chiefs,” said Shoz-Dijiji
proudly.

“And Shoz-Dijiji will be their father,” replied the girl.




                               CHAPTER X
                            WICHITA BILLINGS


WHEN morning dawned it did not find Nejeunee tied before the tepee of
Ish-kay-nay, for the pinto stallion was far away upon the war trail with
his savage master. Word had come to Geronimo, even while Shoz-Dijiji and
Ish-kay-nay were making love in the woods, that troops from San Carlos
were looking for him, the bodies of the three prospectors having been
discovered by two Navajo scouts in the employ of the government.

Immediately the peaceful camp of the Be-don-ko-he became the scene of
hurried preparation for flight and for the war trail. A scouting party
of a dozen braves was dispatched in the direction from which the troops
might be expected, to watch and report their movements; if necessary, to
hold them in check while the main body of the Be-don-ko-he, with their
women, their children, their pony herd and their camp equipment made
good their escape across the line into Mexico.

Hurriedly were war bands adjusted, grim faces streaked with pigment,
weapons looked to, ponies caught and bridled. For the first time as a
warrior Shoz-Dijiji prepared for the war trail. Across his swart face,
from ear to ear, he painted a broad band of vermilion, laying on the
pigment boldly with the index finger of his right hand, stooping low
toward the light of a little fire, his features reflected in a small
round mirror held in his left hand. Above and below the vermilion band
he laid a coat of blue, the base of which was a ground micaceous stone.
A single necklace adorned his throat and two small silver rings were in
his ears.

Attached to his person and concealed from view was his tzi-daltai,
wrapped in a three-inch square of buckskin upon which were painted
crooked lines of red and yellow, depicting the red snake and the yellow.
This phylactery was in itself big medicine and very sacred; it added to
the potency of his tzi-daltai, rendering that amulet all-powerful. In
addition to the tzi-daltai the phylactery contained a bit of sacred
turquoise, and a tiny cross of lightning-riven pine, which Shoz-Dijiji
called intchi-dijin, the black wind. Upon these things no alien eye
might look without destroying their efficacy. For this reason the little
package was securely hidden in the folds of his loin cloth.

Upon his legs Shoz-Dijiji drew his long war moccasins with their rawhide
soles and protecting toe armor, their tops, three feet long, he turned
down from just below the knee, thus still further protecting the lower
leg from the sharp spines of the cactus. Slender thongs of buckskin,
leading from the moccasin tops to the belt of his loin cloth, kept the
former from falling down around his ankles. A pair of cotton drawers
encased his legs and a quiet-hued print shirt covered his torso, its
skirts falling outside the drawers. There was a cartridge belt around
his waist and a six-shooter and a butcher knife at his hips, but he also
carried his beloved bow and arrows as well as the rifle he had taken
from the white prospector.

Shoz-Dijiji preferred the nakedness of a single loin cloth, for thus it
had been his wont to go in all weathers since he wore anything at all,
but custom seemed to demand these other things of full fledged warriors,
though all were accustomed to discard them upon the eve of battle, and
as he had just attained the status of the warrior class he felt it
incumbent upon him to uphold its traditions even to the point of making
himself supremely uncomfortable in hated shirt and drawers. However, the
party had been upon the trail but a short time before he discovered that
the drawers wrinkled and chafed him and they were discarded with no
regrets; and later in the day he removed his shirt and gave it to
Gian-nah-tah.

“It makes me look like a pindah lickoyee,” he confided to his friend.
“In it I do not feel free. I shall not wear it.”

His bronzed hide, naked to the elements almost from birth, little felt
the hot rays of the sun, thus eliminating the only practical reason why
an Apache should wear a shirt at all. Thus Shoz-Dijiji rode almost
naked—except for moccasins, G-string and head-bandanna he was quite
naked. Beneath his bandanna he wore the war band about his brow
confining his black hair, slicked smooth with tallow. It was not long
after the shirt went that he removed the bandanna, breathing a sigh of
relief, for now Shoz-Dijiji was himself again.

Before dawn the party had separated, the braves, in pairs, moving at
right angles to their original line of march, and in both directions,
forming at last a thin line of scouts that surveyed from hidden vantage
spots a front of sixty miles extending east and west across the lines
the troops would naturally follow as they marched down from San Carlos.

Signals had been arranged and the rendezvous designated by the sub-chief
in command. The braves were to proceed as quickly as possible to certain
advantageous positions indicated by the sub-chief. There they were to
remain until they sighted troops, or received the signal that other
scouts had sighted them. They were to stay concealed and, if possible,
avoid battle.

Shoz-Dijiji was accompanied by Gian-nah-tah, and together they rode
through the night toward their appointed station, which they reached
shortly after dawn, making a slight detour to avoid a ranch house, and
coming at last to the rocky rim of a canyon through which led a
well-travelled road along which it was a foregone conclusion that troops
would pass if they followed a certain route to the border.

In lieu of a saddle Shoz-Dijiji rode astride a well-worn gray blanket.
This he removed from Nejeunee’s back after they had hidden the two
ponies in a narrow ravine a mile from the road. Coming to the rim of the
canyon Shoz-Dijiji lay flat upon his belly, his head at the very edge of
the summit of the precipitous wall of the canyon. Quickly Gian-nah-tah
draped the gray blanket about the black poll of his friend, sprinkled
dirt about its edges where they met the ground, leaving only a small
opening through which the keen eyes of the Black Bear might take in the
whole of the canyon below.

From the road the most suspicious might have looked carefully and seen
only another gray boulder upon the canyon’s rim. Gian-nah-tah, entirely
concealed from the sight of anyone passing through the canyon, watched
northward along the flank, where a careful and experienced Indian
fighter would send Indian scouts before permitting his command to enter
the narrow canyon, so eminently suited to sudden and disastrous ambush.
He also watched to east and west for the signal that would announce the
discovery of the enemy by another scout.

Patience is a quality of mind and will but vaguely sensed by civilized
races. The higher types of savages have it developed to a degree of
outstanding virtue, but perhaps of all peoples the North American
Indians have achieved it most closely to perfection, and of these it
remained for the Apaches to raise it to the pinnacle of highest
specialization. With Shoz-Dijiji as with his fellows it was a fine art
in which he took just pride.

Thus it was that for hours he could lie perfectly motionless, watching
the silent, deserted, dusty road below. No sound escaped his ears, no
odor, his nostrils; his eyes saw everything within the range of their
vision. No lizard moved, no insect crawled along its way that
Shoz-Dijiji did not see and note. A rattlesnake crossed the road and
disappeared among the rocks upon the other side; a horned toad, basking
in the sun, awaiting unwary flies, attracted his attention by its
breathing—so quiet and still were the surroundings that even the gentle
rising and falling of its warty hide attracted the quick eyes of the
Apache; a darting swift was as sure of detection as would an Indian
elephant have been.

And as he lay there his mind was occupied with many thoughts, mostly
somber, for the mind of the Apache inclines in that direction. This
background, however, was often shot with lights of a happier vein—with
recollections of Ish-kay-nay and anticipations. He considered,
pridefully, the traditions of his people, the glory of their past, the
exploits of their greatest warriors; he pondered the wrongs that had
been inflicted upon them by their enemies.

He recalled the tales of the murders committed upon them by Mexicans and
whites—the differentiation of color is strictly and solely Apachean—he
reviewed the numerous and increasing thefts of their ancestral lands.
These thoughts awakened within him no self-pity as they might have in an
Anglo-Saxon, so thoroughly had training and environment succeeded in
almost erasing hereditary inclinations; instead they aroused hatred and
a desire for vengeance.

His thoughts, gloomy or roseate, were suddenly interrupted by a faint
sound that came down out of the north. It grew in intensity, so that
Shoz-Dijiji knew that whatever caused it was approaching, and he knew
what was causing it, the feet of horses moving at a walk. Listening, he
determined that they were too few to announce the approach of a body of
troops. Perhaps a few scouts rode in advance. He waited, watching the
northern end of the canyon.

Presently three bearded men rode into view. They were not soldiers. They
were not cowboys. Shoz-Dijiji identified them as of that class of fools
who scratched around in arid hills for the yellow iron, pesh-litzogue.
He gazed down upon them with contempt. His fingers, resting upon his
rifle, twitched. What a wonderful target they presented! But he was
scouting and must forego this Usen-given opportunity. Of course the
sub-chief had only mentioned specifically the soldiers of the
white-eyes, when he had warned them against engaging the enemy.
Technically Shoz-Dijiji would be committing no disobedience were he to
rid the world of these three quite useless creatures; but he knew that
he had been sent here to watch for soldiers and for nothing else, so he
curbed his desire.

The floor of the canyon was dotted with boulders, large and small, among
which the road wound. Some of the boulders were larger than a large
tepee, offering splendid cover. Behind them more than one man had fought
and died, making his last stand.

Shoz-Dijiji was suddenly 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 boulder, the third behind
another on the opposite side of the road. The Apache waited, watching.
The loping horse drew nearer. He entered the lower end of the canyon and
presently came within the range of Shoz-Dijiji’s vision. Its rider was a
girl—a white girl.

Even from where he lay he saw that she was very good to look at. As she
came abreast of the three whites they rode directly into the road 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, a cold, blue Colt; 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
for the men mounted.

He could hear the words that were spoken below and he understood them.
He heard the girl call one of the men by name, demanding that they
release her. He felt the contempt in her tone and a like sentiment for
them in his own breast aroused within him, unconsciously, a sense of
comradeship with the girl.

“Your old man kicked me out,” growled the man she had addressed. “You
told him to. I wasn’t good enough for you, eh? You’ll find I am. You’re
goin’ with me, but you ain’t a-goin’ as Mrs. Cheetim—you’re goin’ as
Dirty Cheetim’s woman. Sabe?”

The girl seemed very cool. Shoz-Dijiji could not but admire her. The
ethics of the proceedings did not interest him; but suddenly he became
aware of the fact that his interest was keenly aroused and that his
inclinations were strongly upon the side of the girl. He did not know
why. He did not attempt to analyze his feelings. He only knew that it
pleased him to interfere.

He heard the girl’s reply. Her voice was steady, level, low. It had a
quality that touched hidden chords within the breast of the Apache,
arousing pleasant reactions.

“You are a fool, Cheetim,” she said. “You know my old man. He will kill
you if he has to follow you to Hell to get you, and you know it.”

“They’ll be two of us in Hell then,” replied Cheetim. “Come on—git back
on that cayuse.” He jerked her roughly.

The barrel of a rifle slid quietly from beneath the edge of a gray
boulder at the top of the canyon’s wall; there was a loud report that
rebounded thunderously from wall to wall. Cheetim dropped in his tracks.

“Apaches!” screamed one of the remaining men and scrambled into his
saddle, closely followed by his companion. The girl’s horse wheeled and
ran toward the south. Another shot and one of the fleeing men toppled
from his saddle. The girl looked up to see a painted, all but naked
warrior leaping down the steep canyon side toward her. She reached for
her Colt, forgetting that it was gone. Then he was beside her. She stood
there bravely, facing him.

“Nejeunee,” announced Shoz-Dijiji, which means friend or friendly; but
the girl did not understand. He held out his hand; this she understood.
She took it, smiling.

“You sabe English?” she asked.

“No savvy,” lied Shoz-Dijiji. He picked up the Colt, where it lay beside
the dead Cheetim, and handed it to her.

“What your name?” demanded the girl.

“No savvy,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

She pointed a finger at her own breast. “Me, Wichita Billings,” she
announced, and then she pointed the finger at him, questioningly.

“Huh!” exclaimed the Apache. “Shoz-Dijiji,” and he pointed at his own
deep chest.

Without a word he turned and left her, walking south toward the end of
the canyon. The girl followed because in that direction lay the ranch of
her father. When she came in sight of the Apache again he had already
caught her horse and was leading it toward her. He handed her the bridle
rein, pointed toward the ranch and started at a swinging trot up the
side of the canyon. Being a wise girl and having lived in Indian country
since she was born, Wichita Billings put spurs to her horse and
disappeared around a bend in the canyon toward the squat, fortified
ranch house that was her home.

Why the Apache had befriended her she could not guess; but for that
matter Shoz-Dijiji could not guess either why he had acted as he had. He
knew what Geronimo or Juh would have done. He wondered why he had not
done likewise.

Halfway between the ranch and the canyon Wichita Billings met her father
and two of his ranch hands. Faintly they had heard the shots from the
direction of the canyon and knowing that the girl had ridden in that
direction they had started out to investigate. Briefly she told them
what had transpired and Billings was frankly puzzled.

“Must have been a reservation Indian on pass,” he decided. “Maybe some
buck we give grub to some time.”

Wichita shook her head. “I never seen him before,” she said, “and, Dad,
that siwash wasn’t on no pass, he was on the warpath—paint, fixin’s an’
all. He didn’t have nothin’ on but a G-string an’ moccasins, an’ he was
totin’ a young arsenal.”

“Ol’ Geronimo’s been out quite some time,” said one of the hands; “most
likely it was one of his Cheeracows. Wisht I’d a-been there.”

“What would _you_ a-done?” inquired the girl, contemptuously.

“They’d a-been one more good Injun,” boasted the man.

“Say, if you’d been there they couldn’t no one of seen your coat-tails
for the dust, Hank,” laughed the girl as she gathered her horse and
reined toward the ranch again. “Besides I think that buck was one pretty
good Indian, alive; the way he took my part against Cheetim.”

“They ain’t only one kind of a good Injun,” grumbled Hank, “an’ that’s a
dead one.”

From behind a distant boulder Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah watched the
four as they rode toward the ranch. “Why did you let the woman go?”
asked Gian-nah-tah.

“Gian-nah-tah,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “this I may say to you because we are
for a long time friends and because Gian-nah-tah knows that the heart of
Shoz-Dijiji is brave: Shoz-Dijiji will never take the war trail against
women and children. That is for weaklings and women—not for a great
warrior.”

Gian-nah-tah shook his head, for he did not understand; nor, for that
matter, did Shoz-Dijiji, though each of them pondered the matter
carefully for a long time after they had returned to their respective
posts.

Gian-nah-tah, following the instructions of Shoz-Dijiji, watched now
carefully toward the ranch as well as for smoke signals from the east or
west, or for flankers sneaking down through the hills from the north;
and at last, far away in the west, a distant smoke rewarded his
watching. Faintly at first it arose, a thin gray column against the
azure sky, gained in volume, persisted steadily.

Gian-nah-tah crept to Shoz-Dijiji’s side, touched him and pointed. The
young warrior saw the distant shaft rising unwaveringly through the
still, midday air, calling the scattered bands to the rendezvous,
sending its message over an area as great as the whole state of West
Virginia, to be received with as varied emotions as there were eyes to
see it.

It told the savage vedettes where the soldiers of the pindah lickoyee
were marching toward the border and where to gather to harass and delay
them; it brought an oath to the lips of a grizzled man in dusty blue who
rode at the head of a weary, dust-choked column, for it told him that
the wily enemy had sighted him and that the clans were gathering to
oppose him upon some well-selected field of their own choosing. To the
far scattered cowman and miner it cried: “The hostiles are on the
warpath!” and set them to barricading ranch house and cabin, oiling
breech blocks and counting ammunition; it sent mothers to their knees in
prayer, with crying children huddled about them.

It filled the heart of Shoz-Dijiji with joyous song, for it told him
that he was soon to fight his first fight as a warrior against the hated
warriors of the pindah lickoyee. It urged the main body of the fleeing
Be-don-ko-he onward toward the border, torturing, burning, ravishing,
killing as it went. For an hour the smoke column hung in the sky, a
beacon of the hate, the cruelties, the treacheries, the wrongs that man
inflicts on man.

Silently, from east and west, the Be-don-ko-he scouts assembled far to
the south of the long dead signal fire; and up from the south came
Geronimo the next day with twelve warriors to reinforce them. Slowly
they dropped back, leaving sentinels upon their rear and flanks,
sentinels who retreated just ahead of the advancing enemy, whose every
move was always under observation by a foe he never saw.

The trail narrowed where it entered low, rocky, barren hills. “Hold them
here,” said Geronimo to a sub-chief, and left four warriors with him,
while he retreated another mile into the hills and disposed his men for
more determined resistance.

“Hell!” murmured a grizzled man in blue denim overalls down the seams of
which the troop tailor had sewn broad yellow stripes. “I don’t believe
there’s an Apache within forty miles of us, outside our own scouts.”

A lean, parched sergeant, riding at his side, shook his head. “You can’t
most always sometimes tell, sir,” he volunteered.

From the base of the hills ahead came the crack of a rifle, putting a
period to that paragraph. The officer grinned. To the right of the trail
was a shallow gully. Into this he led his troop, still in column of
fours.

“Prepare to dismount. Dismount! Number twos hold horses! Fall ’em in,
sergeant!” He gave commands quietly, coolly. The men obeyed with
alacrity. The point, three men riding in advance of the troop, having
uncovered the enemy raced back to the shelter of the gully, the bullets
of the hostiles pinging about their heads. Far to the rear the pack
train and two companies of infantry plodded through the dust.

Behind a rock that barely covered his prone figure from the eyes of the
enemy, lay Shoz-Dijiji. Similarly sheltered, four other painted savages
fired after the retreating point. One of them was a wrinkled old
sub-chief, a past-master of the art of Apache warfare. The five watched
the dismounted cavalrymen deploy into the open, dropping behind bushes
and boulders as they wormed their way forward.

There was a burst of fire from the thin line that made the Apaches duck
behind their shelter; when they looked again it was to see that the
soldiers had advanced, fifty yards, perhaps, and again sought cover. The
Indians fired rapidly to give the impression of a larger force than
actually constituted this insignificant rear guard. The soldiers
peppered away at the puffs of smoke that signalized the positions of the
foe.

The sub-chief called across to Shoz-Dijiji and the two wormed themselves
back, turned to the left and sought new positions, holding their fire,
waiting for the moment the old warrior knew would come. Again the
soldiers fired rapidly, half of them concentrating their fire upon the
rocks from behind which the puffs of smoke had arisen while the other
half arose, and, bent half double, raced forward to new and more
advanced positions. It was then that the sub-chief and Shoz-Dijiji
opened fire upon them from their new positions that had not yet
attracted the fire of the cavalrymen. The grizzled captain saw three of
his men stumble forward, their faces in the dirt. Afterward two of them
crawled painfully toward cover but the third lay very still.

Angry, the entire troop fired rapidly at the Indian position, until
there was no response; then the second half of the troop advanced in a
quick rush. From another point, far to the right of that upon which they
had been concentrating their fire, came the crack of a rifle and another
soldier fell.

Shoz-Dijiji reloaded and fired again. To his rear the sub-chief with the
three other warriors was trotting back toward the main body of hostiles
that was busily engaged in the construction of simple but effective
fortifications under the supervision of Geronimo.

The captain had lost four men and had not seen an Indian. He had no
definite idea of the strength of the enemy. He could not advance without
exposing his men to the full fire of the hostiles. To his left was a dry
wash that afforded complete protection, and into this he ordered his
troop, there to await the coming of the infantry. Behind his rock, quite
alone, Shoz-Dijiji held off the United States Army while the war chief
of all the Apaches prepared for a determined stand a mile to the south.

For an hour the cavalrymen sweltered and cursed in the dusty barranca.
Occasionally one would lift a head above the sheltering wall, there
would be a crack and the ping of a bullet and the head would duck to
safety—Shoz-Dijiji, patient, tireless, eagle-eyed, hung doggedly to his
post.

Then the infantry arrived. Out of effective range they took to the
barranca, the pack train sheltering in the gully with the horses of the
troop. The cavalry, loath to relinquish the honor to doughboys, charged
the position of the hostiles after the infantry had poured a steady
fusillade of rifle fire into it for several minutes.

Hunched double that they might present the smallest possible target,
grasping their carbines at the ready, separated by intervals of a yard
or two, the men advanced at the double up the gentle, rock-strewn
acclivity. Their grizzled captain led them. A dozen yards beyond the
summit he raised his hand and the blue line halted. The officer looked
about him. For hundreds of yards in all directions there was not
sufficient cover to conceal a cottontail. There was not an Indian in
sight.

“Hell!” murmured the captain.

A half mile to the south of him Shoz-Dijiji trotted toward the
stronghold of his people, while the blue column reformed to resume the
heartbreaking pursuit of the elusive quarry. The Apache scouts, who had
been sent out to the east and west the day before, returned to the
command, reporting signs of renegades at widely separated points. A
rancher and his family had been murdered at Sulphur Springs, two cowboys
had had a running fight with Apaches in San Simon Valley, two men had
been killed near Billings’ ranch.

A lieutenant with six men and three scouts was sent ahead of the column.
Within a mile they were fired upon and driven back. The infantry
deployed and advanced after a brief reconnaissance by the grizzled
captain.

Geronimo had chosen a position impossible for cavalry, impregnable to
infantry. His fortifications topped a low but steep hill, the summit of
which was already boulder-strewn by nature. On three sides the hill
overlooked open country that afforded no shelter within the effective
range of the weapons of that day, on the fourth side, behind him, rose
rugged mountains that offered him a ready avenue of retreat. Within
twenty miles to the north there was no water for the soldiers or their
mounts. Ten miles to the south, upon the opposite side of the range,
there was plenty of water, but Geronimo sat astride the only trail short
of a fifty-mile-long detour around the end of the range.

The infantry advanced. Already that day they had marched twenty miles
beneath a blistering sun from the last water. Their lips were parched
and blistered, their eyes, their nostrils, their throats were choked
with the stinging, impalpable dust of the alkali desert. All day they
had groused and cursed and bewailed the fate that had sent them into
“this man’s army”; but that had been while they were plodding along in
the shroud of dust that hung continually about them and with no sign of
an enemy about.

Now it was different. All was changed. With the first shot fatigue
slipped from them as easily as an old coat, they forgot the hardships
and the thirst, they fretted to go as young thoroughbreds at the
barrier. And they _were_ young thoroughbreds—these picked men, hard as
nails, the flower of the western army. No finer body of men ever
underwent crueler hardships in a more savage country, against a more
savage and resourceful foe in any country in the world, and none ever
got fewer thanks.

On they went, up toward that silent, rockbound hilltop. There was no
cover; they were advancing to the charge. Geronimo waited. He knew that
they would underestimate his strength, judging it by what they had
developed at the last stand a mile to the north; and he was right. He
waited until the blue line was well within range, then he opened on them
with all his rifles. A few men fell. The command to charge was given and
up the slope the soldiers raced, yelling. In twos and threes they fell
beneath the withering fire of the hostiles. It was a useless sacrifice
and the retreat was sounded.

Covered by the fire of the cavalry they withdrew and dug themselves in
three-fourths of the way down the slope—those that remained of them.
Until dark they lay there, sniping, being sniped, the painted savages
yelling taunts and insults at them. Their water was gone, their dead and
wounded lay beneath the pitiless sun on the fire-swept slope.

A sergeant, beneath a hail of lead, brought in a wounded officer.
Twenty-five years later he was awarded a Congressional Medal, which
arrived in time to be pinned on his breast by an attendant at the poor
house before he was buried in potter’s field.

Under the protection of darkness they recovered their dead and those of
the wounded who had miraculously survived the determined sniping of the
Apaches. The officers held a council. What water there was left was
distributed among the infantrymen. The cavalry and the pack train,
bearing the wounded, started back across those weary, dusty miles for
water. The dead they buried on the field.

At dawn the hostiles recommenced their sniping, though the infantry had
withdrawn to such a distance that only an occasional bullet fell among
them. They did not know that now the entire force opposing them
consisted of but three warriors; that the others were miles away to the
south. All day they lay there without shelter while the Apaches fired at
them at long range and at long intervals.

It was after dark before the cavalry returned. The hostile fire had
ceased, but how could the soldiers know that the last of the enemy was
miles away upon the southern trail. Geronimo had accomplished all that
he had set out to accomplish. He had held up the troops two full days
and in that time the Be-don-ko-he, with the exception of a few warriors,
had crossed the boundary into Mexico and disappeared in the rugged mazes
of the Mother Mountains; and he had done it without losing a man.




                               CHAPTER XI
                     WAR CHIEF OF THE BE-DON-KO-HE


SHOZ-DIJIJI liked the new camp which lay in rugged, timbered mountains
south of the town of Casas Grandes, in the state of Chihuahua. There was
water there and game and the hated soldiers of the pindah lickoyee could
not follow. When they had settled down to the routine of camp life he
would tie Nejeunee before the tepee of Ish-kay-nay. Just now, with
several other braves, he was hunting, for the long march from the north
had depleted the stores of the Be-don-ko-he.

For three days the chase continued, covering mountains and plain, and
during that time the hunters brought in a variety and abundance of red
meats. In many a pot boiled savory stews of venison, antelope, beef or
mule, the sweet aroma of cooking food mingling with the scent of the
pine forest in the pure air of the high sierras, while below in the
plain many a frightened peon huddled his family about him behind the
barred door of his adobe shack the while he mourned the loss of his live
stock.

Their bellies filled, peace hovering about them, elated by their victory
over the soldiers of the white-eyes, the Be-don-ko-he rested in camp.
The warriors smoked and gambled, the women worked and gossiped, the
children played. Upon distant look-outs sentinels scanned the country
for the first sign of an approaching enemy.

The Be-don-ko-he felt secure. But a chain is as strong only as its
weakest link. Perhaps a sentinel was shirking; perhaps there were other
Indians who knew the Mother Mountains better than the Be-don-ko-he knew
them. How else might be explained the long file of armed men creeping
upward through a narrow, timbered defile toward the camp of the Apaches?
Twenty-four of them were Mexican regulars and with them were forty
Indian allies, hereditary enemies of the Be-don-ko-he.

Geronimo sat before a rude brush shelter, smoking, while Sons-ee-ah-ray
ground maize in a metate. Ish-kay-nay, sewing beads to the yoke of a
buckskin shirt, worked industriously at her side, while Shoz-Dijiji,
squatting in the circle, watched the girl’s nimble fingers and beautiful
face. Several children played about, sometimes listening to the talk of
their elders. At a little distance, her back toward them, sat Geronimo’s
mother-in-law. She took no part in the conversation, never addressed any
of them and was never addressed by them, and when necessary to refer to
her signs were invariably employed. Notwithstanding the fact that
Geronimo was very fond of her he might never speak to her—thus are
primitive peoples slaves to custom, even as we.

Shoz-Dijiji was narrating again his encounter with the three white men
and the white girl near Billings’ ranch.

“Why,” asked Geronimo, “did you not kill the white-eyed girl? It was not
wise to let her go back to her people and say that she had seen an
Apache in war paint.”

“Was she very pretty?” demanded Ish-kay-nay.

“Yes,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.

“Is that why you did not kill her?” There was a note of jealousy in the
girl’s voice. She could be jealous of a white woman.

“I did not kill her because I do not make war on women,” said
Shoz-Dijiji.

“Then you cannot successfully fight the white-eyes,” growled old
Geronimo, “for they make war on women and children. If you let their
women live they will breed more white warriors to fight against your
people. They know—that is the reason they kill our women and our
children.

“Listen! The soldiers attack our camps, killing our women and our
children. They do this today. They have done it always. Listen to the
words of Geronimo of the story of Santa Rita, that his father’s father
had from _his_ father’s father. A hundred rains have come and gone and
yet the blood is not washed away from the memory of the Shis-Inday or
from the hands of the pindah lickoyee.

“A hundred times have the deer mated; a hundred harvests have been
gathered since that day. The Mexicans worked the mines of Santa Rita
near the headwaters of the Rio Mimbres in those days, and their chief
was a pindah lickoyee named Johnson. His heart was bad, but he hid it
beneath soft words. He called our chiefs and told them that he was going
to give a great feast, asking them to send word to their people.

“Happy, the chiefs dispatched their runners to the scattered camps and
villages of the Shis-Inday summoning the people to assemble at the mines
on the appointed day. From all directions they came, bringing their
women and their children until a thousand Apaches gathered about the
barbecue pits of the pindah lickoyee.

“Less than a hundred yards away lay a pile of pack saddles. They looked
quite harmless. How were our chiefs to know that hidden beneath them was
a cannon, loaded to the muzzle with slugs, musket balls, with nails and
pieces of glass? They did not know. The pindah lickoyee lighted the fuse
himself. There was a loud noise and several hundred Apache men, women
and children lay dead, or maimed and wounded. Then the Mexicans charged
us.

“Four hundred were killed. What could our people do? They had come in
friendship and peace, leaving their weapons behind. Those who could
scattered and escaped.

“Now the pindah lickoyee tell us that it is wicked to kill women and
children. They mean that it is wicked to kill the women and children of
the lickoyee. It is all right to kill the women and children of the
Shis-Inday. But we do not forget. You must not forget. Kill them, that
they may not breed warriors to kill your women and children.”

“Yes,” cried Ish-kay-nay, “kill them!”

“I will kill their warriors,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, quietly. “Let the
women and the old men kill their women.”

Geronimo shook his head. “Wait,” he said, “until they have killed your
women; then you will have the right to speak.”

A volley of rifle fire brought a sudden end to the conversation. Bullets
pinged and whistled among the trees. War whoops reverberated among the
lofty peaks. The Be-don-ko-he, taken entirely by surprise, scattered
like rabbits, the warriors seizing their weapons as they fled. Two fell
before they could gain cover.

Geronimo rallied his force and led it forward. Taking advantage of trees
and rocks the Apaches advanced against the enemy’s line. Shoz-Dijiji
fought beside his fierce sire. The war chief led his warriors to within
ten yards of the Mexicans and their allies and then, at his command,
they stepped into the open from behind rocks and trees and fired
point-blank at the foe. At places the lines touched and men fought hand
to hand. Geronimo struck down a Mexican with his clubbed rifle, but
another sprang upon him with upraised knife before he could recover
himself after delivering the blow. An Indian raised his rifle to the
level of Shoz-Dijiji’s breast, the muzzle but a few inches away.

It was the proximity of the weapon that saved the son of the war chief
from death. With his left forearm he struck up the rifle, grasped it,
wrenched it from the grasp of his adversary, and, swinging it behind
him, brought it down upon the other’s skull; then he wheeled and leaped
upon the back of the Mexican who was lunging at Geronimo’s breast with
his long hunting knife.

A sinewy arm encircled the fellow’s neck and he was torn from his prey,
whirled about and thrown to the ground. Before he could recover himself
a hundred and seventy pounds of steel and iron fell savagely upon him,
his knife was wrested from his grasp and he shrieked once as his own
blade was buried deep in his heart.

Shoz-Dijiji sprang to his feet, saw the opening that had been made in
the enemy’s line, saw Gian-nah-tah and another fighting near him, called
them and broke through to the rear of the foe. Like a red demon he fell
upon the Mexicans and their henchmen; his savage war whoops rose above
the din of battle as with the clubbed rifle of an enemy he mowed them
down, while the very ferocity of his expression appeared to hold them in
a spell of awful fascination.

At last, splattered with the blood and brains of his adversaries, the
Black Bear paused. Erect in the midst of the carnage he had wrought he
stood like some avenging angel, his fierce eyes casting about for more
to slay. There were no more. To the last man the enemy lay dead upon the
field, dead or mortally wounded. Already the squaws were moving among
them. Shoz-Dijiji thought of the dying women, the mangled children at
the copper mines of Santa Rita, and the screams of the tortured brought
no answering pity to his heart.

Some warriors gathered about him. He suddenly became aware that they
were calling his name aloud; they were acclaiming him. It was unusual,
for more often does the Apache boast of his own exploits than those of
another; but there could be no mistaking. Geronimo came and laid a hand
upon his shoulder. “The warriors of the Be-don-ko-he have chosen
Shoz-Dijiji as a war chief,” he said, “and they have chosen well.”

Then the Black Bear understood. It had come! He thrilled, as what
red-blooded man would not thrill to be chosen a war chief by such
warriors as these! He had known that it would come—he had dreamed that
it was his destiny. This was the first step and it had come years before
he had hoped to achieve it. Shoz-Dijiji was very proud, but he was not
half as proud as terrible old Geronimo, or as little Ish-kay-nay.

That night moans and wails mingled with the exultations of the
victorious tribe, for twelve warriors had fallen in the battle. At the
council Shoz-Dijiji’s elevation to the rank of war chief was confirmed
amidst flights of oratory, and Gian-nah-tah was admitted to the warrior
class in recognition of his bravery upon the field of battle.

Their dead buried, the loot gathered from the bodies of the slain
foemen, the tribe packed its belongings and set out from this camp,
which they called Sko-la-ta, toward the northeast. Through the lofty
mountains they made their way, and when they came out down into Sonora
they were joined by Juh and a band of Ned-ni. The two tribes decided to
go to the town of Nacosari and trade with the Mexicans.

On an open plain near Nacosari the Apaches were surprised by three
companies of Mexican troops, but, after the manner of Apaches when they
do not wish to give battle, they scattered in all directions and, firing
as they rode away, eluded concerted pursuit. When they had out-distanced
the troops they reassembled in the Sierra Madre and held a council. Juh
reported having seen Mexican troops at several points and Geronimo well
knew that they had been dispatched against him in Chihuahua. It was
therefore decided to disband as it would be impossible to maintain a
large camp secure from detection while an active campaign was in force
against them.

Scattering into single families or small groups of unmarried warriors,
they spread out through the mountains of Chihuahua, Sonora, New Mexico
and Arizona to await the withdrawal of the troops. For four months they
lived by hunting and trading, entering villages as friendly Indians,
always careful to commit no depredations, that the fears of the enemy
might be lulled into fancied security.

Shoz-Dijiji, happiest when farthest from the haunts of whites, spent all
his time hunting in the depth of the mountains. He was much alone, and
many were the long nights he spent in some rugged, granite aerie praying
to Usen and making strong medicine against future days of war. He
dreamed always of war or of Ish-kay-nay or of the goal of his
ambition—to be war chief of all the Apaches. The next step, as he
planned it, was to become head war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, after
Geronimo became too old to lead the tribe in battle, and after that he
would win to the final goal.

Occasionally he saw Mexicans in the mountains, and it amused him to
wonder what their reaction would be could they guess that a war chief of
the Apaches was lying behind a rock or bush above them looking down upon
them; but not one of them ever guessed that such potential death lurked
thus close.

On several occasions he ventured down upon the plains after antelope. On
one of these excursions he had approached a hacienda belonging to a very
rich Mexican who owned a herd of horses that was famed throughout all of
Mexico, and of which the owner was justly proud. Shoz-Dijiji often
watched this herd from a distance as it grazed under the watchful eyes
of numerous well-armed vaqueros. It interested him to note the care that
was exercised by day and by night to protect the herd against theft; it
pleased his vanity to guess that these precautions were directed by fear
of his people.

He saw the herd rounded up each afternoon and driven within a walled
enclosure, protected by heavy gates; and after dark he came down and
prowled about until he was familiar with the surroundings of the
hacienda and the habits of its dwellers. He knew when and where they ate
and slept, and the hour that the horses were turned out each morning.
These things he did not learn in a single visit, but after many visits.
He did not know that he might ever put this knowledge to use, but,
Apachelike, it suited him to know more of the enemy than the enemy
guessed.

In the mountains he had occasionally come upon woodchoppers at work, and
when he heard the sounds of their axes he came and watched them, though
they never knew that they were watched. He knew where they came to cut
wood; he knew the habits of every one of them; he could recognize their
faces; he knew how many burros each owned. He knew where they lived and
where they took their wood. Whenever it suited him he could kill
them—that thought gave him pleasure—but Geronimo had warned them all
against depredations of all kinds until the enemy had recovered from the
effects of the last raid.

There was one woodchopper who always came alone. He had five burros. All
day long he would chop, chop, chop. In the evening he would cook a few
beans, smoke a cigarette, roll up in his blanket and sleep until
morning. In the morning he would roll a cigarette, cook a few beans,
roll another cigarette, load his five burros and start down the trail
toward Casas Grandes. Every tenth day Shoz-Dijiji could expect to hear
his axe ringing in the forest.

He knew him and his habits so well that he no longer took the trouble to
spy upon him. But one day the chopping ceased shortly after it had
commenced and there followed a long silence. Shoz-Dijiji was several
miles away hunting with bow and arrows. Had the chopping continued all
day Shoz-Dijiji would not have given the woodchopper a second thought;
but to the suspicious mind of the Apache the silence was ominous. It
spoke of a change in the habits of the woodchopper—it augured something
new, an altered condition that must be investigated.

Shoz-Dijiji moved quickly but warily among the trees and rocks along the
shoulder of a mountain to the point from which he had often watched the
woodman in his camp. Looking down he saw the five burros, but at first
he saw no woodchopper.

What was that? The Apache cocked an attentive ear. The sound was
repeated—a low moan coming up out of the canyon. It was then that
Shoz-Dijiji saw a human foot protruding from beneath a felled tree,
revealing the lonely tragedy below. He listened intently for several
minutes until every sense assured him that there were no other men
about, then he descended to the camp, walked around the tree and looked
down at the woodchopper.

The Mexican, lying upon his belly, saw the moccasined feet first and
guessed the worst, for the moccasins of no two tribes are identical.
Turning his head painfully his eyes moved slowly upward to the savage
face. With a moan of hopelessness he dropped his head to the ground and
commenced to pray. Realizing that not even God could save him from death
at the hands of this Apache, he concerned himself only with matters
pertaining to the salvation of his immortal soul and to be on the safe
side he prayed not only to the gods of his conquerors, but to strange,
heathen gods as well—gods whose names were old before Nazareth.

Shoz-Dijiji saw that a not overlarge tree had fallen upon the
woodchopper, pinioning him in such a way that he could not release
himself. He also guessed that the man was injured. Laying hold of the
tree the Apache, already a giant in strength, raised it easily from the
prostrate form and dragged it to one side. Then he approached the
Mexican and with quick, sensitive fingers examined his body and limbs.
One leg was broken. Otherwise the man was not seriously hurt. However
the broken leg would have proved fatal were help not forthcoming.

The Apache cut away the trouser leg from the injured member, and tore
the cloth into strips. He fashioned splints from twigs and small
branches, and while his victim screamed he set the broken bones,
adjusted the splints, bound them in place with the strips he had torn
from the man’s trousers.

By this time the Mexican was almost convinced against his better
judgment that the Apache did not intend killing him. It was quite
inexplicable, but it seemed a fact, and he waxed eloquent in his
gratitude; but to all that he said Shoz-Dijiji returned but one reply:
“No savvy,” albeit he perfectly understood.

He built a soft bed of pine branches and threw up a rude shelter of
boughs above the injured man. After that he filled the Mexican’s water
bottle, placed it beside him and went away as silently as he had come,
leaving his hereditary enemy still only half convinced that it was not
all part of a diabolical plot to save him for future torture.

Why was it that the Apache did not kill this helpless Mexican? Perhaps
he was moved by sentiments of compassion and brotherly love. Far from
it. The war chief of all the Apaches had warned them not to kill, that
the fears and anger of the foe might be allayed, and that, thus lulled
into the lethargy of false peace, they might become easier prey upon the
occasion of some future raid.

Shoz-Dijiji hated the Mexican with all the bitterness of his savage
nature, but he saw here an opportunity to carry Geronimo’s strategy a
step further than the wily old chieftain had instructed, and by playing
the good Samaritan to impress upon this Mexican and all to whom he
should have an opportunity to narrate his adventure that the Apaches not
only were not upon the warpath, but were thoroughly friendly.

Just before dark Shoz-Dijiji returned with fresh venison which he cooked
and fed to the woodchopper; then he lifted him to the back of one of the
burros, unmoved by the screams of agony this necessary handling
produced, and, followed by the remaining animals, started down the trail
toward the valley, leading the beast upon which the moaning man rode. At
times Shoz-Dijiji had to support the Mexican to keep him from falling
from his mount, but with infinite patience he pursued the course that he
had laid out.

It was dawn when they came to the edge of the village of Casas Grandes.
Without a word Shoz-Dijiji dropped the lead rope, turned, and trotted
back toward the mountains. When the woodchopper reached his own home and
told the story his wife would scarce believe him. Later when the news
spread even the chiefs of the village came and questioned him, and a few
days later when there were some friendly Indians trading in the town the
chiefs spoke to them about this thing and told them that the people of
Casas Grandes would like to be friends with the Apaches, but they did
not know how to get word to Geronimo.

As it happened these “friendly” Indians were Be-don-ko-he, so the word
came promptly to the old chief with the result that a message reached
the chiefs of the village of Casas Grandes stating that the Apaches
would like to make a treaty of peace with the Mexicans, and runners went
out from the camp of Geronimo and the word was carried among the
scattered bands. By ones and twos and threes they came from all
directions to the appointed place in the mountains above Casas Grandes,
and when the day of the treaty making arrived they moved down to the
village. Nervous, the chief men met them; nervous, the villagers looked
on askance, for the fear of the Apache was as inherent in them as their
fear of the devil.

They sat in solemn council, the Mexicans and the Apaches, and there was
much talk and hand shaking, during which they all promised to be
brothers and fight no more. Afterward they commenced to trade and the
Mexicans offered mescal to their guests with a free and generous hand.
This innocent-looking, but iniquitous beverage is more potent than
bullets and it was not long before nearly all the warriors of the
Apaches were helpless. It was then that two companies of Mexican troops
entered the town and attacked them.

Shoz-Dijiji, asleep behind a corner of an adobe wall, knew nothing of
all this until he recovered consciousness the following morning and
discovered that he was a prisoner and that twenty of his fellow warriors
had been killed in the slaughter of the previous day. He also learned
that the women and children of the Be-don-ko-he, who had been taken
prisoner, were to be kept as slaves, while he and the other braves were
to be shot.

The prisoners were herded together in a corral, surrounded by guards,
and the townspeople came and stared at them, or spit upon them, or threw
stones at them; the same people with whom they had shaken hands the
preceding day. Silent, stoical the Apaches took taunts, insults and
hurts without a change of countenance.

Among the other townspeople was a man on crutches, who was accompanied
by his wife and several small children. Shoz-Dijiji recognized him
immediately as the woodchopper whose life he had saved, but he made no
effort to attract the man’s attention. What good would it do?
Shoz-Dijiji neither sought nor expected favors from the enemy. Gratitude
was a quality which he sensed but vaguely, and in his mind it always was
confused with self-interest. He could not see how the Mexican might
profit by befriending him—therefore there was little likelihood of his
doing so.

The woodchopper surveyed the Indians casually. There was nothing
remarkable about them except that they were prisoners. It was not often
that the Mexicans had Apache prisoners. Presently his eyes alighted upon
Shoz-Dijiji. Instant recognition was apparent in them. He nudged his
wife and pointed, speaking excitedly.

“There is the Indian who saved my life,” he exclaimed, and pressing
close to the bars of the corral he sought to attract the attention of
the tall brave, standing with folded arms, looking contemptuously at the
crowd without.

“Good day, my friend!” called the woodchopper.

Shoz-Dijiji nodded and one of his rare smiles answered the smiling
greeting of the Mexican.

“What you doing here?” demanded the latter. “You are a friendly Indian.
They have made a mistake. You should tell them. I will tell them.”

“No savvy,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

An officer, who had heard the statements of the woodchopper, approached
him.

“You know this man?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the woodchopper, and then he told the officer his story.
“Let him go, captain,” he begged, “for he is a very good Indian. He
could have killed and robbed me and no one would have known; but instead
he fed and brought me home. I do not believe that he is an Apache.”

The officer turned to Shoz-Dijiji. “Are you an Apache?” he demanded.

“No savvy,” replied the Black Bear.

“You are sure he is the man who saved your life?” demanded the officer.

“I could not know my own mother’s face better,” the woodchopper assured
him.

For several minutes the officer stood in thought before he spoke again.

“I cannot release him,” he said, then. “He is to be shot in the morning
when the general comes, he and all the other grown men; but it is
crowded in this corral and I am afraid with so many prisoners and so few
men to guard them that many will escape. Therefore you may take this one
and guard him in your own house until morning. If he escapes it will not
be my fault.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” exclaimed the woodchopper; “and may the Mother
of God bless you.”

Shoz-Dijiji heard and understood. He was to live! But not by so much as
the quiver of an eyelid did he reveal his understanding. He stood
impassive while they bound his hands behind him and placed a rope about
his neck, and he followed, though not meekly, but with haughty mien, as
the woodchopper led him away, the wife and the several small children
following proudly behind.




                              CHAPTER XII
                            THE SCALP DANCE


DARKNESS had fallen, but the night was still young when a fire
appeared upon the summit of a lonely hill above the village of Casas
Grandes. It burned steadily hour after hour, tended by a single, silent
figure. Into the hills about and out across the valley it signalled to
the scattered braves, and through the silence and the darkness of the
night shadowy forms, soft-footed, mysterious, converged toward the
shining beacon.

As Shoz-Dijiji kept the signal fire he thought upon the events of the
day and he was puzzled. He could not understand why the Mexican had
interceded for him, taken him to his home, fed him, and, after dark,
turned him loose without any slightest expectation of reward, not even a
remote hope of reward. And for the first time in his life, perhaps,
there was forced into his consciousness recognition of a quality of the
soul of the very existence of which he had hitherto been
ignorant—unselfish gratitude.

The Black Bear was a highly intelligent, reasoning human being and so,
as he thought the matter out during the long hours of the night, he came
to the conclusion that the only motive the woodchopper could have had
was prompted by a desire to repay Shoz-Dijiji for his kindness with a
like kindness.

Such an attitude of mind directed upon an enemy was at first quite
beyond the experience of one Apache-bred and for this reason difficult
to grasp fully; but when the facts finally convinced him they induced a
certain warmth within his breast that was new and strange. He thought
now of the Mexican woodchopper as a brother. He would repay him. If
necessary he would lay down his life for him, for to such extremes does
the pendulum of the savage heart swing, and none may guess the depth of
feeling masked by the trained muscles of the savage Apache face.

Four times from the valley below a coyote yelped and the reveries of
Shoz-Dijiji were broken. With four similar yelps he replied. An owl
hooted down from the hills behind him; from the north came the scream of
a bobcat. And each in turn was answered from the signal fire.

A shadowy form appeared but Shoz-Dijiji was hidden behind a bush. A
whispered word was spoken—a sacred, secret word—and Shoz-Dijiji arose
and came forward, greeting a squat, great-chested Be-don-ko-he. One by
one, then, they came in about the signal fire—two, three, five,
ten—until at last a dozen warriors were gathered.

Shoz-Dijiji picked up some loose stones and arranged them in a line
pointing toward the village of Casas Grandes. He leaned them one against
another with the sides that had been down, and were marked by contact
with the earth, turned upward; that any who might arrive later could
read plainly that he who had laid the signal needed assistance in the
direction of Casas Grandes. He placed more fuel upon the fire and
withdrew to a little distance, followed by the other warriors. There
were older warriors and sub-chiefs among them, but they came and
listened to Shoz-Dijiji; and when he had finished speaking they
signified their willingness to follow him, for not only was he a war
chief among them, but he had conceived the plan that he had just
explained to them and was therefore entitled to lead whoever agreed to
accompany him.

The village of Casas Grandes slept, perhaps a less troubled sleep than
it had enjoyed for many a long month, for had not the feared Apaches of
the north been routed, had not many of them been killed and many taken
prisoner? No wonder the village of Casas Grandes slept in peace as the
barefooted soldiers of the guard paced their posts about the prison
corral of the Apaches, as a dozen silent forms crept down out of the
hills, slinking into the shadows of the little buildings of Casas
Grandes, as _el general_ rode swiftly from the south to witness the
execution at the coming dawn.

From hidden places about the corral a dozen pairs of savage eyes watched
the sleepy sentries pacing to and fro, watched the building that the
soldiers were quartered in, waited for the signal from Shoz-Dijiji. At
last it came—a figure rushing through the dark, a figure that threw
itself upon the nearest sentry with the savage ferocity of a wounded
jaguar, wrenching the rifle from astonished hands, striking down the
poor peon with brutal savagery. At last Shoz-Dijiji was armed again!

This was the signal! From all sides other men, terrible men, leaped upon
the sentinels; but not until the shouts of the Mexicans had alarmed the
soldiers in their barracks did the attackers utter a sound, for such had
been the orders of Shoz-Dijiji. As the first of the guard turned out
they were met by the savage war whoops of the Apaches and a volley of
rifle fire that sent them stumbling into momentary retreat. A few
braves, detailed by the war chief, leaped into the corral and cut the
bonds of the captives. There were a few scattering volleys directed
toward the barracks and then silence, as, like the smoke from their own
black powder, the Be-don-ko-he merged with the darkness of the night.

Scattering again, the better to throw pursuers off the track, the
Apaches were far away from Casas Grandes by morning; and though _el
general_ pursued them he lost their trail within two miles of the
village, nor ever picked it up again.

It was a long time before the Be-don-ko-he gathered again in the depths
of their beloved Arizona mountains and Shoz-Dijiji sat once more in the
cool of the evening at the side of Ish-kay-nay. He was a great warrior
now and as he recounted his exploits upon the war trail the girl
thrilled with pride.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “Nejeunee will be tied before the tepee of
Ish-kay-nay.”

“Not tomorrow,” she reminded him, “for tomorrow the izze-nantans purify
the warriors who have been upon the war trail and Shoz-Dijiji must ride
no other pony then than Nejeunee, his war pony; and Ish-kay-nay will
feed no other pony than Nejeunee, the war pony of Shoz-Dijiji.”

The young man laughed. “The next day, then,” he said.

“The next day,” repeated the girl and rubbed her soft cheek against his
shoulder caressingly.

The following morning the warriors, wearing their finest raiment, their
faces painted with the utmost care, mounted upon their favorite war
ponies, assembled below the camp at the edge of the river.
Nakay-do-klunni was there with his medicine shirt gorgeous with symbolic
paintings, his plumed medicine headdress, his sash and izze-kloth, ready
to make big medicine.

Along the bank of the river, knee to knee, the braves sat their ponies,
resplendent with beads and feathers, turquoise, silver and painted
buckskin. A proud, fierce gathering it was—these savage warriors come
to be cleansed of the blood of their foemen.

The izze-nantan waded into the river, cast hoddentin to the four winds,
made symbolic passes with his hands, the while he intoned mystic, sacred
phrases in a jargon of meaningless gibberish. Then he came forth from
the water out upon the bank, impressive, majestic. Going to the warrior
at the right of the line he took a weapon from him and returning to the
river washed it, dried it, and blew upon it, blowing the ghost of the
dead enemy from it.

One after another he repeated this rite for each warrior and then from a
buckskin bag at his side he withdrew a few scalps, taken and preserved
for this ceremony, which should by ancient custom have been held upon
the site of the battle field. Plucking a few hairs from each grisly
memento he handed some to each of the warriors all along the line, and
while he stood with outstretched hands upraised, mumbling his sacred
jargon, each warrior burned the hairs that had been given him, thus
purifying forever the tainted air of the battle field which otherwise it
would be unsafe to revisit, peopled as it would have been by the malign
ghosts of the dead enemy.

Ish-kay-nay stood before the tepee of her father as klego-na-ay rose
behind a stunted cedar, a swollen disc of orange flame floating upward
out of the mysterious country that lay below the edge of Apacheland.

“Be good, O Moon!” murmured Ish-kay-nay.

“Gun-ju-le, klego-na-ay!” sighed the voices of the Be-don-ko-he women,
evening zephyrs sighing through the fragrant cedars.

Little fires crackled merrily, dancing red and orange, shooting sudden
tongues of blue, gold-tipped, lighting copper faces old and wrinkled,
young and smooth, faces stern and terrible, faces light and laughing;
glinting from proud eyes, haughty eyes, cruel eyes, cunning eyes,
laughing eyes, beautiful eyes, the eyes of all Apachedom, the eyes of
all the world. Laughter, gossip mingled with the crackling of the
flames. Little children played pranks upon one another, upon the dogs,
upon their elders, unrebuked, and the full moon mounted the clear Apache
sky to gaze down, content, upon this living poem of peace and love.

Rising gradually above the confused murmur of the camp the measured
voice of the es-a-da-ded arose, insistent. A young brave, gay in the
panoply of war, stepped into the firelight dancing to the music of the
drum. Naked he was, but for a G-string and moccasins, his godlike body
green with copper ore, his face banded with yellow ocher, vermilion,
blue; upon his head a war bonnet of eagle feathers; in his hand he bore
a lance, a quartz-tipped lance to the point of which was tied something
that fluttered as the tip moved—human hair. Shoz-Dijiji bore aloft a
trophy in the scalp dance of his people.

Behind him came other braves, painted braves; singing, yelling braves,
shouting the savage war whoop that has carried terror down the ages, out
of the north, across a world. Grisly tassels waved from many a point.
Rifles cracked. Admiring squaws looked on. Ish-kay-nay was among them,
her great, dark eyes clinging ever to the mighty figure of her lover.

Weaving in and out among the fires the warriors danced, yelling, until
they were upon the verge of exhaustion; but at last it was over—the
last scalp had been discarded, a vile thing that no Apache would retain.
The camp slept. In far places the scouts watched, guarding against
attack. Shoz-Dijiji came among the banked fires, leading Nejeunee. To
the tepee of Ish-kay-nay he led him and there he tied him and went away.

In the morning, when Ish-kay-nay arose she looked out and smiled; but
she did not come forth until the camp was stirring and there were many
about to see her. Others looked at the pinto pony tied there before the
tepee, and smiled, too.

At last came Ish-kay-nay, with the carriage of a queen, the step of a
panther. She did not hesitate, but taking the rope that held him she led
Nejeunee, the war pony of Shoz-Dijiji, to water, and then she fed him.
Everyone saw, but there was none that laughed behind his blanket at
Ish-kay-nay, or thought her immodest; for there was but one Ish-kay-nay
and she could do no wrong, she who all her life had done as she pleased,
haughtily indifferent alike to censure or to praise.

There was one wrinkled old warrior who saw, but did not smile. He was
the father of Ish-kay-nay. Much would he have preferred Juh, powerful
chief of the Ned-ni, as son-in-law; nor as yet was hope dead within him.
Later in the day Shoz-Dijiji sought him out, making formal request for
the hand of Ish-kay-nay. The old man listened in silence and when
Shoz-Dijiji had finished he spoke.

“Ish-kay-nay is a good daughter,” he said. “She is strong and can do a
good day’s work in the fields; there is none who makes better shirts and
moccasins; there is none whose bead work is more beautiful; nor any who
can prepare food as can Ish-kay-nay. I am growing old. Her loss will be
as the loss of my heart. Fifty ponies will not be enough to repay me.”

Fifty ponies! Many a daughter of the greatest chiefs there was who had
commanded far less. Shoz-Dijiji knew why the price was thus high. The
old man believed that it would be so long before Shoz-Dijiji could hope
to accumulate that many ponies that he would relinquish his suit and
content himself with some other girl whose price was much less; but he
did not know the depth of the love that welled in the heart of the son
of Geronimo.

“Fifty ponies?” repeated the young warrior.

“Fifty ponies,” replied the father of Ish-kay-nay.

Shoz-Dijiji grunted and turned upon his heel. He went at once to
Ish-kay-nay.

“Your father demands fifty ponies,” he said.

Ish-kay-nay laughed. “Fifty ponies! Why not one hundred—two hundred?
Now he will have none, Shoz-Dijiji, for I, Ish-kay-nay, will run away
with you.”

“No,” said the young man. “Shoz-Dijiji has told you before that he does
not have to run away with any woman. Shoz-Dijiji is a man; he is a great
warrior, a war chief of the Be-don-ko-he; he has led the warriors of his
people in battle. Does such a one run away?”

“Shoz-Dijiji does not love Ish-kay-nay,” said the girl. “He knows that
it will be many, many rains before he can pay fifty ponies to her
father. If he loved her he would not want to wait.”

“It is because he loves her that he will not make her ashamed before the
eyes of our people,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “Do not fear, Ish-kay-nay.
Before the next full moon Shoz-Dijiji will have the ponies.”

“Where will you get them?”

“Shoz-Dijiji knows. This very day he goes after them. If he does not
return before the moon is full again you will know that he is dead.
Good-bye, Ish-kay-nay.” He drew the girl close to him.

An hour later Ish-kay-nay, standing forlorn upon a rocky promontory, her
fringed robe of buckskin fluttering in the breeze, watched a solitary
horseman riding toward the south. Her heart was full, but no tear wet
her cheek.

Darkness was falling as Nejeunee picked his way across the rocky
shoulder of a mountain, a round stone turned beneath his foot, he
stumbled and went almost down. When he regained his footing he limped.

Shoz-Dijiji slid from his back and examined the foot and leg, then he
remounted and rode on, but more and more did the brave little war pony
favor the hurt member. Again Shoz-Dijiji dismounted and felt the tendons
of the pastern; there was a swelling there and fever. The Apache arose
and slipped the bridle and the blanket from his mount.

“Good-bye, Nejeunee,” he said, stroking the pinto’s neck. Then he
continued on his way alone.

Nejeunee tried to follow, but the leg pained and he stopped. Once he
nickered, but Shoz-Dijiji returned no answering whistle. Perplexed, the
pinto, limping painfully, hobbled along the rough mountainside after his
master. For a mile, perhaps, he followed through the darkness, but at
last he stopped, for he could no longer either see or hear Shoz-Dijiji,
and the night wind, blowing across the trail, carried the scent spoor
away from him. The rising moon looked down upon a little pinto stallion
gazing with up-pricked ears toward the south—wistful ears.

On through the night went the Black Bear, down the mountains and across
a valley into other mountains. There was no trail where the Black Bear
trod; but there were the stars and many familiar landmarks and an
uncanny sense that held him to the true course. Hidden deep in these
mountains, a parched and barren range, was a large, flat rock, its
center hollowed into a basin by some long dead waterfall of antiquity.
It lay near the head of a deep and narrow ravine, hidden by a dense
thicket.

For a long time it held the rain waters, and for many fiery, dust-choked
miles there was no other water. Toward this spot Shoz-Dijiji made his
way, as unerringly as the homing pigeon returns to its cote. No other
than Apache eyes ever had looked upon this place. A man might die of
thirst within twenty feet of it, never guessing that life was just
within his grasp.

It was daylight when Shoz-Dijiji came to the water hole. Here, hidden in
the dense thicket, he rested, lying up like a savage, hunted beast. Nor
is the analogy overdrawn. Further back than goes the memory of man the
Apache has been fair prey for his enemies and there has been no closed
season. As the wolf, the deer, or the bear he has moved ever in danger
of the swift arrow of Navajo or Comanche, of the bullet of the white
man. He did not complain. It was a life he understood and loved. It was
as fair for him as it was for his enemies, and he prided in the fact
that he played it better than they.

Shoz-Dijiji rested but a short time as he wished to push on toward the
south, lying up at another place he knew during the heat of the day,
timing his marches that he might pass habitations and cross open plains
by night, keeping to the mountains in the daylight hours. He carried
little food and only a small water bottle, for he could live for months
on end upon a country that white men considered waterless and without
game. He was armed with a bow and arrows, a knife and a six-shooter.

Upon an excursion of this nature, the success of which depended more
upon the agility of his wits than the strength of his armament, he
considered a heavy rifle a handicap, and so he had hidden his in a safe
cache in the mountains above the Be-don-ko-he camp before he had set out
upon his mission.

His water bottle refilled, his own thirst quenched, Shoz-Dijiji
clambered up the side of the ravine out of the thicket. Perhaps he was
careless; perhaps the wind blew in the wrong direction. However it may
have been, the fact remains that the first intimation he had that he was
not alone in these arid, deathlike hills was the crack of a rifle and
the whistling whing of a rifle ball past his head just as he attained
the summit of the rise.

Shoz-Dijiji dropped in his tracks, his body rolling down the steep
declivity. Two white men threw themselves flat upon a parallel ridge.

“You got him,” said one of them to the other.

“Mebbe there’s more of them,” replied his companion. “We better wait an’
see.”

They waited for half an hour, watching, listening. From beyond the
summit of the ridge they watched there was no sign of life. Behind and
slightly above them, upon the main ridge of the mountain, a man lay hid
behind a squat shrub, watching them. It was Shoz-Dijiji.

He wished that he had his rifle, for the two lay just out of arrow range
and he was a poor shot with a Colt. There was something familiar about
one of the men and Shoz-Dijiji wished that he would turn his face that
he might have a good look at it, for Shoz-Dijiji never forgot a face,
once seen. At last the man did turn. Then it was that the Black Bear
recognized him as the survivor of the three who had attacked the white
girl near the Billings ranch. Now, more than ever, Shoz-Dijiji wished
that he had his rifle. He weighed the wisdom of a revolver shot and put
the idea from him. Apachelike he could bide his time against a more
favorable opportunity. To fire and miss would be but to disclose his
position to the enemy, gaining him nothing, and perhaps causing him
still further delay.

He had learned all that he needed to know of these two. They were alone,
hunting the yellow iron, doubtless. They had not been following him, but
had just chanced upon him. If he did not fire they might lie there a
long time waiting and watching, not quite sure that they had killed him,
not quite sure that he was not alone. In the meantime Shoz-Dijiji might
be far on his way toward the south. Cautiously he slipped down upon the
far side of the ridge, well out of their range of vision, rose, turned
his face southward and moved silently away, leaving the two prospectors
debating the wisdom of a reconnaissance.

A half hour later Shoz-Dijiji came upon their camp. A banked camp fire
smoked slightly, some burros, hobbled, stood near by. Shoz-Dijiji paused
and brushed the ashes from the fire, then he piled all their belongings
quickly upon the coals; he burst the containers in which they had their
precious water. This done, he took the hobbles from the burros and drove
them ahead of him down the canyon toward the south. Only a short way did
he drive them for he well knew that they would need no urging to leave
this barren country and search for feed and water.

Continuing his interrupted journey Shoz-Dijiji permitted himself the
indulgence of a smile as he considered the plight of the white-eyes.
Strangely, perhaps, there was no rancor in his heart against them for
having tried to take his life. That was only a part of the game he
played, the lifelong, savage game of his savage world, the greatest game
the world has ever known—man hunting. He would have done the same as
they had an opportunity presented; but he was more patient than they—he
could wait until there was no chance of his shot missing.




                              CHAPTER XIII
                         “SHOZ-DIJIJI IS DEAD!”


SEVERAL days later Shoz-Dijiji found himself without food or water
upon a rough and arid upland dotted with greasewood and sage and an
occasional clump of mesquite along the rim of a dry wash. It was fifty
miles to a little spring he knew of, and no water had passed his lips
for many hours, nor any food; but Shoz-Dijiji was not dismayed. What to
us would have meant almost certain death, gave the Apache no concern.

Following the bed of the wash he came near sundown to a place where the
mesquite grew thick upon the bank. Here he stopped and dug a hole down
through the sand, into moisture, then deeper, making a small basin, into
which water filtered very slowly. While the basin filled he occupied
himself. Finding a stout mesquite stick he hunted about until he had
discovered a pile of twigs and leaves and earth, heaped in seeming
disorder among the stems of a large bush. With his stick he beat and
belabored the pile. Frightened, hurt, several pack rats emerged,
bewildered. These he struck with his club, collecting four; then he
returned to the hole he had dug in the sand. Now it contained a cupful
of water. With his drinking reed he drew the liquid into his mouth.

Rubbing two sticks together he made a tiny fire beneath the edge of the
bank and cooked the pack rats. When he had eaten them there was more
water in the basin and again he drank. Carefully he filled the hole that
he had made, put out his fire and buried the ashes with the hides and
remnants of his repast until there was no sign that an Apache had
stopped here to eat and drink. As dusk turned to dark he struck off
across the plain toward the purple mountains.

An hour before dawn he was skirting the village of Casas Grandes when he
heard voices ahead of him, where no voices should have been at this hour
of the night. Stealthily he crept forward to investigate, wormed his way
to the top of a little rise of ground and looked down upon a camp of
Mexican soldiers. All but the guard were sleeping. A noncommissioned
officer was changing sentries and as each was relieved a few words were
spoken—these were the voices that he had heard.

Shoz-Dijiji was not looking for Mexican soldiers. They were the last
people in the world he cared to meet; and so he gave the camp a wide
berth and continued toward the mountains. At dawn he laid up beneath a
bush at the top of a low, rocky foothill and slept. Just before noon he
was awakened by the thud of horses’ feet. Cautiously he peered through
the branches of the bush in the direction from which the sound came and
saw a patrol of Mexican cavalry riding toward the mountains.

There were three men in the patrol and they were riding directly toward
the hill upon the summit of which he lay observing them. He could see
from their actions that they did not suspect his presence and that they
were following no trail. It was merely a patrol and there were doubtless
others out in various directions; it was only chance that had placed him
directly upon their post. They would make their circuit and they would
return to camp, well pleased if they discovered nothing to delay them,
for there were señoritas and a cantina in Casas Grandes and soldiers are
soldiers the world over.

Shoz-Dijiji watched them coming. They were handsome men, almost as dark
as he, and they sat their horses with an easy grace that bespoke their
descent from long lines of vaqueros. The Apache almost had it in him to
envy them their gay uniforms and their trappings, but he was too proud
to accord them even his envy. He knew that they were brave men and
fierce men and that should they discover him, mounted as they were and
armed with _carabinas_, there was a chance that he might never drive
fifty ponies before the tepee of the father of Ish-kay-nay; that never
again might he sit in the cool of the evening beneath the pines that
pray, soft-voiced, to Usen, with Ish-kay-nay at his side.

Yes, they were coming directly up the hill! They would ride close beside
the bush that hid him now, but would no longer hide him then. Behind
him, up toward the great mountains, were other bushes and many rocks.
Before they saw him he might run quickly and gain other cover. Perhaps,
in this way, he might elude them entirely, letting them pass on upon
their business before he resumed his way. Shoz-Dijiji was not looking
for Mexican soldiers.

Bent double, running swiftly, keeping the bush he had quit always
between himself and the enemy, the Black Bear scurried for new cover,
and reached it. They had not seen him—yet. But still they were coming
toward him. Again he raced for a new place of concealment, but this time
he scarce believed himself that the Mexicans would be so blind as not to
discover him, nor were they.

Their sudden shouts shattered the quiet of the noonday; a _carabina_
barked and a bullet ricocheted from a great boulder just as Shoz-Dijiji
leaped to shelter behind it.

Shoz-Dijiji whipped out his Colt and fired twice above the top of his
rocky breastwork. A horse fell and the three Mexicans scattered for
shelter—not because they were cowards, but because they were versed in
the guerrilla warfare of their savage foe.

As they scattered, Shoz-Dijiji raced for new shelter, nearer the
mountains that were his goal, and again he was fired upon. One of the
soldiers was exposed as Shoz-Dijiji turned toward them. Ah, if he had
his rifle! But he had no rifle and so he fired with his six-shooter, and
though he missed he made all three withdraw behind rocks and bushes, and
again he moved quickly to a new location.

For an hour this running fight continued until the Black Bear succeeded
in attaining a hilltop so thickly strewn with boulders that he could lie
in comparative safety and hold his fortress. If he could but hold it
until darkness had come there would be no further need for apprehension;
but when he saw one of the soldiers creeping warily back toward the two
remaining horses that they had left where the fight commenced he guessed
that new trouble lay in store for him, and so he concentrated his fire
upon this man.

The other Mexicans, however, had no mind to see their fellow slain and
their plan frustrated, so they, in turn, concentrated their fire upon
Shoz-Dijiji. Bullets flew thick and fast, pattering upon boulders,
plowing into soft earth, ricocheting, whistling, screaming, and the
soldier won safely out of range of Shoz-Dijiji’s Colt, reached the
horses, mounted one of them, and galloped off toward Casas Grandes.

The Apache glanced at the sun, quickly computed the distance to Casas
Grandes and the remaining hours of daylight and reached the conclusion
that reinforcements would arrive long before dark. His ammunition was
running low. Three miles away the mountains offered him sanctuary. It
was better to run for them now with only two _carabinas_ firing at him
than to wait until there were perhaps fifty. He emptied his six-shooter
rapidly at the cover behind which the enemy lay; then he reloaded and
fired twice again, after which he rose quickly and, bending low, ran for
the mountains, zigzagging, dodging, twisting. Bullets whinged past him;
bullets spattered him with dirt and gravel; there were bullets
everywhere but where Shoz-Dijiji was.

His mind definitely determined upon a plan of action, the Apache did not
deviate from it. He passed many places where he might have found shelter
and stopped the pursuit, but he ran on, trusting to his speed and the
excitement of the soldiers to preserve him from their bullets. He
adopted the tactics of the hunted coyote, turning quickly at right
angles to his line of retreat where brush grew that would hide him for a
moment from his pursuers.

When he emerged again it was to the right or left of where he had
disappeared and once again were the soldiers required to relocate their
target. Occasionally he turned and fired at them as he ran, which
further disconcerted them. When he reached the dense brush at the foot
of the first mountain mass he knew that the Mexicans had lost him, and
they knew it, too.

Reeking with sweat, caked with dust, hot, thirsty, cursing
mellifluously, the soldiers squatted, their backs against great rocks,
rolling _cigarrillos_ while they waited for reinforcements.

From a high place upon the side of the mountain, Shoz-Dijiji saw them
and grinned. He also saw many horsemen galloping toward the hills from
Casas Grandes. Again he grinned.

That night he slept in safety deep within the Mother Mountains, far up
the side of a mighty peak in a little crevice where a spring rose and
sank again before it reached the precipice. Only God, the mountain goat
and the Apache had knowledge of this place.

It was cold there and Shoz-Dijiji was almost naked. He was
uncomfortable, of course, but the Apache is above discomfort when the
call of the war trail sounds. Burning heat by day or freezing cold by
night are to him but a part of the game. He does not complain, but
prides himself upon his strength to withstand hardship that would
destroy the morale of any other warrior in the world, beat him down,
weaken him, kill him.

For two weeks Shoz-Dijiji sought his chance to approach the hacienda of
the rich Mexican who owned the splendid horses that were known from one
end of Mexico to the other; but always there were the soldiers. They
seemed to know the purpose of his coming, for patrols appeared to hover
constantly about the vicinity of the noble herd, so that the Black Bear
had no opportunity for reconnaissance.

Of course they did not know, and it was only chance and the regal
hospitality of the rich Mexican that kept them so often and so long
where Shoz-Dijiji wished they were not. He fretted and chafed at the
delay for the time was almost come when he should be back with the fifty
ponies for the father of Ish-kay-nay. Soon the moon would be full again
and if he had not come Ish-kay-nay might think him dead.

In Sonora a savage chieftain had been raiding with a handful of his
fierce warriors. Now he was slinking northward bearing his loot on
stolen mules. It was Juh, chief of the Ned-ni; cruel, relentless Juh;
Juh the Butcher. He crossed the Sierra Madre and dropped down into
Chihuahua just above Janos. Mexican herders saw him and word was sent to
the officer in command of the troops camped by Casas Grandes. Thus did
Juh, unguessing, befriend Shoz-Dijiji, for the soldiers broke their camp
and rode away toward Janos, leaving the field clear for the Black Bear.

The soldiers did not catch Juh, for that wily old villain pushed on by
night and by day until the boundary lay south of him. Then he turned
west and entered Arizona and the domain of Na-chi-ta, son of
Cochise—the domain of the Cho-kon-en. Here, he had heard, Geronimo was
camped with his Be-don-ko-he. There was a very good reason that never
left the determined mind of Juh why he wanted to visit the Be-don-ko-he,
for he had not relinquished the hope that he might yet win Ish-kay-nay,
nor did he care by what means, being as little concerned by questions of
ethics as are most white men.

One day his party came upon a little pinto stallion feeding upon the
sparse vegetation in the bottom of a coulee, a pinto stallion that
looked up and nickered when he caught the familiar scent spoor of his
master’s people, and then came limping toward them.

Juh recognized Nejeunee and wondered. When the animal followed along
with them he made no effort to turn it back, and so he came to the camp
of Geronimo with the war pony of Shoz-Dijiji limping in the rear.

The finding of Nejeunee lame and at a distance from the camp of the
Be-don-ko-he had set Juh to thinking. It might mean any one of a number
of things but particularly it suggested the likelihood of Shoz-Dijiji’s
absence; for a good war pony is cherished by its owner, and it seemed
improbable that if Shoz-Dijiji was with the tribe that he would have
permitted his pony to remain thus at the mercy of the first band of
raiders, white or red, that might chance upon it. Unquestionably,
Shoz-Dijiji had ridden his pony from camp and something, equally
unquestionable, had happened to the pony. Perhaps at the same time
something had happened to Shoz-Dijiji.

Juh sought the father of Ish-kay-nay and renewed his importuning of the
old warrior for the hand of his daughter, nor did he mention
Shoz-Dijiji, but he learned all that he wished to know—that Ish-kay-nay
had accepted the advances of his rival and that the latter had gone to
find the fifty ponies that the old man had demanded.

“He promised Ish-kay-nay that he would return with the full moon,” said
the old man, “but the time is almost gone and nothing has been heard of
him. Perhaps he will not return.”

Cunning, unscrupulous, Juh seized upon his opportunity. “He will not
return,” he said. “Shoz-Dijiji is dead.” The old man looked pleased. “In
Sonora he was killed by the Mexicans. There we were told that a young
warrior had been killed while attempting to drive off a bunch of horses.
We did not know who he was until we found his pony. It was lame. We
brought it with us. Talk with the girl. If she will feed and water my
pony, come to me. Juh will give the father of Ish-kay-nay fifteen
ponies.”

“The other was to have given me fifty,” said the old man.

Juh laughed. “That was talk,” he said. “How could he give you fifty
ponies when he had but three? I have fifteen ponies; that is better than
fifty that do not exist.”

“You have more than fifteen ponies,” the old man reminded him.

“Yes, I have many more, and I am a great chief. Juh can do many things
for the father of Ish-kay-nay.”

“Twenty-five ponies,” suggested the other, preferring twenty-five ponies
to the chance that Juh would forget the less concrete suggestion of
future obligation.

“Fifteen ponies and five mules,” said Juh.

“Twenty-five ponies. The girl is a good daughter. My heart will be heavy
with sorrow when she is gone.”

“Twenty ponies and five mules,” snapped Juh with finality, turning upon
his heel.

“And a rifle,” added the father of Ish-kay-nay.

“And a rifle,” acquiesced the chief of the Ned-ni.

“And ammunition,” exclaimed the old man, hurriedly; but the deal was
made on the basis of twenty ponies, five mules and a rifle.

Ish-kay-nay, sitting beneath the shade of a tree, was sewing pretty
beads upon a bit of buckskin, using an awl and deer sinew. She hummed
contentedly to herself as she planned for the future—the long, happy
future with Shoz-Dijiji. She would make many pretty things for them both
and for their tepee. Later she would make other pretty things, tiny
things, for future war chiefs. Her father found her thus.

“Shoz-Dijiji will not return,” he said.

She looked up at him quickly, sensing a new note in a statement that she
had already heard many times since her lover had departed. Heretofore
the statement had implied only hope, now it was redolent of sweet
relief.

“Why?” she asked.

“He is dead.”

The heart of Ish-kay-nay went cold and numb within her, but the
expression upon her face underwent no change. “Who says so?” she
demanded.

“Juh.”

“Either Juh lies, or he has himself slain Shoz-Dijiji,” said the girl.

“Juh does not lie, nor has he slain Shoz-Dijiji.” Then he told her all
that Juh had told him. “I am an old man,” he continued. “I have not long
to live. Before I die I would see my daughter, whom I love, safe with a
great warrior. Juh is a great warrior. He will treat you well. He has
many women and you will not have to work hard. If he ties his pony
before our tepee Ish-kay-nay will lead it to water and feed it?”

“I do not believe that Shoz-Dijiji is dead,” she said.

“If you did, would you go to Juh?”

“I would not care what became of me if Shoz-Dijiji were dead.”

“He is dead,” said the old man.

“The moon is not yet full,” urged Ish-kay-nay.

“If Shoz-Dijiji has not returned when next klego-na-ay rides across the
heavens will Ish-kay-nay listen with favor to the words of Juh?”

“If Shoz-Dijiji has not returned then,” she said wearily, “Juh may tie
his pony before our tepee. Then Ish-kay-nay will know what to do. She
does not give her answer before.”

This word the old man bore to Juh and the two had to be satisfied with
it, though Juh, knowing Ish-kay-nay of old, would have preferred
something more definite as he had no stomach for another public rebuff.

Day after day early morning found an Apache girl standing solitary and
sad upon a commanding mountain looking ever with straining eyes out
toward the south—looking for a mighty figure, a loved figure, a figure
that never came. Sometimes she stood there all day long, watching,
waiting.

She hated to go to the tepee of her father, for the old man talked
always of Juh and of her duty, of the honor of being the squaw of a
great chief; and so she crept there late at night and hid in her
blankets, feigning sleep, sleep that would not come. Often she went to
another tepee where an aging man and an aging woman sat silent and
sorrowing, to the tepee of Geronimo went Ish-kay-nay, mingling her
voiceless agony with theirs.

One day old Nakay-do-klunni, the izze-nantan, rode into camp of the
Be-don-ko-he and Ish-kay-nay went to him, asking if he could learn from
the spirits the truth about her lover; but Nakay-do-klunni was full of
another matter and put her off, though not without a thought for
business. Perhaps later, he told her, but it would require big medicine
and that was expensive. She offered him her little treasures and he
promised to see what he could do about it.

When she told her father what she had done he went to Juh and, later,
Juh went to Nakay-do-klunni; but Nakay-do-klunni was full of another
matter, though he did manage to lay it from his mind temporarily when
Juh mentioned a pair of field glasses and a Colt with a mother-of-pearl
grip.

“Send the girl to my tepee in the morning,” he said to Juh, for that
night he was too full of this other matter, and when the evening meal
had been eaten and the warriors had gathered to smoke and make talk
Nakay-do-klunni told them strange things.

“I had a dream,” he said in a voice that all might hear. “The spirits of
many izze-nantans came and spoke to me and with them were the spirits of
all the war chiefs of the Apaches who are yah-ik-tee. And the
izze-nantans gave me the power to raise the dead and make them live, and
the war chiefs said that they would gather together the spirits of all
the warriors who were dead and bring them to the Tonto Basin on a
certain day, and that Geronimo, the war chief of all the Apaches, must
come there and bring all the living warriors of the six tribes: the
warriors of the Be-don-ko-he, of the Chi-hen-ne, of the Sierra Blanca,
of the Chi-e-a-hen, of the Cho-kon-en, of the Ned-ni.

“When they are all gathered, the living and the dead, I,
Nakay-do-klunni, izze-nantan of the Shis-Inday, will make the dead
warriors to live again so that their numbers will be as the needles upon
the pine trees; when they take the war trail the earth will shake and
when they raise the war cry the heavens will be rent asunder.

“Upon that night there will be a great feast and a great dance and
Nakay-do-klunni will make strong medicine that will turn the bullets of
our enemies from the breasts of our warriors; and upon the next day we
will take the warpath against the white-eyes and they will all be killed
and the Shis-Inday will again hold undisputed sway over the country that
Usen gave them.

“These are true words and to prove it Nakay-do-klunni will teach the
Be-don-ko-he the dance that the spirits of the warriors and their women
taught Nakay-do-klunni, the dance that all the peoples of the Shis-Inday
will dance upon the great night before they take the war trail against
the white-eyes.

“The day is near. Seven times will the sun rise and no more before the
day comes when the Shis-Inday will be rid forever of the hated
white-eyes and all their kind. Then will the buffalo and the deer and
the antelope come back to the country of the Shis-Inday from which the
white-eyed men have driven them, and we shall live again as we did in
the days of our fathers. I have spoken. Come and I will show you the
dance, the spirit dance of your dead.”

Arranging the warriors and the women in files radiating from a common
center, at which he stood, and facing him, so that the formation
resembled the spokes of a fellyless wheel of which the izze-nantan was
the hub, he started the dancing while two old sub-chiefs beat upon
es-a-da-deds. As they danced Nakay-do-klunni chanted weird gibberish and
scattered the sacred hoddentin upon the dancers in prodigal profusion
and the drummers beat with increasing rapidity.

Occasionally a wild cry would break from the lips of some dancer and be
taken up by others until the forest and the mountains rang with the
savage sounds. Until morning came and many had dropped with exhaustion
the dance continued. The Be-don-ko-he had worked themselves into a
frenzy of religious fanaticism, just as had the Cho-kon-en, the
Chi-hen-ne and the other tribes that Nakay-do-klunni had visited, just
as the old izze-nantan had known that they would.




                              CHAPTER XIV
                            “FIFTY APACHES”


IT was nearly noon of the following day before Ish-kay-nay could
arouse the exhausted izze-nantan, for the spirit dance had drawn heavily
upon his physical resources and, too, it had left him cross and surly;
for the cha-ja-la is a hard task master to its devotees, even of a
single evening, and Nakay-do-klunni had been steadily at it for weeks in
his effort to arouse the scattered tribes. It meant much to
Nakay-do-klunni for he had long since sensed the antagonism of the
whites toward the members of his precious profession and he saw his
powers, and also his emoluments, not alone waning, but approaching total
eclipse, if something radical was not compassed to thwart the activities
of the pindah lickoyee. Power and emoluments were the life of
Nakay-do-klunni.

He glared fiercely at Ish-kay-nay. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“To know if Shoz-Dijiji lives and will return,” she said.

Her words reminded the medicine man of something, of a pair of field
glasses and a pearl-handled Colt, and he relaxed. “Sit down,” he
mumbled. “Nakay-do-klunni make medicine, talk with spirits, you wait.”

Ish-kay-nay sat down. The medicine man opened a beaded buckskin bag and
took forth some pieces of lightning-riven wood, a root, a stone, a piece
of turquoise, a glass bead and a square bit of buckskin upon which
colored designs had been painted. All the time he mumbled strange words
that Ish-kay-nay only knew were sacred, all-powerful and terrible.
Nakay-do-klunni did not know even this much about them.

He sprinkled hoddentin upon the potent paraphernalia of his wizardry,
upon Ish-kay-nay, upon himself; he tossed it to the four winds. Then he
pointed toward a bag that Ish-kay-nay clutched in her hand, and grunted.
The girl understood, opened the bag and displayed a few bits of the
blue-green dukliji, some colored beads—her treasures. Wide-eyed,
tearless, she looked at Nakay-do-klunni, wondering, hoping that this
would be enough to insure strong medicine from the great izze-nantan—if
her all would be enough to bring her word of Shoz-Dijiji, of her lover.

Nakay-do-klunni scraped it all into his palm, examined it, dropped it
into his own bag, then he closed his eyes and sat in silence, as though
listening. For several minutes he sat thus and Ish-kay-nay was greatly
impressed by this evidence of supernatural power, for was not
Nakay-do-klunni even now in communication with the spirits? When he
opened his eyes and looked at her little Ish-kay-nay came as near
swooning as it is possible to conceive of an Apache. Her lips parted,
panting, she awaited the verdict.

“Shoz-Dijiji not come back,” announced Nakay-do-klunni. He waited
impressively for a moment. “Shoz-Dijiji dead!” He started to give her
the harrowing details, as explained to him by Juh, but the girl had
risen and was walking away. What did Ish-kay-nay care for the details?
It was enough to know that Shoz-Dijiji was dead, that he would not come
back, that she was never to see him again.

Her face betrayed nothing of the terrifying, withering emotion that
scorched her brain. Erect, proud, almost majestic, the little Indian
girl walked out of the camp of the Be-don-ko-he and took her sorrow with
her. Far up into the mountains she took it, to a place that she and
Shoz-Dijiji had known together. Until night she lay there where none
might see her, her supple frame racked by sobs, giving herself wholly to
her grief; nor all during the long night did she move, but lay there in
the awful silence of the mountain, smothering her moans in its rocky
bosom.

When she returned to camp in the morning her eyes were swollen, but dry.
Her father was waiting for her, anxiously, for suicide, though rare, was
not unknown among the Apaches. He told her that upon the second day the
tribe was setting out for the Tonto Basin country; that there was going
to be war and that all the pindah lickoyee would be killed. Everything
would be different then with the Shis-Inday and Juh would be a very
great chief indeed, for all the dead Ned-nis would come back and join
the tribe. He urged upon her the necessity for immediately accepting the
advances of the chief.

Ish-kay-nay was apathetic. She did not care what happened to her now.
Without Shoz-Dijiji there could be no happiness. It might then as well
be Juh as another. It would please her father. Listlessly she gave her
assent. That night the war pony of the chief of the Ned-ni was tethered
before her tepee, and when the tribe broke camp to go to Tonto Basin and
upon the war trail Juh rode off alone with Ish-kay-nay, up into the
hills.

In the foothills near Casas Grandes Shoz-Dijiji lay watching the herd of
the rich Mexican for several days after the troops withdrew, for, being
an Apache, he must reconnoiter carefully, painstakingly, before he
struck. At night he crept down and watched and listened and planned very
close to the corral where the horses were and the house where the
vaqueros slept, until he knew the habits and the customs of the men and
saw that they had not changed since last he had been there.

Then came the night that he had chosen for the venture. In the silence
of the midnight he crept down to the corral, a high-walled enclosure
built to protect its valued contents from such as he. Heavy gates,
strongly barred and padlocked would have defied the best efforts of
several men. This Shoz-Dijiji well knew and so he did not bother with
them. When the time came they would open.

He moved directly to the far side of the corral, as far from the
sleeping quarters of the vaqueros as possible, and waited there,
listening. Satisfied, he leaped and seized the top of the wall, making
no noise. In equal silence he drew himself up and very gently lowered
his body to the ground inside. The horses nearer him became restless.
One of them snorted. Shoz-Dijiji whispered soothingly soft Spanish
words. All the time he stood very still and presently the animals
quieted.

In half an hour they were accustomed to his presence, were becoming
accustomed to his scent. A few approached, sniffing him. Gradually he
commenced moving toward the nearest. It walked away, but did not appear
to be terrified. For hours Shoz-Dijiji worked patiently. All depended
upon his ability to get close to one horse quickly and without
terrifying it; but it was almost dawn before he succeeded and quite dawn
before he was able to loop a rope about its lower jaw.

It was only a short time thereafter that he heard the vaqueros moving
about. Shoz-Dijiji grinned. With all their care there was this one
vulnerable point in their daily routine; it consisted in the fact that
they were accustomed to turn the herd from the corral before they
saddled their own horses that were kept in a smaller enclosure nearby
the main corral. The horses went at once to water, close to the hacienda
and in plain view, and by the time they had drunk the vaqueros were
saddled and ready to drive them out onto the range. All this Shoz-Dijiji
knew.

Shoz-Dijiji smelled the breakfasts cooking and the aroma of tobacco.
Then he heard someone at the gates. It would be one man, it always had
been; there was no need of more than one to unlock and swing the
portals. The gates swung aside. The horses, crowding, jostling one
another, went through with heads well raised, effectually blocking from
the view of the single vaquero anything that might have been transpiring
in the corral behind them, if he had been seeking to discover; but he
was seeking to discover nothing. He was only concerned with the business
of inhaling his _cigarrillo_ and digesting his breakfast.

Many times had he done this same letting out of the horses of a morning.
There was nothing about it and never had been anything about it to focus
upon it any interested attention—at least not until this morning. Even
at first he did not know what an interesting thing was going on there
right in the corral almost under his nose, for the horses’ heads were
held high and he could not have seen beyond them had he looked;
furthermore he did not look. So he did not see that a war chief of the
Be-don-ko-he, the son of the war chief of all the Apaches, had slipped a
naked leg over the back of a bright bay gelding and was lying close
along the animal’s side.

Most of the horses were out of the corral when the vaquero was startled
to hear a war whoop almost in his ears—a war whoop that was immediately
followed by the crack of a revolver. The horses were startled, too.
Snorting and with heads even higher than before, the last of them rushed
through the gateway, terrified. Behind them, whooping, firing a
revolver, came a terrifying thing. They broke first into a gallop and
then into a mad run, but still the shrieking, howling creature clung to
their rear or flank, circling them, turning them, heading them toward
the north.

As it passed the startled vaquero he caught a fleeting glimpse of a
moccasined foot and a painted face and he drew his six-shooter, but he
dared not fire; for did he not know the high value that his master
placed upon these dearly beloved animals of his, and could he shoot
without endangering some of them? Instead he turned and ran to notify
his fellows, but he met them running toward him, attracted by the whoops
and the shots. Already the herd was hidden by its own dust cloud.

“Apaches!” shouted the vaquero, but they did not need to be told
that—they had heard that dread cry before. “Fifty of them,” shouted the
man, running toward the small corral where their mounts were confined.

By the time they had saddled and bridled and ridden out the dust cloud
was far away, and though they pursued it they were, as all experienced
Indian fighters should be, keenly on the lookout for an ambuscade.
Knowing that there had been fifty warriors in the party that had run off
their stock, it was only natural that they should expect a part of that
number to lie in wait for them along the way. Of necessity this slowed
down the pursuit, but Shoz-Dijiji did not slow down, he kept the herd at
top speed as long as he could do so; and even after it tired and was no
longer terrified he pushed it hard along the trail that he had chosen.

The horses had been without water since the previous day and they had
run for many miles under the ever-increasing heat of the sun. Now it
poured down upon them. They were choked with dust and reeked sweat, and
the terrible thing behind them would not let them turn back toward
water; but presently, toward noon, the thing happened that Shoz-Dijiji
knew would happen, so carefully does the Apache plan each smallest
detail.

Far ahead, miles and miles away, lay water upon the trail that
Shoz-Dijiji had thus purposely selected, and somehow the horses knew
that it was there as horses seem always to know. No longer did the
Apache have difficulty in keeping the great herd upon the right trail,
in preventing it from turning back. On the contrary his own mount,
having carried him half a day, found difficulty in keeping pace with its
fellows.

How he took them, alone and unaided, across those weary, dusty, burning
miles, through scorching deserts and rugged mountains equally scorching,
along a trail beset by enemies, pursued by wrathful vaqueros, would well
have been the subject of a deathless epic had Shoz-Dijiji lived in the
days of Homer.

Rests found him always where there were water and grass, sometimes at
the end of a long day, or again at the close of a long night; for
Shoz-Dijiji, more tireless than the horses, could travel twenty hours on
end, and more if necessary. He caught fleeting moments of sleep while
the horses watered and fed, always lying on the trail behind them that
they must disturb him if they turned back; and turn back they did on
more than a single occasion, causing the Apache many an hour of hard and
perilous riding; but he was determined to bring them through without the
loss of a single horse if that was humanly possible of accomplishment.
He would give the father of Ish-kay-nay fifty horses and he would still
have fifty for himself, and fifty such horses as these would make
Shoz-Dijiji a rich man.

He thought all of the time about Ish-kay-nay. How proud she would be!
For Shoz-Dijiji appreciated well and fully the impressiveness of his
exploit. If he had been acclaimed as a great warrior before, this would
go far toward establishing him as one of the greatest. Forevermore
mothers would tell their children of the bravery and prowess of
Shoz-Dijiji, nor was he either mistaken or overvain. Shoz-Dijiji had
indeed performed a feat worthy of the greatest heroes of his race.

Already he had crossed the boundary and was safe in the country of the
Cho-kon-en, and all that last night he urged the tired horses on that he
might reach camp in the morning. His arms and his heart ached for
Ish-kay-nay—little Ish-kay-nay, the playfellow of his childhood, the
sweetheart of today, the mate of the morrow.

Toward dawn he came to water and let the herd drink. He would rest it
there for an hour and then push on, reaching camp before the excessive
heat of this early September day had become oppressive. Quenching his
own thirst and that of the horse he rode, Shoz-Dijiji lay down to sleep,
his crude bridle rein tied to his wrist.

The horses, tired and footsore, were quiet. Some of them browsed a
little upon the dried, yellow grasses; many lay down to rest. The sun
rose and looked down upon the little mountain meadow, upon the drowsing
horses and the sleeping man.

Another looked down, also—a tall, gaunt man with cheeks like parchment
and a mustache that had once been red, but was now, from over exposure
to the Arizona sun, a sickly straw color. He had a reddish beard that
was not yet old enough to have bleached. Upon the blue sleeves of his
jacket were yellow chevrons. Sergeant Olson of “D” Troop looked down and
saw exactly what the sun saw—an Apache buck, habited for the war trail,
asleep beside a bunch of stolen stock. Sergeant Olson needed but a
glance to assure his experienced cavalry eye that these were no Indian
cayuses.

He withdrew below the edge of the hill from which he had been
reconnoitering and transmitted a gesture of silence toward other men
dressed in blue who sat their horses below him, and beckoned to an
officer who quickly rode upward and dismounted. Presently the officer
shared the secret with Sergeant Olson and the sun. He issued whispered
orders and forty men rode down a narrow ravine and crossed a ridge into
the canyon below Shoz-Dijiji.

The sun, crossing the withers of Shoz-Dijiji’s horse, shone upon the
warrior’s face and he awoke. He arose and mounted his horse. Sergeant
Olson, looking down from above, watched him. If he went down the canyon,
all right; if he went up, all wrong—there were no soldiers up the
canyon. Shoz-Dijiji circled the herd and started it up the canyon. This
did not suit Sergeant Olson; anyhow, the only good Indian is a dead
Indian. The noncommissioned officer drew his army Colt from its holster,
took accurate aim and fired. Who could blame him?

Two days before his bunkie had been shot down in cold blood at Cibicu
Creek by an Apache scout who was in the service and the uniform of the
United States. He had seen Captain Hentig murdered, shot in the back, by
another scout named Mosby; he had seen Bird and Sondergros and Sullivan,
and others killed; and, he smiled even then at the recollection, he had
seen Ahrens, a “D” Troop bugler, put three bullets into the head of that
old devil, Nakay-do-klunni. Sergeant Olson called him Bobbydoklinny.
Tough old buzzard, he was! Those three forty-fives in his cabezas hadn’t
killed him, and Smith, another “D” Troop sergeant, had found him
crawling about on the ground after dark and had finished him with an
axe—good old Smith!

Shooting down at a considerable angle from a considerable distance above
one’s target is difficult. No, shooting down is not difficult, but
hitting your target is. Sergeant Olson missed. With an oath he stood up
and commenced firing rapidly and Shoz-Dijiji, seeing him immediately,
returned the fire. Sergeant Olson emitted an explosive oath and dived
forward upon the brow of the hill. There he lay, very quiet, while
Shoz-Dijiji urged his horse up the steep canyon side opposite. It is the
Apache’s first instinct when surprised to seek some rugged, inaccessible
spot from which he can survey without being surveyed, and always a place
difficult or impossible for horses.

From the top of the hogback Shoz-Dijiji looked over at Sergeant Olson,
who had not moved. He saw no other soldiers there, but he knew where
there was one soldier there were others, usually many of them. He cocked
his ears. Ah, what was that? From down the canyon came unmistakable
evidence of the clumsy approach of clumsy white-eyes. They made enough
noise, thought Shoz-Dijiji, to have been a great army, but he knew that
they were not. All the members of the six tribes including their women
and children could have passed along this same trail with a tenth the
commotion—only the soft swish of their moccasined feet.

Shoz-Dijiji hid his horse on the far side of the hogback and crept back
to watch. He saw the soldiers come, and hate and disappointment surged
through him in hot, savage waves as he watched them round up his hundred
horses and drive them back down the canyon, while a detachment from the
troop followed upward in search of Indians.

Others went up the opposite side of the canyon to look for Olson; and as
they found him Shoz-Dijiji mounted his horse below the edge of the
hogback and rode down toward the valley, paralleling the course taken by
the soldiers and his horses, loath to give them up, hoping against hope
that some circumstance might give him the opportunity to win them back,
ready to risk his life, if need be, for the price of Ish-kay-nay and
happiness.

Bitter were the thoughts of Shoz-Dijiji as he followed the troopers who
had stolen his herd, for by the hoary standards of the Apache, ages old,
it _was_ theft and the herd was his. Had he not taken it by virtue of
courage and cunning, winning it fairly? Had the soldiers been taking his
herd for themselves there would have been less anger in the heart of
Shoz-Dijiji, for he could accord to others the same rights that he
demanded for himself, but they were not.

Experience had taught him that the fool white-eyes took stock from the
Indians and tried to return it to those from whom the Indians had taken
it, profiting in no way. Therefore he believed that they did so purely
for the purpose of persecuting the Indians, just as they had taken their
water and their lands and ruined their hunting grounds, which was, in
the sight of Usen and his children, but a part of the plan of the pindah
lickoyee to exterminate the Shis-Inday.

Did not all men know that the thing the pindah lickoyee called
government had hired many hunters to exterminate the buffalo and all
other game, thus forcing the Indians to remain on the reservations and
beg for rations or starve? Bitter were the thoughts of Shoz-Dijiji as he
followed the troopers down toward the plain.

From behind a knoll near the mouth of the canyon the Black Bear saw the
soldiers of “D” Troop drive the horses out upon the plain and toward the
north. As he knew all the vast domain of his people Shoz-Dijiji knew
this plain, knew it as he knew the wrinkles in the face of
Sons-ee-ah-ray, knew the route the soldiers would take across it, knew
the windings of the dry wash that cut deeply through it from the
canyon’s mouth. He waited where he was until a rise of ground hid him
from the troopers entering the plain below.

Cautiously the Apache rode down into the wash and along its dry, sandy
bottom where the steep, high banks hid him from the sight of the
soldiers. Where the wash took a broad sweep to the east he urged his
mount to a run. The sand beneath its feet gave forth no dust nor any
sound.

The soldiers, moving in a more direct line, were drawing away from him
as Shoz-Dijiji raced, a silent shadow, toward the destination he had
chosen. The wash turned toward the north and then again in a westerly
direction, making a wide curve and coming again very close to the trail
along which the soldiers were driving Shoz-Dijiji’s herd. Toward this
point the Apache was racing, in his mind a bold plan, such a plan as
only an Apache mind might conceive—of all warriors the most cautious,
also, of all warriors, the most fearless when emergency demanded
fearlessness.

Other warriors might pit themselves gallantly and gloriously against
great odds in defense of the weak, in furtherance of some lofty ideal or
for the honor of a flag; but it remained for an Apache, armed with a
six-shooter, a knife, a bow and some arrows, to seriously conceive the
idea that he might successfully attack ten fully armed cavalrymen for
the sake of some captured loot! But perhaps we are unfair to
Shoz-Dijiji, for was there not also Ish-kay-nay?

Where the trail came again close to the wash there was a way up its
steep side to the plain above, a way that Shoz-Dijiji knew. It had been
made by range stock crossing at this point. When the last of the
soldiers had passed it they were startled by a loud Apache whoop and the
bark of a six-shooter. Yelling, firing, Shoz-Dijiji charged straight
toward the rear of the herd, straight toward the ten mounted troopers.

The horses broke into a gallop, frightened by the yells and the shots.
The soldiers, sure that there must be other hostiles hiding in the wash,
fired at Shoz-Dijiji and then turned their attention toward the point
where they expected the main force of the enemy to develop, toward the
wash. Shoz-Dijiji, still yelling, drew away behind the racing herd.

But only for a moment were the troopers disconcerted by the suddenness,
by the sheer effrontery of the attack. A sergeant raised his carbine to
his shoulder, his mount, well-trained, stood motionless as its rider
slowly dropped the sights upon the bright bay gelding, already a long
shot for a sharpshooter, even at a fixed target.

The sergeant pressed the trigger. There was a puff of smoke from the
black powder and the bright bay gelding lurched heavily to the ground,
turning a complete somersault, hurling its rider far ahead. Over and
over rolled Shoz-Dijiji, still clinging to his precious six-shooter, and
came to his feet unhurt. A quick glance showed him the herd well out of
his reach. No chance there to gain a new mount. To the rear he saw ten
angry cavalrymen spurring toward him, firing as they came.

Shoz-Dijiji was trained to think quickly, and as the bullets hurled up
spurts of dust about him he vanished again into the wash that had given
him up.




                               CHAPTER XV
                                 HUNTED


FOLLOWING the battle at Cibicu Creek Juh and his warriors clung to the
rear and flanks of the retreating cavalry, menacing, harassing, all
through the two nerve-racking days of the march to Fort Apache. As his
warriors surrounded the fort, firing constantly upon its defenders, Juh
went among the Apaches on the reservation, telling them of the slaying
of Nakay-do-klunni, of the great victory he had won at Cibicu Creek,
promising them that if they would join him the pindah lickoyee would be
destroyed to the last man and the Apaches would again rule supreme over
their country; nor, in view of visual proof they had had of the retreat
of the soldiers, was it difficult to assure them that their hour had
struck.

By morning Fort Apache was surrounded by yelling savages, pouring a rain
of fire upon the breastworks that had been hastily thrown up by the
troops. Scouting parties were abroad watching for the first sign of the
reinforcements that might be expected to come to the rescue of the
beleaguered post, and to destroy the civilians that attempted to escape.

Consumed by hatred of the whites, incited by the fiery exhortations of
their chiefs and medicine men to the extermination of the foe, these
scouting parties scourged the country surrounding Fort Apache with all
the zeal of religious fanatics.

At Seven Mile Hill they fell upon three men escaping from the post and
after a brisk battle killed them and burned their wagon; a few miles
south another party lay in wait for two civilians and shot them from
ambush; they killed the mail carrier from Black River Station, and shot
old Fibs, who had the government beef contract, as he sat in his adobe
shack, and ran off all his cattle.

And while the warriors of Juh, chief of the Ned-ni, terrorized the
country about Fort Apache his messengers rode to Geronimo and to
Na-chi-ta urging the Be-don-ko-he and the Cho-kon-en to join him, and
the beating of the es-a-da-ded broke the stillness of the Arizona nights
as painted braves leaped and shouted in the frenzy of the war dance the
length and breadth of Apacheland.

Up from Fort Thomas rode the first reinforcements for Fort Apache,
spurred on by the rumor that Colonel Carr and his entire command had
been massacred, while from many a hilltop the Ned-ni scouts watched them
and took word to Juh. Gathering their ponies and the stolen herds whose
numbers had greatly augmented their own the Ned-ni set out toward the
southwest to join with Geronimo and the Be-don-ko-he.

Down toward the border, raiding, massacring, fighting off the pursuing
troops, the savage horde moved with a rapidity that is possible only to
Apaches in the uptorn, burning country across which they chose to lead
the suffering troops. Na-chi-ta joined them with his Cho-kon-en, and
there was Mangas and Nanáy and Kut-le and many another famous warrior to
bring terror and destruction to the pindah lickoyee, and with them went
their women, their children and their herds.

Northward, searching for his people, went Shoz-Dijiji, dodging,
doubling, hiding like a beast of prey upon which the hunters are
closing, for in whatever direction he turned he saw soldiers or signs of
soldiers. Never had Shoz-Dijiji seen so many soldiers and they all
seemed to be marching in the same direction, toward Fort Apache. The
young war chief wondered what this movement of troops portended. Had the
reservation Indians arisen, were his people on the warpath, or were the
pindah lickoyee planning a surprise attack in force?

Shoz-Dijiji could not know, he could only guess that something momentous
was afoot, and that where the soldiers of the pindah lickoyee went there
would be Apaches. So he kept to the direction the troops were taking,
longing to meet one of his own kind, watching always for signals.
Patient is the Apache, but the strain of prolonged apprehension was
telling upon the nerves of Shoz-Dijiji. Had it been only a question as
to the whereabouts or the fate of the Apache people Shoz-Dijiji would
have been less seriously affected; but the whereabouts and the fate of
Ish-kay-nay were involved and that was by far a more serious
consideration.

It irked Shoz-Dijiji to think of returning empty-handed. He knew the
raillery to which he would be subjected and which he must accept in
silence. He had failed and so there was nothing to say, for in the
pandect of the Apaches there is no justification for failure. It would
still have been within the range of possibilities to have picked up some
horses were it not for all these soldiers; and so to his other reasons
for hating them there was added this other, the further frustration of
his marriage plan.

It was, therefore, a rather bitter, bloodthirsty savage who came
suddenly face to face with a young white girl where no white girl, young
or old, should have been upon this September day in Arizona, with the
Apaches burning, killing, ravishing across half a dozen counties. She
sat beneath the scant shade of a small bush in a ravine well removed
from any trail, and that was why it happened that Shoz-Dijiji was face
to face with her before he was aware that there was another human being
near.

At sight of him the girl sprang to her feet, drawing her Colt, an act
that was duplicated with even greater celerity by the young brave; but
neither fired.

“Shoz-Dijiji!” exclaimed the girl, lowering the muzzle of her weapon. A
sudden, friendly smile illuminated her face. Perhaps it was the smile
that saved her from sudden death. Shoz-Dijiji was an Apache. His
standards of right and wrong were not as ours, and further, he had only
one set, and they applied to his friends—for his relations with the
enemies of his people he had none. But there must have been something in
that friendly smile that influenced him more surely than all the
teachings of his elders, more potent even than all his natural
inclinations.

Shoz-Dijiji returned his six-shooter to its holster and smiled back at
her.

“Wichita Billings,” he said.

“What in the world are you doing here?” demanded the girl. “Don’t you
know that there are soldiers everywhere hunting the Cheeracows? Oh, I
forgot! If you could only _sabe_.”

“Here,” thought Shoz-Dijiji, “I may be able to learn what is happening
between the soldiers and my people.” So, as often happens, the ignorant
savage _sabed_ when it was to his interest.

“Me savvy,” announced Shoz-Dijiji. “Shoz-Dijiji talk English good.”

“Why, you told me when I saw you before that you didn’t,” exclaimed the
girl.

Shoz-Dijiji smiled. “Me savvy,” he repeated. “Tell me where all these
soldiers go? Where are my people that you call Cheeracows?”

“They’ve gone out—they’re on the warpath—and they’re just naturally
raisin’ hell. Didn’t you know, or—Shoz-Dijiji, are you with a war
party?”

“No, Shoz-Dijiji alone. Been away. Come back. No find people.
Shoz-Dijiji is looking for his people, that is all. You tell him. Where
are they?”

“They been mostly around Fort Apache,” said the girl. “There was a fight
at Cibicu Creek and they killed a lot of soldiers. Then they attacked
the fort. Old Whoa was leading them.”

Shoz-Dijiji, watching the girl as she talked, was struck by her beauty.
To him it seemed to have a wonderful quality that he had not noticed
upon their previous meeting, even though he had then been impressed by
her good looks. If he had not loved Ish-kay-nay with such fierce
devotion perhaps he might have seen in Wichita Billings a mate well
suited to a great war chief.

“Were many Indians killed at Cibicu Creek?” asked Shoz-Dijiji. “Were
their women there with them?”

“I have not heard but just a little of the fight,” replied Wichita.
“Captain Hentig and some of his men were killed and old Bobbydoklinny.”

Shoz-Dijiji knew whom she meant, just as he had known that she referred
to Juh when she spoke of Whoa—these white-eyes were most ignorant, they
could not pronounce the simplest names.

“Do you know if Geronimo went out?” he asked.

“He wasn’t with Whoa at Cibicu but we just heard today that the
renegades are on their way toward the border and that Geronimo has
joined them. It sure looks like a hard winter. I wish to God we’d never
left Kansas. Believe me, the East is good enough for Wichita Billings!
Say, Shoz-Dijiji, are you _sure_ you aint a renegade?”

“Shoz-Dijiji friendly,” he assured her.

“Then you better come in with me and give yourself up or the soldiers
will sure get you. They aint askin’ no questions when they see a
Cheeracow—they just plug him. You come on in to the ranch with me,
there’s a detachment of “E” Troop there now, and I’ll see that they
don’t hurt you.”

Shoz-Dijiji extended a slow hand and laid it on the girl’s arm. His face
grew very serious and stern as his dark eyes looked into hers. “Listen,
white girl,” he said. “Shoz-Dijiji said he is friendly. Shoz-Dijiji does
no speak lies. He is friendly—to you. Shoz-Dijiji no harm you. Do not
be afraid. But Shoz-Dijiji not friend to the white soldiers. Not friend
to the white people—only you.

“Shoz-Dijiji is war chief among the Be-don-ko-he. His place is with the
warriors of his people. You say there are soldiers at the hacienda of
your father. Go! Tell them that Shoz-Dijiji, war chief among the
Be-don-ko-he, is here in the hills. Tell them to try and catch him.”

The girl shook her head. “No, Shoz-Dijiji, I will not go and tell them
anything. You are my friend. I am your friend. You saved me once. I do
not care whether you are a renegade or not. I will not tell them you are
here, and if I can help you, I will.”

Shoz-Dijiji looked at her in silence for what seemed a long time. He was
puzzled. There was some quality possessed by the pindah lickoyee and the
Mexicans that it was difficult for him to understand, objectively; yet,
all unrealizing, he had just been instinctively practicing it himself.
What she said recalled the action of the Mexican woodchopper that time
at Casas Grandes; but he sensed no similarity between their friendly
gratitude and his forbearance toward this beautiful enemy girl, or knew
that his action was partially based on gratitude for a friendly smile
and frank trustfulness. He thought he did not harm her simply because he
did not wish to. He did not know that he could not have harmed her, that
there was a force within him stronger even than his savage training.

“You will help Shoz-Dijiji?” he asked.

“You can bet your boots I will,” she assured him. “But how?”

“All night, all day Shoz-Dijiji have no water. There were soldiers at
every spring, at every water hole. Shoz-Dijiji wants water and a horse.”

“Hungry, too?”

“Apache always hungry,” laughed the brave.

“You wait here,” she told him.

“Where your horse?” he demanded.

She raised her palms to the level of her shoulders and shrugged. “The
old son-of-a-gun pitched me clean off,” she said. “That’s why I was
a-sittin’ up here restin’. I been walking close to an hour and I’m
dog-tired; but it’s only a short jag to the house now. I may have to
sneak out with a horse for you, so don’t get worried if I ain’t back
before dark.” She started away.

“I go with you,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

“Oh, no! The soldiers might see you.”

“I go a little way—where I can watch you. Mebbyso bad men around;
mebbyso hostiles. Shoz-Dijiji go little way and watch.”

Through the hills he went with her, walking ahead as a brave should,
until they came within sight of the ranch house. Some cavalry mounts
were tied to a corral fence; troopers were lolling in the shade of the
bunk house swapping lies with the cowhands. An officer leaned in a
back-tilted chair beside the doorway of the ranch house talking with
Billings.

Only Shoz-Dijiji’s eyes and forehead showed above the top of the last
hill above the wagon road where it entered the little flat in which
stood the main ranch buildings, and they were screened from view by a
small bush.

“Go,” he said to the girl. “You will be safe now.”

“Where will you wait?” she asked. “Here?”

“Yes.”

She hesitated, her brow puckered in thought. “If I bring you a horse you
will return at once to your tribe?” she demanded.

“Yes.”

“If you meet any lone whites on the way will you promise me that you
will not kill them?”

“Why?”

“I cannot bring you a horse to use in murdering my own people,” she
said.

He nodded. “Me savvy. Shoz-Dijiji no kill until he find his people. If
they on war trail Shoz-Dijiji fight with them. Shoz-Dijiji a war chief.
White warriors kill. Apache warriors kill. That is right.”

“But you must not kill white people at all.”

“All right—you go tell white warriors they must not kill Apaches. They
stop, Shoz-Dijiji stop. Now you go get pony for Shoz-Dijiji. Big talk no
good now—no can eat—no can ride. Go.”

The girl could not but smile as she turned away and rounding the summit
of the hill dropped down toward the ranch house in full view of those
gathered there. At sight of her they all arose and several started in
her direction, her father among them.

“Where in all tarnation you been, Chita?” he demanded when they were
close enough for speech. “I thought I told you to stay in town until
this fracas blowed over.”

“Well, it has blowed over, hasn’t it?” she asked. “We heard yesterday
that the hostiles was all headed for the border, so I thought I’d come
home. I’m sure sick o’ them tin-horns in town.”

“Where’s Buckskin? Why in all tarnation you hoofin’ it?”

“Pitched me off a mile or so back yender,” she explained. “I was takin’
a short cut through the hills.”

“You saw no sign of hostiles, I take it, Miss Billings?” suggested the
officer, a young cavalry lieutenant.

“Nary hostile,” she replied.

The young West Pointer thought what a shame it was that such a pretty
girl should pronounce the “i” long; doubtless she said “masakree,” too.
But how pretty she was! He could not recall having seen such a beauty in
a month of Sundays. He hoped the C. O. would keep his detachment at the
Billings ranch for a long time.

He had heard Billings and some of the cowhands mention Chita and he had
expected to see, if he saw her at all, a raw-boned slattern with large,
red hands, and so he was not prepared for the dainty beauty that burst
upon his astonished vision. God, what a mother she must have had,
thought the lieutenant, appraising Billings; but he felt that he could
have enjoyed her more had he been deaf, for he had not yet been of the
West a sufficient length of time to accustom his ears to the naive
pronunciation of the frontier, so different from his native Bostonese.

The young lieutenant to the contrary notwithstanding, it may not be
truthfully said that Wichita Billings was dainty; she was beautiful,
yes, but with a certain strength and robustness, a definite
self-reliance, that does not perfectly harmonize with the truest
conception of daintiness. She was entirely feminine and her hands and
feet were small, but they were strong looking hands and she stood
squarely upon her two feet in her little high-heeled boots. Her
well-moulded jaw was a strong jaw and her laughing eyes were brave
without boldness.

No, dainty was not the word; but then, perhaps, Lieutenant Samuel Adams
King was influenced not by the Back Bay background of yesterday so much
as he was by that nearer background composed of rough cavalrymen and
pipe-smoking, tobacco-chewing women of the old frontier. By comparison
with these the girl was as dainty as a violet in a cabbage patch,
especially when she was pensive, as she often was, or when she was
smiling, and she was smiling quite as often as she was pensive, in fact,
at almost any time when she was not _talking_. Then the illusion was
shattered.

However, strange as it may seem, Lieutenant King found himself drawing
the girl into conversation even though every word, or at least every
other word, jangled discordantly upon his cultured nerves. It seemed
beyond the pale of remotest possibility that any human being could
mispronounce so many words, at least so it seemed to Lieutenant King,
and at the same time possess such tonal qualities of voice that it
became a pleasure to listen to her murder the English language; and so,
when they had reached the ranch house he managed to monopolize her.

Her father had wanted to send a couple of men out after her horse, but
she had objected, saying that “the ol’ fool” would come in at feeding
time, and if he didn’t it would be good riddance anyway; but while they
were discussing the matter the horse suddenly appeared galloping down
the very hill from which Wichita had come a few moments before.

“What in tarnation’s the matter with thet cayuse anyways?” demanded
Billings. “Acts most like he’d seed a silver tip, or a ghost.”

The horse was running rapidly toward the ranch, occasionally casting a
backward look toward the hilltop. Wichita Billings knew perfectly what
Buckskin had seen.

“Reckon as how you fellers better ride up there,” said Billings to the
two hands, “an’ see what all might be there.”

“They ain’t nothin’ there,” said Wichita. “Didn’t I jest come from
there? The ol’ son-of-a-gun’s been actin’ thet away all day—he’s jest
plumb loco.”

So that was the end of that, much to the girl’s relief, and Wichita
resumed her talk with the officer; an experience which she enjoyed, for
she was avid to learn, and she knew that the average man or woman of the
frontier could teach her little along the lines toward which her
ambition lay.

On several occasions she had met cultured men—men who had stopped at
her father’s Kansas farm, or at the ranch since they came to
Arizona—and she had been vividly conscious of a difference between them
and the sort of people to whose society she was accustomed.

From them she had derived her first appreciation of the existence of a
thing called conversation and a knowledge of its beauty and its value
and its rarity. She had been quick to realize her own lack of
conversational ability and ambitious enough to dream of improvement; but
dreaming was about as far as she could go. What few books and magazines
and newspapers filtered to her remote home she devoured eagerly and they
taught her many things, though usually overdrawn. She learned new words,
the meanings of which she usually guessed shrewdly enough, for she
possessed no dictionary, but there was nothing or no one to teach her
how to pronounce either the new words or the old, so that she was never
actively aware that she mispronounced them and only vaguely disturbed
when she listened to the conversation of a person like Lieutenant King.
In truth, when she gave the matter any thought, she was more inclined to
regret his weird pronunciation of such common words as “Injun” and
“hoss” than to question her own. It was the things he spoke of and the
pleasant intonation of his cultured voice that delighted her.

Lieutenant King was asking her about herself, which didn’t interest her
at all, and how long she had lived in Arizona.

“Goin’ on five year,” she replied, “an’ I reckon you jes’ come out with
that last bunch o’ shave-tails at the post, didn’t you?”

He flushed, for he had not realized how apparent were his youth and the
newness of his uniform. “Yes,” he said, “I graduated in June and I only
joined my regiment a few weeks ago.”

“From the States o’ course?” she asked.

“Yes, and you?”

“I’m from back East, too,” she told him.

“Good! From what part?”

“Kansas.”

“Oh.”

“What part are you from?”

“Massachusetts.”

“Oh.”

That seemed a very remote country to Wichita Billings. In her mind it
raised a picture of a pink area on a map, bounded on three sides by
dotted lines and on the fourth by wavy lines. It had never connected
itself in her consciousness with a place that people came from; it was a
pink area on a map and nothing more. Now it commenced to take on the
semblance of reality.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“About what?” he asked.

“Why Massachusetts, of course. I’ve never been there,” and until supper
time she kept him to his pleasurable task of talking about home, of his
people, of their ways, of the great things that the men of Massachusetts
had accomplished in the history of these United States of America.

Never, thought Lieutenant King, had he had so altogether a wonderful
audience, so perfect an afternoon; and Chita, drinking in every word,
asking many questions, was thrilled and entertained as she had never
been before, so much so that she almost forgot the savage Apache waiting
there alone upon the sun-scorched hill. But she did not quite forget
him. She knew that she could do nothing until after dark, for there was
not a reasonable excuse she could offer for leaving the ranch, and had
there been she was quite confident that Lieutenant King would have
insisted upon going along. The idea made her smile as she tried to
picture the surprise of the young officer should she conduct him to the
hilltop into the presence of the painted savage waiting there.




                              CHAPTER XVI
                             TO SPIRIT LAND


IT was quite dark when Wichita Billings led an unsaddled pony out of
the pasture and toward the hill where she had left Shoz-Dijiji. She had
difficulty in escaping the notice of the sentry that had been posted
near the corral, but she succeeded, though she was still fearful that
some keen-eared Indian veteran might yet hear the soft footfalls of the
unshod animal. A short distance from the corral she mounted the pony and
continued on her way, over her shoulder a canteen of water and in one
hand a bag of food.

In her heart she knew that she was doing a dangerous and a foolish
thing, but gratitude urged her as well as the knowledge that she had
given her word. By day it had seemed less difficult to trust that big,
handsome brave; but by night it was easy to recall that he was, after
all, a cruel, crafty “Cheeracow.” She loosened the Colt in its holster,
holding the halter rope and bag of food in one hand, determined to be
prepared should the worst eventuate; and then, quite suddenly, out of
the darkness ahead, a hundred yards from the base of the hill toward
which she was riding, loomed the figure of a man.

“Who’s that?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“Shoz-Dijiji,” came the soft reply.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were going to wait on top of the
hill.”

“No good you ride far alone at night. Shoz-Dijiji come down to meet
you.”

So, after all, her fears had been groundless!

“You frightened me,” she said.

The Apache laughed. She handed him the canteen and the food and the end
of the halter rope.

“Who that chief you talk to so long?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh, that was the officer in command of the detachment.”

“Yes, I know—what his name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“He friend Wichita, isn’t he?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.

“Yes, of course.”

“Mebbyso sometime he need Apache friend, eh? Wichita friend. Shoz-Dijiji
friend. Shoz-Dijiji like you very much. You kind. Shoz-Dijiji no
forget—never.”

“His name is King,” said the girl, “Lieutenant King, ‘B’ Troop, ——th
Cavalry.”

Without another word the Apache leaped to the back of the pony and rode
away into the night and the darkness. Wichita Billings crept back to her
father’s home. That night she dreamed that Lieutenant King and
Shoz-Dijiji were fighting to the death and that she stood there watching
them, unable to interfere, equally unable to determine which one she
wished to see victorious.

Riding northwest in the direction of Cibicu Creek shortly after dawn the
following morning Shoz-Dijiji, his eyes always on the alert, saw a
slender column of smoke arising from a far mountaintop in the southwest.
Stopping, he watched it for several minutes and during that time it
remained a steady column of smoke. It carried its message across the
desolate waste to Shoz-Dijiji as it did to other scattered warriors of
the six tribes, and Shoz-Dijiji reined his pony toward the southwest.

The Apache kept to the hills and to the trailless places as much as
possible, for he knew that the whole world was full of enemies searching
for him and his kind, searching with field glasses and with rifles; and
he knew, too, that those who were not searching for him would shoot him
on sight even more quickly.

As he rode his thoughts often returned to the white girl who had
befriended him, but more often did they reach ahead across the broken
country to embrace the lithe young figure of Ish-kay-nay with the
laughing eyes and the black hair. He knew that she would be disappointed
but that she would wait. She would not have to wait long, he promised
himself, for what he had accomplished once he could accomplish again.
Perhaps this time he would take Gian-nah-tah and some of the other young
braves with him. Together they could round up many horses in northern
Chihuahua or Sonora.

Toward noon, ascending a slight acclivity, Shoz-Dijiji was suddenly
confronted by the head and shoulders of a white man as they topped the
ridge from the opposite side. Just for an instant the two faced one
another. The Apache saw the surprise and fear that swept into the eyes
of the pindah lickoyee, saw him turn and vanish.

Dismounting, the Indian led his pony cautiously forward toward the crest
of the ridge; ready in his right hand was his six-shooter, alert his
ears, his eyes, his every sense. Beyond that summit he knew there was a
precipitous hillside, dropping to the bottom of a canyon. A man on foot
might scale it, but it was no place to remain and fight, for there was
little footing and no cover. These things his knowledge of the spot told
him, assuring him that it would be safe to approach the edge of the
declivity and reconnoiter, as the white-eyed one must by this time be at
the bottom of the canyon.

Cautiously Shoz-Dijiji peered over the edge, several yards from the spot
at which the man had disappeared, knowing as he did that if the latter
was waiting to fire at him that his attention would be directed upon the
spot from which he had discovered the Indian and not even a few yards to
the right or to the left; but there was no one waiting to fire at
Shoz-Dijiji. At the foot of the canyon wall lay a young white man—quite
motionless he lay in a crumpled heap. A few yards away, tied to a
stunted bush, was a saddled pony.

Shoz-Dijiji remounted and riding a hundred yards up the rim of the
canyon zigzagged down its steep side. The man still lay where he had
fallen as Shoz-Dijiji approached him and reined in his pony. The Apache
dismounted and stooped to examine the white, first removing the other’s
revolver from its holster. The man was young, twenty perhaps. He was not
dead, as the Indian had at first thought likely, for the canyon wall was
high and steep and there were rocks at its base, and it appeared evident
that the man had fallen the full distance.

Shoz-Dijiji stood looking at his helpless enemy. His eyes appraised his
find in terms of loot; there was a good Colt and many rounds of
ammunition, and he had seen a rifle resting in its boot along the side
of the tethered pony. Many were the other possessions of the white-eyed
one that aroused the cupidity of the swart savage. Shoz-Dijiji fingered
the hilt of his hunting knife, a keen butcher knife made in Connecticut
for no more sanguinary service than slicing roasts in some quiet New
England kitchen. How easy it would be to slit the throat of the hated
pindah lickoyee and appropriate his belongings.

It was while Shoz-Dijiji was thinking these thoughts that the young man
opened his eyes and looked up into the stern, painted face of the red
man. Instinctively the youth reached for his Colt, realized that it was
gone, recognized it then in the hands of the Indian, and closed his eyes
in despair. He felt sick and he knew that he was badly injured by the
fall, how badly he could only guess.

He had been without water for two days, he was hopelessly lost, and now
that the end had come he was not sure but that after all it was
something of a relief. That which caused him the greatest apprehension
was his knowledge of the possible manner of his death at the hands of
one of these human fiends. His very soul shuddered and shrank from the
torture that he knew might be in store for him.

Shoz-Dijiji looking down at him recalled his promise to the white girl.
He turned to continue his journey, knowing that death must surely
overtake the white, and then he stopped. The young man, hearing him move
away, had opened his eyes again. He saw the Apache rein in his pony,
hesitate, and then wheel back toward him. Again he dismounted at his
side, stooped down and felt of his legs—lifting them, flexing them.

He put an arm beneath the youth’s shoulders and lifted him to his feet.
To the great surprise of the white man he found that he could stand,
that his body was not broken in any place. The Indian helped him to walk
to his pony and lifted him into the saddle. Then he offered him his
canteen, for he had seen that the youth’s was empty and, too, he had
seen in his drawn face, in his swollen lips, the signs of thirst. The
boy seized the canteen greedily and placed it to his lips. Shoz-Dijiji
permitted him a brief swallow and then took the water from him. Now all
fear had left the white man.

“You friendly Indian, eh John?” he asked.

“Me Chihuicahui!” said Shoz-Dijiji fiercely, proudly, tapping his great
chest, knowing that the whites knew the fighting, warlike tribes by that
name.

“Holy Moses!” breathed the youth. “You a Cheeracow?”

“You lost?” demanded the Black Bear.

“I shore am,” replied the other.

“Come!” commanded the Apache. He urged his pony up the canyon and the
steep zigzag trail to the summit. When the white had reached his side
the Indian asked, “You savvy Billings ranch?”

“Yes,” replied the youth.

Shoz-Dijiji pointed eastward and a little north to where a dim, blue
butte was barely visible behind its veil of haze. “Billings ranch
there,” he said. “Mebbyso one march.” He took the other’s empty canteen
and poured the remaining water from his own into it. He emptied the
cartridges from the chambers of the white’s revolver and rifle into his
palm and handed the empty weapons back to their owner; then he wheeled
his pony and cantered away. Shoz-Dijiji was taking no chances on the
honor of a white man—he knew them too well.

For a long time the young man sat looking after his benefactor, his face
reflecting the bewilderment that filled his thoughts.

“Well, ding bust my ornery hide!” he remarked, presently, and turned his
horse toward the dim, blue butte beyond the horizon.

So, did Shoz-Dijiji the Be-don-ko-he fulfill his promise to the white
girl who had befriended him.

Late that afternoon he lay up for a few hours at a place where there was
water and shortly after dark, when he had resumed his way, he came upon
the first signs of the southward-bound renegades—a broad, well-marked
trail, and over it the spoor of cavalry, pressing close behind. In a few
miles, by a rocky hill, he found evidences of an engagement and in the
moonlight he read the story writ clear upon the ground, in the dust,
among the boulders, of the Apache rear guard that had waited here and
stopped the advancing soldiers until the main body of the Indians had
moved to safety among the rough hills. He guessed that his people had
passed through those hills the previous afternoon and that now, under
cover of darkness, they were crossing the valley upon the opposite side
with the soldiers of the white-eyes in close pursuit.

Farther on again he came upon a place where the Apaches had commenced to
break up into small parties and scatter, but there was the older trail
of the herd that moved steadily on toward the border. Shoz-Dijiji judged
that it was two days ahead of the main body, doubtless being pushed on
toward safety by hard riding youths and that it would win the border
long before the troops.

During the night he heard shots far, far ahead; the soldiers had caught
up with one of the scattering bands, or perhaps the Apaches had prepared
an ambush for them. The firing lasted for a long time, grew dimmer and
then ceased—a running fight, mused Shoz-Dijiji, restless that he was
not there. Night fighting was rare; the soldiers must be pressing his
people closely.

It was a hard night for Shoz-Dijiji, urging on his tired mount,
constantly on the alert for the enemy, chafing under the consequent
delay; but at last the day dawned as he emerged upon the southern slope
of the mountain range and overlooked the broad valley across which his
people should have passed during the night. Far away, near the base of
the opposite mountains he saw several columns of dust, but whether they
were caused by Apaches or soldiers he could not be sure, though it was
doubtless the latter, since the Indians had broken up into small bands
that would make little dust.

A few minutes later he came upon the scene of last night’s battle. It
was marked by the bodies of three cavalry horses, empty cartridge
shells, some military accoutrement, an Apache head-bandanna. As he rode
across the spot where the engagement had been fiercest his eyes took in
every detail of the field and he was sure that there had been no ambush
here, but that his people had been overtaken or surprised. It was not
such a place as an Apache war chief would choose to make a stand against
an enemy.

He was moving on again when something arrested his attention. Always
suspicious, instantly on the defensive, he wheeled about to face the
direction from which there had come to his ears the faintest of sounds.
What was it that had broken the silence of this deserted field of death?

Revolver ready, he waited, listening, for a repetition of the sound, his
eyes fixed upon a little clump of bushes two hundred yards away. Again,
very faintly, it came to his ears, the sound that had at first attracted
his attention, a low moan, vibrant with suffering.

Shoz-Dijiji wheeled his pony and rode diagonally up the side of the hill
toward a point where he might overlook the whole field and obtain a view
of the ground behind those bushes. If danger lurked there he would know
it before he came too close. Fools rush in, but not an Apache.

From his point of vantage he saw a figure huddled upon the ground and
recognized it instantly as an Indian. Nowhere else was there a sign of
life. Still cautiously, he rode slowly down toward the figure and as he
approached he saw that it was a woman, lying with her face buried in the
hollow of an arm. Already, even before he had come close enough to
dismount, he recognized something familiar in the contours of that
slender body.

Leaping from his mount he ran forward and kneeled beside the woman. Very
gently he put an arm beneath her and turned her over. Hot blood gushed
against his naked arm. His heart stood still as he looked down into the
face of Ish-kay-nay. Her eyes were half-closed; she scarcely breathed;
only her feeble moans betokened that her poor clay still clung
tenaciously to the last, fast ravelling strand of life.

“Ish-kay-nay! My little Ish-kay-nay!” Shoz-Dijiji raised his canteen and
poured a few drops of water between her lips. The act recalled the girl
who had given him the canteen, and, too, that recalled something
else—words that Geronimo had once spoken to him. “Wait,” the old war
chief had said, “until they have killed your women; then you will have
the right to speak.”

The savage soul of Shoz-Dijiji rose in protest against the cruelty, the
wantonness of this act. What if it had been perpetrated during the
darkness of night? What if it might have been but a chance shot? Did not
Shoz-Dijiji well know that the revealing light of day, or her sex, would
not have protected Ish-kay-nay? Had he not seen the soldiers fire into
the tepees where the women and children were?

Revived by the water, Ish-kay-nay slowly opened her eyes and looked into
his face. Her lips moved in a low whisper: “Shoz-Dijiji, I am coming!”
she said.

“Shoz-Dijiji is here with Ish-kay-nay. Do not fear. You are safe.”

The great, dark eyes of Ish-kay-nay opened wider with the return of full
consciousness as she gazed wonderingly into the face of her lover.

“You are not dead! Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, he told me that you were dead.”

“Who said that Shoz-Dijiji was dead?” he demanded.

“Juh.”

“Juh lied. Why did he tell you that?”

“So that Ish-kay-nay would go with him.”

“You went?”

“I thought that Shoz-Dijiji was dead and I did not care then what
happened to me. It made my father happy.” The effort to speak sent the
blood gushing again from the wound in her breast and Shoz-Dijiji tried
to check the flow, to stay the hand of death. She tried to speak again.
Slowly, haltingly the words came. “Tell Ish-kay-nay—that you—are not
angry, Shoz-Dijiji—that you—still love—Ish-kay-nay.”

“Ish-kay-nay did right,” he said. “Only Juh did wrong. Shoz-Dijiji loves
Ish-kay-nay. Shoz-Dijiji will kill Juh!”

For a long time the girl lay silently in his arms, her breathing so
faint that at times he thought that it had ceased. Terrible was the
anguish of Shoz-Dijiji—silent anguish, all the more terrible because
there was no outward manifestation of it—as he looked down into the
half-closed, dimming eyes of little Ish-kay-nay.

Once she rallied and looked up at him. “My Shoz-Dijiji,” she whispered,
and then: “Hold me close!” There was fear in those three words. Never
before had Shoz-Dijiji heard a note of fear in the voice of Ish-kay-nay.
Very gently the savage warrior pressed the slender body closer. There
was a long sigh and Ish-kay-nay went limp in his embrace.

Shoz-Dijiji, war chief among the Be-don-ko-he, buried his face in the
soft neck and a single, choking sob convulsed his great frame.




                              CHAPTER XVII
                         THE TRAIL AND ITS END


DEEP in the mountains in a lone cave Shoz-Dijiji buried Ish-kay-nay,
covered the soft contours of the girlish body with hard, cold rocks,
piled more rocks before the entrance to the cave until it was choked;
buried light and love and happiness in the grave with his sweetheart.

There, beside her grave he spent two days and two nights—days of
mourning, nights of prayer. There he killed the pony he had ridden, that
Ish-kay-nay might find a mount ready to carry her to the spirit world.
This he did, though she was no warrior, nor a great chief, because to
Shoz-Dijiji she was more than either. All the hoddentin he possessed he
had sprinkled upon her before he covered her dear form, and with her he
had buried his most sacred things: his tzi-daltai and his phylactery of
buckskin with its precious contents, even the izze-kloth that
Nan-ta-do-tash had blessed for him.

Upon the third day, alone, on foot, with no medicine to protect him from
evil spirits or from the weapons or machinations of his enemies, he
emerged from the hills, cruel, relentless, stark savage, and turned his
face toward the south upon the trail of Juh. For two days he had been
without food and for one without water, yet he did not suffer. Forgotten
were the sufferings of the flesh in the greater anguish of the soul.

Terrible were the days that followed. Scant was food, scant was water;
long and hideous were the marches, with only hate and vengeance to buoy
his spirits, to goad on his nagging muscles. He lashed his legs with
switches of mesquite until they bled; he ate lizards and snakes and
prairie mice; he drank stinking water when he drank at all, for there
were soldiers everywhere, at every spring and water hole, upon every
trail, and he must go on, for beyond the soldiers was Juh, somewhere to
the south, somewhere in that vast labyrinth of mountain and desert.

No turned stone, no bent twig, no down-pressed bit of grass escaped his
eye, and each told its story of the passing of the Apaches, of the
pursuit of the soldiers. He passed through the line of troops at last,
not a difficult thing for an Apache in such rough country as this, and
the spoor of the Ned-ni became plainer. He pushed on and discovered
soldiers once more ahead of him. Their trail came in from the northeast
and he could see that they had been moving rapidly, without pack
animals. That night he passed them, a single troop of lean, gaunt
fighting men, and he saw them cross the international boundary and enter
Mexico.

By dawn he was a good ten miles in advance of them when he became aware
of something moving just ahead of him. He saw it dimly from the bottom
of a swale as it topped the rise above him. He moved even more
cautiously than before, but the figure ahead made no noise either. It
was a man on foot and Shoz-Dijiji knew that it must be an Indian; but
there were enemies among the Indians as well as among the white men.
This might be a Navajo scout and if it were—a terrible expression of
cruel anticipation crossed the features of the Black Bear, the nearest
he had come to smiling for many a bitter day.

When dawn came suddenly upon them Shoz-Dijiji was looking down from
another hilltop upon the figure of an Indian. It was an Apache, but the
red head band proclaimed him a scout in the service of the pindah
lickoyee; also the quick eyes of Shoz-Dijiji discovered that the man was
an old acquaintance from the White Mountain tribe. The Black Bear hailed
him. The scout turned with ready carbine, but Shoz-Dijiji was behind a
boulder.

“Do not shoot,” he said. “It is Shoz-Dijiji, the Be-don-ko-he.”

The other lowered the muzzle of his carbine and Shoz-Dijiji stepped from
behind the boulder.

“Where is Juh?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.

The other pointed toward the south. “There are Ned-ni a few miles
ahead,” he said, “but Juh is not with them. I talked with them two days
ago. I am going to talk with them again. The soldiers will not stop this
time at the border. They have orders to follow Juh and Geronimo until
they catch them, no matter where they go. This I was going to tell the
Ned-ni.”

“You are going to join the warriors against the white-eyes?” asked
Shoz-Dijiji.

The man shook his head. “No. I return to tell the fool white chief that
the Ned-ni have gone in another direction.”

“Good!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “But you need not go on. I will tell the
Ned-ni where the soldiers are and what orders they have been given.
Perhaps they will wait and meet the soldiers. There is a place where the
trail runs between the steep walls of a canyon. There the soldiers will
be cautious against an attack, but just beyond, where it looks safe
again they will be off their guard and there the Ned-ni might wait for
them—if you will lead them there. Eh?”

“I will lead them there,” he said.

Shoz-Dijiji trotted on and the White Mountain Apache turned back to lead
the hated white men, that he served, into an ambush.

Shocking! Dishonorable! Disgraceful! Yes, of course; but many a
civilized man wears a decoration today for betraying the confidence of
the enemy. It makes a difference who does it—that is all.

Before noon Shoz-Dijiji overtook the Ned-ni and delivered his message
after first discovering that Juh was not with them. They were surprised
to see him, for there were many of them who really believed that he was
dead. There were only eight warriors and about twice as many women and
children. The latter the sub-chief sent ahead while the warriors he
disposed in strategic positions at the point where the ambush was to
occur, and along their trail came “B” Troop of the ——th Cavalry,
protected by the Apache scouts ahead and upon the flanks.

With his troop rode Lieutenant Samuel Adams King, eager for his first
brush with the hostiles, his stay at the Billings ranch having been
abruptly terminated the very night that Wichita had led the ewe-necked
roan out to Shoz-Dijiji. An hour later a courier had come with orders
for Lieutenant King to rejoin the troop with his detachment, and there
had followed days of hard riding in an effort to intercept the hostiles
before they crossed the boundary into Mexico.

Lieutenant King had preferred the company of Wichita Billings to futile
scouting after Indians that one never saw, but this was different. For
two days they had been hot on the trail of the renegades, with an
engagement constantly imminent, and the young blood of the subaltern
coursed hot in anticipation of a brush with the enemy. For four years he
had slaved and sweat at the Point in preparation for this, and he prayed
now that he would not be cheated out of it at the last minute by the
dirty, sneaking Siwashes. Gad! If the cowards would only stand and fight
once!

Nasty place for an ambush, thought Lieutenant King, as the troops
entered a narrow, steep-walled canyon. Good thing the “old man” had sent
flankers along the crest on either side. Beastly dusty! Rotten idea to
make the second lieutenant ride in rear of the outfit. Some day he would
revise Regulations—lots of things wrong with them. He could see that
already and he had only joined up a few weeks before.

Now, this was better. They were through that canyon and the dust had a
chance to blow somewhere else than down his throat, up his nose and into
his eyes.

Crack! Pin-n-ng! Crack! Crack! Pin-n-n-ng!

“Left front into line! Gallop! _MARCH!_ _CHARGE!_” The high voice of the
“old man” rose shrilly above the crack of the hostile rifles, the wild
Apache war whoops, the cursing of men, the screams of hit horses.

A ragged, yelling line of blue galloped among the great boulders from
behind which the nine warriors poured their deadly fire, and as the
hostiles fell back to other cover the captain dismounted his troop and
sent one platoon in on foot while the horses were withdrawn to better
cover. It was no place for cavalry action—that is why the sub-chief had
chosen it.

Lieutenant King found himself crawling along on his belly from rock to
rock. Bullets spit at him. He raised himself occasionally and fired,
though he seldom saw anything to fire at—a puff of smoke—a bronze
shoulder—once a painted face. He was at the left of the line and he
thought that by moving farther to the left he could pass the hostiles’
right and reach a position where he could enfilade them. Obsessed by
this idea, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of battle, he forgot everything
else. The men of his own command no longer existed. He was fighting
alone. It was his first fight and he was having the time of his young
life. He worked his way rapidly ahead and to the left.

From the right of the line his captain caught a fleeting glimpse of him
and shouted after him. “_MISTER_ King!” he screamed. “Where in hell are
you going? Come back here, you blankety, blank, blank fool!” But in his
heart the old man thrilled with pride as _MISTER_ King crawled on toward
the hostile line, the commands of his superior lost in the din of the
engagement and the excitement of the moment.

Just ahead of him King saw two large rocks, each capable of sheltering a
couple of men. They stood about two feet apart and if he could reach
them they would offer him almost perfect protection from the enemy’s
fire while at the same time they commanded his right flank.

What Lieutenant King did not see was the painted savage crouching behind
the one farthest to the left, nor did he know that this same warrior had
been patiently watching and awaiting his advance.

Reaching the opening between the two King crawled cautiously on, his
eyes, his whole attention turning to the right toward the position of
the enemy. He had reached a position where he could look around behind
the right-hand rock and see several of the warriors lying behind other
sheltering boulders to his right; and at that instant a heavy body fell
upon him, while simultaneously the captain gave the command to charge.

The troopers leaped to their feet and, yelling like the Apaches
themselves, stumbled forward among the thick strewn boulders. King’s
carbine was torn from his grasp. He struggled to free himself from the
clutching fingers and the great weight upon him, and managed to turn
over onto his back. Glaring down upon him were two savage eyes set in a
hideously painted face. A great butcher knife hovered above his breast.
He could hear the shouts of his fellows drawing nearer.

The knife halted, poised in mid-air. He saw the Apache stare intently
into his face for an instant and then look up in the direction from
which the soldiers were charging. The lieutenant struggled, but the man
who held him was a giant in strength. King recalled that some fool had
told him that one white man was a match for ten Indians. He wished that
he might relinquish his present position to his informant.

Suddenly the brave yanked him to his feet as easily as though King had
been a little child, and the officer saw two of the men of his own
platoon running toward them. Backing slowly up the hillside the warrior
kept King directly in front of him. The other hostiles had fallen back
rapidly, leaving two of their number dead. There was only one other
Apache retreating up the hillside with King’s captor and he was above
them now and moving swiftly.

The troopers dared not fire on the brave who was dragging King away with
him for fear of hitting the officer, and when the other Apache reached
the hilltop and found shelter he opened fire on them, forcing them to
cover. A moment later King was dragged over the brow of the hill close
to where the other Indian was covering the retreat of his fellow. Here
he was relieved of his field glasses and cartridge belt, his carbine and
revolver having already been appropriated by his captor.

“Now you kill him?” asked the Ned-ni of Shoz-Dijiji.

“No,” replied the Be-don-ko-he.

“Take him along and kill him slow, by and by?” suggested the other.

“No kill,” snapped Shoz-Dijiji with finality.

“Why?” demanded the Ned-ni, an ugly look distorting his painted face.
“Juh right. Shoz-Dijiji’s heart turn to water in face of pindah
lickoyee. Good! I kill him.” He turned his rifle toward King. There was
a flash and a burst of flame and smoke; but they did not come from the
rifle of the Ned-ni. He was dead.

King had understood no word of what had passed between the two Apaches,
and he had only seen that one of them had prevented the other from
killing him, but that he did not understand either. No other eyes than
his had seen Shoz-Dijiji kill the Ned-ni, for the hill hid them from the
sight of all others upon the field of battle. Now his captor turned
toward him.

“You savvy white girl, Billings ranch?” he demanded.

King nodded, puzzled. “She like you,” continued the Apache. “Me friend
white girl. No kill her friend. You savvy?”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” ejaculated Lieutenant King. “How did you know
me? I never saw you before.”

“No, but I see you. Apache see everything—know everything. You see
white girl again you tell her Shoz-Dijiji no can return her pony. Him
dead.”

“Who, Shoz-Dijiji?”

“No, pony. I am Shoz-Dijiji,” and he tapped his chest proudly. “Pony
dead.”

“Oh.”

“You tell her by and by. Shoz-Dijiji no can send her pony back; he send
back her white-eyed lover instead. You savvy?”

“Why, I’m not her—well, I _will_ be damned!”

“Now I go. You move—Shoz-Dijiji shoot. This time he kill. You savvy?”

“Yes, go ahead; and you needn’t think I’ll try to get you after what
you’ve done for me,” and he glanced at the dead Ned-ni beside them.
“But, say, before you go won’t you tell me how and where and when you
got a pony from Wichita Billings?”

“Me no savvy,” stated Shoz-Dijiji, and turning, he leaped swiftly down
the hillside to disappear a moment later from the sight of the
astonished subaltern.

As Shoz-Dijiji had vanished among the hills so had the other warriors,
and as the commanding officer reassembled his troop a crestfallen second
lieutenant walked down a hillside and approached his captain. The “old
man” was furious at himself because he had ridden directly into an
ambush, because he had lost some good men and several horses, but
principally because the hostiles had slipped through his fingers with
the loss of only two of their number. And so he vented his spleen upon
the unfortunate King, who had never guessed until that moment how much
contempt, sarcasm and insult could be crowded into that single word
_MISTER_.

He was relieved of duty and ordered into arrest, released and returned
to duty, three times in the ensuing fifteen minutes after he rejoined
the troop. His spirit was raw and sore, and he conceived for his
superior a hatred that he knew would survive this life and several lives
to come; but that was because he had been but a few weeks under the “old
man.” Before that campaign was over Lieutenant King would have ridden
jubilantly into the mouth of Hell for him. But just then he did not know
that his captain’s flow of vitriolic invective and censure but masked
the fear the older man had felt when he saw the youth’s utter disregard
of danger leading him straight into the jaws of death.

The old captain knew a brave man when he saw one and he knew, too, that
the steadying influence of experience in active service would make a
great Indian fighter of such as his second had proven himself to be, and
in the depth of his heart he was very proud of the boy, though he would
have rather his tongue had been cut out than to admit it in words. It
was his way to win loyalty by deeds, with the result that his men cursed
him—and worshipped him.

In the light of what Lieutenant King had heard of the character and
customs of Apaches he found it difficult to satisfactorily explain the
magnanimity of the very first one it had been his fortune to encounter.
He found his preconceived estimate of Apache character hanging in
mid-air with all its props kicked from under it, and all he could do was
wonder.

Shoz-Dijiji was wondering, too. He knew that he had not acted upon
impulse and perhaps that was why his action troubled him in retrospect.
He tried to be sorry that he had not slain the hated pindah lickoyee,
yet, when he thought of the happiness of the white girl when she learned
that her lover had been spared, he was glad that he had not killed him.
Too fresh was the wound of his own great grief to permit him to be
callous to the possible grief of another in like circumstance, and in
this case that other was a friend who had been kind to him. Yes,
Shoz-Dijiji was satisfied that he had done right. He would have no
regrets. As for the Ned-ni—well, he had earned death by his insult.

Following the fight with “B” Troop the little band of Ned-ni broke up
once again into still smaller parties and scattered by ones and twos, so
that there remained nothing in the way of a trail for the soldiers to
follow. Shoz-Dijiji moved directly south into the Sierra Madre,
searching for Juh. To every familiar haunt of the Apache went the
silent, terrible figure, searching, ever searching; his sorrowing heart
like lead in his bronze breast, his soul a torment of consuming fires of
hate.

From many a commanding peak he scanned the country north and south, east
and west, through the field glasses he had taken from the young officer,
and then one day he came upon the spoor of an Apache in the soft earth
beside a bubbling spring. You or I might not have been able to discern
that a man had stepped there, but Shoz-Dijiji saw the dim print of an
Apache war moccasin. He plucked some of the down-pressed grass and
breaking it knew from the condition of the juices within that a man had
stood there on the preceding day, and then he sought and quickly found
the direction of the other’s trail, leading toward the south.

Not again, no matter where it went, did Shoz-Dijiji lose sight of the
spoor of him whom he followed. Early the next morning he left it
momentarily while he ascended a peak and scanned the mountains to the
south. Ah, at last! In the distance, tenuous, vapory blue, almost
invisible rose a tiny waft of smoke. Indians! Apaches, doubtless.
Ned-ni, perhaps. Juh! Be good, O Usen! Let it be Juh!

It was noon when Shoz-Dijiji passed silently and unseen the sentries of
the Ned-ni and stalked majestically into the camp. His quick eyes took
in every detail of the scene. He saw two of Juh’s squaws and several of
his children, but Juh he did not see. But Juh must be near. His long
search was ended.

Warriors gathered about him, asking many questions; surprised to see him
in the flesh, whom they had thought dead. He told them of the fight with
the white soldiers, of the scattering of the balance of the hostiles;
that the troops might be following them down into Mexico. He did not ask
for Juh; that was not his way. He waited. Perhaps Juh would come soon,
but he was impatient. A terrible thought smote him.

“Were many of the Ned-ni killed when you fought the white-eyes?” he
asked.

“No,” they told him, “two warriors, whose bodies we brought along and
buried, and a squaw was missing.” They did not mention her name. Seldom
do the Apaches call their dead by name. But there was no
need—Shoz-Dijiji knew that they spoke of Ish-kay-nay.

“Was she killed by the soldiers?” asked Shoz-Dijiji.

“We do not know. Juh would not return to find out.”

“Juh—he is not here,” remarked Shoz-Dijiji, casually. That was as near
as he would come to asking where Juh was.

“He is hunting in the mountains,” said a warrior, waving an informatory
hand in the direction of a rugged ridge above the camp.

Shoz-Dijiji walked away. He could not wait. He went from shelter to
shelter, talking, but only to throw off suspicion, for he knew that some
of them must guess why he was here. When he could, he slipped away among
the trees and moved rapidly up the shoulder of the ridge, diagonally
that he might cross the spoor of the man he sought, nor had he long to
go before he picked up the imprint of a great moccasin, such a moccasin
as Juh might wear.

A human tiger, then, he tracked his prey. Up rugged mountainsides ran
the trail, across rocky hogbacks where none but an Apache eye might
trace it, down into dank ravines and up again along the bold shoulder of
a mighty peak. It was there that Shoz-Dijiji heard something moving just
beyond the curve of the mountain ahead of him.

He stopped and listened. The thing was approaching, already he had
interpreted it, the sound of moccasined feet moving through low brush.
Shoz-Dijiji waited. Two seconds, three, five. The figure of a man loomed
suddenly before him. It was Juh. The end of the hate-trail had been
reached. Juh was returning to camp.

The chief saw and recognized Shoz-Dijiji instantly. He was armed with
bow and arrows and a knife. Shoz-Dijiji carried these and a revolver in
addition. The carbine he had cached before he entered the Ned-ni camp.

“What does the Be-don-ko-he here?” demanded Juh.

“I, Shoz-Dijiji, have come to kill a great liar. I have come to kill a
great coward who cannot protect his women. I have come to kill Juh.”

“You cannot kill Juh,” said the older man. “Strong is the medicine of
Juh. The bullets of the white-eyes cannot enter the body of Juh—they
will bounce back and kill you. Nakay-do-klunni made this medicine
himself. Go away, before it kills you.”

“Nakay-do-klunni is dead,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “His medicine is no
good.”

“What he made for Juh is good.”

“Shoz-Dijiji will throw away all his weapons except his knife,” said the
young warrior. “Let Juh do likewise. Then, with his knife, Shoz-Dijiji
will cut the vile heart of Juh out of his breast.”

Juh was a big, strong man. He was afraid of no one in a hand-to-hand
encounter, so the other’s proposal met with instant approval. With a
sneer he tossed aside his bow and arrows and Shoz-Dijiji similarly
discarded all his weapons but his knife. Like great fighting cats the
two drew closer. Juh taunted and insulted his adversary, after the code
Apachean. He applied the vilest epithets to which he could lay his
naturally vile tongue to the mother of Shoz-Dijiji, to his father, to
his grandmother, to his grandfather, to all his forebears back to the
first one, whose dam, according to Juh, had been a mangy coyote; then he
vilified the coyote.

Shoz-Dijiji, grim, terrible, silent, crept stealthily toward his
lifelong enemy. Juh mistook his silence for an indication of fear. He
rushed upon the son of Geronimo thinking to bear him down by the
suddenness and weight of his bull-like charge. His plunging knife was
struck aside and the two closed, but Shoz-Dijiji gave back no single
step. With as great effect Juh might have charged one of the ancient
pines that soughed above them.

Each seeking to sink his blade in the flesh of the other, they surged
and strained to and fro upon the rocky shoulder of the mountain. Below
them yawned an abyss whose sheer granite wall dropped straight a
thousand feet to the jagged rocks that formed the débris at its base.

“Pindah-lickoyee,” growled the Ned-ni. “Die, son of a white-eyed man!”

Shoz-Dijiji, the muscles rolling beneath his copper hide, forced his
knife hand, inch by inch, downward upon the straining, sweating warrior.
Juh tried to break away, but a mighty arm held him—held him as he had
been bound with thongs of rawhide.

In his efforts to escape, Juh dragged his antagonist nearer and nearer
the edge of that awful precipice waiting silently behind him. Juh did
not see, but Shoz-Dijiji saw, and did not care. Rather than permit his
enemy to escape the Black Bear would go over with him—to death; perhaps
to oblivion, perhaps to Ish-kay-nay. What did it matter?

Closer and closer came the sharp point to the breast of Juh. “Speak the
truth, Juh, for you are about to die.” Shoz-Dijiji spoke for the first
time since the duel had begun. “Say that Shoz-Dijiji is no pindah
lickoyee.”

“Juh speaks the truth,” panted the other. “You are white.”

The Ned-ni, straining with every ounce of strength that he possessed,
slowly pushed away the menacing blade. He surged suddenly to the right,
almost hurling them both to the ground. It was then that he realized how
close they had been to the edge of the abyss. A pebble, struck by his
foot, rolled a hand breadth and dropped over the edge.

Juh shuddered and tried to draw away, but Shoz-Dijiji, determined never
to relinquish his hold until his enemy was dead, even if he must die
with him, dragged him relentlessly to the verge again. There they
toppled for an instant, Juh trying to pull back and the Black Bear
straining to precipitate them both to the rocks below. Now Shoz-Dijiji’s
feet were upon the very edge of the precipice and his back was toward
it. His time had come! Surging backward he threw his feet out over the
abyss, bringing all his weight into his effort to drag Juh over with
him.

The chief of the Ned-ni, seeing death staring him in the face, voiced a
single, piercing, horrified shriek and hurled himself backward. For an
instant they rocked back and forth upon the brink, and then Juh managed
to take a backward step and, for the second, they were saved.

Heaving, straining, dripping sweat that ran down their sleek bodies in
rivulets, these men of iron who scarce had ever sweat before—so lean
their thews and fatless—struggled, turning, twisting, until once again
they stood upon the verge of eternity. This time it was Juh whose back
was toward the awful gulf.

Now Shoz-Dijiji was seeking to push him over the edge. So rapt had each
been in this pushing and pulling toward and away from the verge that one
might have thought each had forgotten the rigid knife-hand clasped in
the grip of the other. Perhaps they had, momentarily; but it was
Shoz-Dijiji who remembered first. With a twisting, sudden wrench, he
tore his wrist free from Juh’s grasp.

“Die, Ned-ni!” he growled, glaring into the eyes of his foe. He drove
his blade deep into the breast of Juh. “Die! Ish-kay-nay is avenged!”

Again and again the blade sank deep into the heart of the Chief of the
Ned-ni, his arms dropped limp, he reeled and tried to speak, to beg for
mercy. Then it was that Shoz-Dijiji, the Be-don-ko-he, put both palms
against the bloody chest of his antagonist and pushed him backward.
Screaming, Juh toppled from the rocky ledge and, turning and twisting,
his body fell down, down to the jagged rocks a thousand feet below.




                             CHAPTER XVIII
                             THE WAR DANCE


A YOUNG man dismounted in the yard of the Billings ranch and
approached the owner who, following the noonday meal, was tip-tilted in
an arm chair against the adobe wall of the building, picking his teeth
and conversing with his daughter.

“I don’t reckon you’re the boss?” suggested the young man.

“Yep,” said Billings, “I reckon as how I am.”

“I don’t reckon as how you ain’t needin’ no hands?”

“What kin you do?”

“I kin ride some, and rope.”

“Ben sick?” asked Billings, noting the other’s pale face.

“Got lost. Pretty near cashed in. Reckon I would have ef a Siwash hadn’t
come along an’ give me some water. He told me how to reach your
ranch—that was nigh onto three weeks ago—then I run into a scoutin’
party of reg’lars from the post an’ they took me in with ’em. I ben in
the hospital ever since. Worse off’n I thought I was I reckon.”

“Three weeks ago?” mused Billings. “You was tarnation lucky that Siwash
wasn’t no Cheeracow. Thet was jest about when they was goin’ out.”

“Thet’s what gets me,” said the youth, “he _was_ a Cheeracow. He told me
he was, an’ not only that, but he was painted up all right enough for
the warpath.”

“I reckon you must hev had a touch of fever right then,” said Billings,
skeptically.

The other laughed. “No,” he said, “I was all right in the head; but I’m
here to tell you I was pretty near plumb sick when I stuck my ol’ head
up over the top o’ that rise an’ seen this here hos-tile lookin’ me
right in the eye with his ugly, painted mug. Say, I ken see him right
now, a-sittin’ there on his ewe neck roan. I did a back flip down thet
hill an’ pretty near kilt myself for sure.” He grinned broadly at the
recollection.

“Three weeks ago—a ewe neck roan,” soliloquized Billings. “Did he have
a blaze face?”

Wichita Billings could feel the flush that overspread her face and she
was glad that she was standing a little to the rear of her father as she
listened eagerly to the conversation.

“Yep,” affirmed the young man, “he had a blaze face.”

Billings half turned toward his daughter. “Now how in all tarnation did
that Siwash git a-holt of that cayuse?” he demanded. “Musta took it out
o’ the c’ral right under the noses o’ those there soldiers. I missed
that critter the next mornin’ an’ I never ben able to see what in all
tarnation become of him. Thet beats me!”

“Well, I reckon your hoss is down Sonora way somewheres by now,” said
the youth.

“Fed?” inquired Billings.

“Nope.”

“Dump your roll off at the bunk house and turn your hoss into the fust
c’ral there,” Billings directed. “I’ll have the chink rustle you some
grub. You ken go to work in the mornin’.”

“What I can’t understand,” said Billings, when he had come back from the
kitchen, “is why that Siwash didn’t plug that kid.”

“Maybe they aint all bad, Dad,” said Wichita, who thought that she
understood perfectly why Shoz-Dijiji had not killed the boy.

“No,” admitted her father, “the dead ones aint so bad.”

His vengeance accomplished, Shoz-Dijiji was as a lost soul wandering in
Purgatory, facing a goalless eternity. He ranged northern Sonora, a
solitary figure, grim, terrible. He avoided Indians as sedulously as he
did Mexicans, for the greatest wrong that had ever been done him had
been committed by the hand of an Indian. He felt that all men were his
enemies and that henceforth he must travel alone. He could not know that
the wound, so fresh, so raw, the first hurt that ever had touched his
inmost soul, might be healed by the patient hand of Time; that though
the scar remained the wound would cease to throb.

He lived by the chase, supplemented by an occasional raid when he
required such luxuries as sugar or tobacco, or necessities such as salt,
flour or ammunition. Upon these occasions he walked boldly and in the
broad light of day into isolated ranch house or village store, taking
what he would. Where he met with interference he killed, striking
swiftly, mercilessly, otherwise he ignored the natives. They were as the
dirt beneath his feet, for was he not an Apache, a war chief?

Pride of caste gripped him inflexibly, so that he felt only contempt for
those who were not Apaches. Even though the words of Juh were constantly
in his mind he pretended that they were not. He thought of himself more
jealously than ever as a pure-blooded Apache; the wicked words of Juh
were a lie: “You are white!”

Weeks came and went until they numbered months. “The Apache Devil” was
notorious across Sonora and into Chihuahua. Whole regiments of Mexican
troops were in the field, searching for him; but they never saw him.
Strange tales grew up about him. He possessed the power of invisibility.
He could change himself at will into a coyote, a rattlesnake, a lion.
Every depredation, every murder was attributed to him, until the crimes
upon his soul were legion.

Slowly the wound was healing. He was surprised, almost hurt, to discover
a growing longing for the companionship of his kind. His thoughts, now,
were more and more often filled with pleasant memories of
Sons-ee-ah-ray, memories of Geronimo, of the other Be-don-ko-he who were
his own people. He wondered how they fared. And then one morning he
turned his face northward toward Arizona.

Old Nakay-do-klunni, the trouble maker, was dead; the renegades had
returned to the reservations or been driven in scattered bands across
the boundary into Mexico. The troops were enjoying a well-earned rest.
They were building roads, digging boulders out of parade grounds,
erecting telegraph lines up and down over red-hot mountains and
white-hot plains, until an entire troop would not have rendered out a
teacupful of fat. Always there were detachments scouting, patrolling.

Lieutenant King commanded a detachment thus engaged. A parched, gaunt,
service sergeant was, nominally, second in command. He had forgotten
more about soldiering and Indian fighting than all the shave-tail second
lieutenants in the army knew, and Lieutenant King, by way of becoming a
good officer, realized this and utilized the sergeant for the very
purpose for which the “old man” had sent him along—as mentor, guide,
instructor. However, the sergeant agreed when Lieutenant King suggested
that it might not be a bad plan to patrol a little in the direction of
Billings ranch, for the sergeant had delicious memories of the prune
pies of the Billing’s Chinese cook.

Arizona nights can be quite the softest, loveliest nights in all the
world, and Lieutenant King thought that this was such a one as he sat in
the dark shade of a great cottonwood before the Billings ranch house
where he could glimpse the half profile of the girl in the light
filtering through a window from an oil lamp burning within the building.
Beyond the girl, down beside the corrals, twinkled the camp fire of his
men and, subdued, there floated to his ears the sound of voices,
laughter, the music of a harmonica.

“There is something I want to ask you, Chita,” he said, presently. He
had discovered that everyone called her Chita, that it embarrassed her
and everyone within earshot when he addressed her as Miss Billings.

“Shoot,” said Chita.

He wished that she would not be so disconcerting. Sitting and looking at
that profile that any goddess might well have envied put one in a
mood—a delicious, exalted mood—but “shoot” and other conversational
peculiarities tended to shatter illusions. He was silent, therefore,
rearranging his thoughts to an altered mood.

“Well,” she inquired presently, “what’s eatin’ you?”

King shook his head and grinned. It was no use. “What is consuming me,”
he said, “is curiosity.”

“That’s what killed the cat,” she returned, laughing. “It aint a good
thing to encourage out thisaway.”

“So I’ve heard. If one asks personal questions, one is apt to get shot,
eh?”

“Yes, or if two asks ’em.” They both laughed.

“Well, please don’t shoot me until you have told me if you know an
Apache called Shoz-Dijiji.”

“Yes, why?” He thought her tone suddenly constrained, and he noted how
quickly she turned and looked him full in the eyes. Even in the dark he
felt the intensity of her gaze.

“We had a little brush with them just south of the border,” he
explained. “This fellow captured me. He could easily have killed me. In
fact he was about to when he seemed to recognize me. He let me go
because I was a friend of yours. He even killed another buck who tried
to shoot me. He said you had been kind to him.”

“Yes,” said the girl. “He saved me once from a tin-horn who was tryin’
to get fresh. After that I had a chance to help him once. I’m mighty
glad I did.”

“So am I—it saved my life. He sent you a message.”

“Yes?”

“He said that he could not return your pony because it was dead, but
that he would send your friend back alive instead—he seemed to take it
for granted that I _am_ your friend.”

“Aint you?”

“I hope so, Chita.”

“’Twasn’t such a bad swap at that,” laughed the girl. “That ewe neck
roan was a sort o’ ornery critter anyways; but Dad did seem to set a
heap o’ store by it—anyways after it was gone. I never heered him do
anything but cuss it before.”

“He’ll probably always think it worth more than a soldier,” said King.

“I wouldn’t say that, and I wouldn’t give him no chance to think about
it at all. I reckon Dad wouldn’t be tickled more’n half to death if he
knew I’d give a hoss to an Injun.”

“You must have had a good reason to do it.”

“I sure did—I wanted to; but there was really a better reason than
that. This was the whitest Injun I ever see and I owed him something for
what he’d done for me. I couldn’t let a Injun be whiter than me, could
I? Listen—I’ll tell you all about it.”

When she had finished she waited, looking up at King for an expression
of his verdict upon her action.

“I think you did right, Chita,” he said, “but I also think that the less
said about it the better. Don’t you?”

“I aint been publishin’ the matter in no newspapers,” she returned. “You
pumped it out of me.”

They sat in silence for a long time then, and as King watched her face,
the easy, graceful motions of her lithe body, her slender fingers, her
dainty ankles, he was drawn to her as he had never been drawn to a woman
before. He knew her heart and soul must be as wonderful as her face and
form; he had caught a fleeting glimpse of them as she spoke of
Shoz-Dijiji and the loyalty that she owed him. What a wonderful creature
she would have made had she been born to such an environment of culture
and refinement as had surrounded him from childhood. He wanted to reach
out and touch her, to draw her toward him, to ask her if he might hope.
He was hopelessly, helplessly under the spell of her charms.

“I reckon, mister, I’ll be hittin’ the hay,” she said, rising.

“Chita!” he cried. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what—go to bed?”

“No, not that. Listen to me, Chita. I may offend you—I certainly don’t
want to, but I can’t sit here and look at you and then listen to you and
not speak.”

“You got me chokin’ leather,” she admitted, “and I’m two jumps behind at
that.”

“I suppose you know that you are a very beautiful girl,” he said.
“Beside your beauty you have character, intelligence, a wonderful heart.
But——” he hesitated. It was going to be hard to say and he was already
regretting that he had started it.

“Well,” she said, “but what? I aint committed no murders.”

“I haven’t any right to say what I started to say to you, Chita; except
that I—well, Chita, I think you’re the most wonderful girl I ever met
and I want you to be right in every way.”

“I reckon I know what you mean,” she said. “We don’t talk alike. I know
it. You aint a-goin’ to hurt my feelings, because I know you aint makin’
fun of me—and I wouldn’t even care if you did, if you’d help me.

“I was born on a farm in Kansas and what school they was was too fer off
to go to only a few weeks in the fall and spring. I didn’t learn much of
nothin’ there. Maw died when I was little. Dad learned me all he
knew—how to read and write a little and figger. If I only had somethin’
decent to read, or educated folks to talk to me. I know I got it in me
to be—to be different. If there was only some way.”

“There is a way,” said King, who had been thinking very hard for the
past several minutes. “There is a way.”

“What?”

“There are some very wonderful women at the post—refined, cultured,
educated women, the wife of my troop commander, for instance. One of
them would be glad to have you come there. Any one of them would help
you. Would you come, Chita?”

“As what?”

“As the guest of one of these ladies?”

“I don’t know none of ’em. I don’t think they’d want me.”

“Yes they would. The Captain’s wife is an old friend of my mother’s.
She’s been wonderful to me since I joined and I know she’d love to have
you. These women get terribly lonesome way out here, especially when
their husbands are in the field. You would be a Godsend to Mrs. Cullis.”

And that is how it happened that Wichita Billings came to Fort Thomas as
the guest and ward of Margaret Cullis. Her beauty, her eagerness to
learn disarmed all criticism, forestalled all ridicule—the one thing
that Wichita Billings could not have survived, the thing that she had
feared most. Yet she made so much fun of her own crude diction that
those who might have otherwise found in her a target for witty thrusts
were the first to defend her.

Up out of Sonora came Shoz-Dijiji searching for his people. With him he
brought a dozen ponies and some mules, toll that he had collected from
the enemy in northern Sonora and southern Arizona. Behind him he left a
few smoking piles of embers where homes had been or wagons, a few new
corpses, killed without torture, left without mutilation.

The Be-don-ko-he welcomed him without enthusiasm. He took his place
among them as though he had not been away. The mules he gave for a great
feast and he had presents for Geronimo, Gian-nah-tah and Sons-ee-ah-ray.
Ish-kay-nay they did not mention, nor did he. Sorrow, parting, death are
but a part of the pathetic tragedy that marks the passing of the Indian;
they had taken no greater toll of Shoz-Dijiji than of many another of
his tribe. Why then should he flaunt his sorrow in the faces of those
whose burdens were as great as his?

Of his warlike deeds he spoke sparingly, though he was too much the
Apache brave to ignore them entirely; but there had come word of his
doings out of Mexico and his rating became second to none among all the
six tribes. Geronimo was very proud of him.

Restless, Shoz-Dijiji wandered much, and often Gian-nah-tah accompanied
him. They hunted together, they visited other tribes. Where there was a
great dance or a feast there was Shoz-Dijiji. One night he came to the
camp of the Cho-kon-en as the warriors were gathering around the council
fire, and Na-chi-ta welcomed him and made a place for him at his side.

“The son of Geronimo has come at a good time,” said the chief of the
Cho-kon-en. “The young men are restless. They want to go out upon the
war trail against the pindah lickoyee. Some of them have been punished
by the soldiers for things which were done by no Apache. Always the
Apaches are blamed for whatever wrong is done in our land. If there were
no white-eyes here we could live in peace. The young men want to fight.”

A warrior arose and spoke when the chief had signified that he had
finished. For a long time he narrated the wrongs to which the Indians
had been subjected, telling the same old story that they all knew so
well but which never failed to find an eager and sympathetic audience.
He urged the warriors to prepare for battle.

A very old man spoke next. He spoke of the great numbers of the
white-eyes, of their power and wealth. He advised against taking the war
trail against them.

Thus were several hours consumed and when a vote was taken the majority
spoke for war.

“Take this word to Geronimo and the warriors of the Be-don-ko-he,” said
Na-chi-ta to Shoz-Dijiji, “and ask them if they will join the Cho-kon-en
upon the war trail. We will send runners to the other tribes and when
the war drum sounds we will gather here again for a great dance that the
izze-nantans may make strong medicine and the warriors of the six tribes
go forth to battle protected against the weapons of the enemy.”

When Shoz-Dijiji returned again to the camp of the Be-don-ko-he he laid
Na-chi-ta’s proposition before Geronimo, but the old chief shook his
head.

“My son,” he said, “I am an old man. Many times have I been upon the war
trail. Many times have I fought the pindah lickoyee, and always, as the
years go by, the pindah lickoyee increase in numbers and grow stronger
and the Shis-Inday became fewer in numbers and grow weaker.

“It has been long time since we defeated the pindah lickoyee in battle;
and when we did it made no difference, they came again with more
soldiers. If we could not drive them out of our country when we were
many and they were few, how could we hope to drive them out now that
they are many and we are few?

“Geronimo is war chief of all the Apaches. Geronimo loves his people. He
loves his land. He hates the pindah lickoyee. But Geronimo is old and he
has the wisdom of the old, he knows when there is no longer hope. My
son, for the Apaches there is no hope. Geronimo will never again fight
against the pindah lickoyee. Geronimo has spoken.”

“Geronimo is right,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “There is no hope. They have
taken our land from us; they have taken the game we hunted that we might
live; but one thing they cannot take from us—the right to die and to
choose the manner of our dying. I, Shoz-Dijiji, choose to die fighting
the pindah lickoyee. I shall go out upon the war trail with Na-chi-ta
and the Cho-kon-en. I have spoken.”

“You have spoken well, my son. You are a young man. Young men should
fight. Geronimo is old and tired and very sad. He would rather lay down
his weapons and rest.”

Great was the activity in the camp of the Cho-kon-en when Shoz-Dijiji
returned accompanied by Gian-nah-tah and several of the other younger
braves of the Be-don-ko-he. Chief Co-si-to was there with a band of his
Chi-e-a-hen warriors; but there was disappointment in the voice of
Na-chi-ta when he told that the other tribes had refused to join them.

Nan-ta-do-tash headed the izze-nantans who were preparing big medicine
for use against the enemy, and with his own hands he prepared a
phylactery for Shoz-Dijiji, calling down many blessings upon it.

The feast and the war dance aroused the braves to the highest pitch of
excitement, to which the women added by their savage denunciation of the
enemy and their demands upon their braves to go forth like men and slay
the hated white-eyes; and when the dance was over the squaws accompanied
the war party for several miles out of camp toward the point the chiefs
had chosen for attack upon the morrow.




                              CHAPTER XIX
                             WHITE AND RED


IN a ranch house on the banks of the Gila, between Fort Thomas and the
San Carlos Indian Agency, Wichita Billings awoke early on a beautiful,
bright April morning.

She had ridden down from Thomas on the previous day with a Signal Corps
detachment that was repairing the line of government telegraph, for a
day’s visit with the wife of the rancher. Tomorrow they would be back
and she would return to the post with them.

Hearing her hostess already in the kitchen the girl dressed quickly and
joined her. It was very early, yet already the rancher and his men were
busy with the feeding and the chores. The daily life of the ranch had
commenced, as it always did, in the cool of the morning, for one soon
learns to take advantage of any respite from the intense heat of
Arizona’s middays.

Molly Pringe hummed a gay song as she fed sticks of cottonwood to the
hungry range while Chita stirred the buckwheat batter. The odor of
coffee and frying bacon was in the air. The women chatted as they
worked. There was a great chirping of birds among the foliage of the two
trees that shaded the front of the house. Later in the day would come
heat and silence.

From behind the brow of a low ridge north of the ranch house a band of
painted warriors surveyed the scene. They were Chi-e-a-hen and
Tats-ah-das-ay-go, the Quick Killer, led them, for Tats-ah-das-ay-go was
a war chief of the Chi-e-a-hen. With him today was Shoz-Dijiji, a war
chief of the Be-don-ko-he; but Shoz-Dijiji rode as a warrior, since his
tribe had refused to join the Chi-e-a-hen and Cho-kon-en upon the war
trail. Just below them they saw a few white men moving about the corrals
and sheds; they saw smoke pouring from the chimney of the ranch
house—there the women would be.

Heber Pringe raised a forkful of hay to toss it over into the corral
where several saddle ponies stood. As he did so he faced the ridge a few
hundred yards away and instantly the fork stopped in mid-air, for at
that moment a dozen savage warriors had urged their wiry mounts over the
top and were already quirting them into a run down the hill.

“Apaches!” yelled Pringe and started for the house on a run.

Simultaneously, realizing that they had been seen, the warriors broke
into the fierce Apache war whoop and, firing as they advanced, charged
at a mad run down the hill in an effort to intercept the men before they
reached the house, toward which all of them were now running amidst the
shriek and whine of bullets, the yells of the savages spurring them on.

Pringe, who was in the lead, fell at the threshold of his home as a
quartet of savages cut off the balance of the white men, who then turned
toward the bunk house where they might make a better stand than in the
open.

With such swiftness had the hostiles struck that the women in the
kitchen had scarcely more than grasped the significance of the attack
when a burly brave shouldered into their presence. For an instant he
stood in the doorway, his cruel face hideous with bands of green and
blue and the red blood of a fresh killed rabbit. From behind him three
other pairs of fierce eyes glared savagely across his shoulders out of
faces streaked with war paint.

Molly Pringe and Wichita Billings, trapped, unarmed, stood there
helpless, momentarily frozen into inactivity by surprise and terror. The
older woman, standing before the stove, was the first to react to the
menace of those sinister intruders. Seizing a hot frying pan filled with
bubbling fat she hurled it at the head of the leading savage, at
Tats-ah-das-ay-go, war chief of the Chi-e-a-hen. He fended the missile
with a swart forearm, but much of the boiling contents spattered upon
his naked body, eliciting a roar of rage and pain, spurring him to
action.

Springing across the kitchen he seized Molly Pringe by the hair and
forced her back upon the red-hot stove as he wielded his great butcher
knife before the horrified eyes of Wichita Billings, then he turned upon
her as, with clothing afire, the body of her friend slipped to the
floor. Wichita Billings neither screamed nor fainted as death stared her
in the face. In her heart she breathed a prayer, not for life, but for
death quick and merciful, such as had been meted to Molly Pringe.

She saw the rage-distorted face of the Apache relax as his eyes fell
upon her; she saw him pause in his advance; she saw the sudden change
that marked a new thought in that demoniacal brain; she saw and
shuddered. She would make him kill her! She raised the mixing bowl to
hurl it in his face just as another warrior leaped into the room and
seized the wrist of Tats-ah-das-ay-go. The girl stood with the bowl
poised above her head, but she did not hurl it. Slowly her hands dropped
before her as she recognized Shoz-Dijiji.

“Do not kill,” said Shoz-Dijiji to Tats-ah-das-ay-go. “She is my
friend.”

“Who are you, Be-don-ko-he, to give orders to Tats-ah-das-ay-go, war
chief of the Chi-e-a-hen?” demanded the other, wrenching his wrist from
the grasp of Shoz-Dijiji. “She is mine. I take her.”

He took a step forward toward the girl, and as he did so the
Be-don-ko-he stepped between them and with a terrific shove sent
Tats-ah-das-ay-go reeling across the room. Recovering himself, loud
Apache curses upon his lips, the Chi-e-a-hen sprang for Shoz-Dijiji with
up-raised knife; but the Be-don-ko-he was too quick, his Colt spoke from
his hip and Tats-ah-das-ay-go crumpled to the floor of the kitchen
beside the last victim of his ferocity.

“Come! Quick!” snapped Shoz-Dijiji, seizing the girl by the wrist; but
there were two more Chi-e-a-hen in the doorway to dispute the ethics of
his action with the Be-don-ko-he.

It is not difficult to foment strife between the members of different
Apache tribes, and in this case there was little background of friendly
intercourse to interpose its mediating influence between Shoz-Dijiji and
these two warriors who had just seen him slay one of their great men;
nor did Shoz-Dijiji expect anything other than opposition as he swung
toward the doorway.

Nor was he waiting for opposition to develop. As he wheeled, he fired,
and as one of the braves lurched forward upon his face the other turned
and ran from the house. Behind him came Shoz-Dijiji, dragging Wichita
Billings with him. In the yard stood many ponies, among them a pinto
stallion and toward him the Be-don-ko-he ran swiftly, while the fleeing
Chi-e-a-hen sped, shouting, in the direction of the warriors surrounding
the bunk house.

Shoz-Dijiji leaped to the back of Nejeunee and leaning down offered a
flexed arm to the girl. Grasping it, she sprang upward as Shoz-Dijiji
straightened, lifting her, swinging her to the pony’s rump behind him.

The Chi-e-a-hen had attracted the attention of some of his fellows and
was leading them back at a run as Shoz-Dijiji reined Nejeunee toward the
south and gave him his head with a whispered word in his pointed ear.
Straight toward the Gila he rode, and as he reached the bank a backward
glance revealed four Chi-e-a-hen braves quirting in pursuit. Down the
steep bank into the muddy Gila slid Nejeunee, across the turgid stream
he splashed and up the bank beyond. Behind them came the yelling,
avenging four.

Out across level land toward the mountains sped the pinto stallion while
a bewildered girl clung to the naked shoulders of the copper giant
before her. His black hair, wind blown, tossed before her eyes; his bow
and arrow-filled quiver touched her cheek; at his hip was the Colt that
had won them escape, and in his right hand he waved a cavalry carbine as
he shouted defiance and insults at the Chi-e-a-hen trailing behind.

Her rescue, if it was rescue, had occurred so unexpectedly and had
developed with such swiftness, amid action fierce and bloody, that
Wichita Billings had had no time to consider what it might portend. Was
she being rescued, or had there merely been a change of captors? She
wondered, now that she could find an instant in which to think at all.

She had recognized Shoz-Dijiji the instant that he had interfered with
her assailant. Unquestionably he had been one of the raiding party that
had attacked the ranch, a hostile on the warpath. She knew how fierce
and terrible they became under the spell of the weird rites of their
medicine men, the savagely inciting oratory of their chiefs, the taunts
and urgings of their squaws. She knew that these forces often
transformed friendly, peaceable Indians into fiends of the most brutish
ferocity; and slowly a new fear entered her heart, but even this was
temporarily driven out a moment later as the Chi-e-a-hen warriors began
firing at them. It is true that the bullets went wide, as a running pony
makes a difficult seat for a marksman, but there was always the chance
that a bullet might find them.

Over his shoulder Shoz-Dijiji spoke to her. “Take my six-shooter,” he
said, “and fire it at them. Mebbyso they no come so fast.”

Wrenching the heavy weapon from its holster the girl turned about as far
as she could and fired back at the leading pursuer. The bullet must have
come close to him, for he reined in a little, increasing the distance
between them. A moment later she fired again, and one of the Chi-e-a-hen
threw up both hands and toppled from his pony. With renewed yells the
remaining three opened fire more rapidly, but they kept a greater
distance.

“I got one,” she said to Shoz-Dijiji.

“Good,” he grunted.

The brave little pinto, straining every nerve, fought courageously on
under his double burden, but as the gradual ascent toward the mountains
became a more pronounced upward gradient the pace told on him, and
Shoz-Dijiji knew that though he might run until his brave heart burst he
could not escape even inferior ponies that carried but a single rider.

Ahead was a low outcropping of uptilted sedimentary rock, and toward
this the Be-don-ko-he reined his war pony while behind the three clung
like pursuing wolves, occasionally firing a shot which was often
returned by the girl. Through a gap in the rocky escarpment rode
Shoz-Dijiji. He wheeled quickly to one side and brought Nejeunee to his
haunches, at the same instant throwing a leg over the pony’s withers,
and as he touched the ground dragging Wichita down beside him.

“Lie down!” he commanded, pointing toward the natural breastwork, and
then he turned toward Nejeunee and spoke an Apache word in his ear.
Instantly the animal went down upon his knees and rolled over on his
side; the three were effectually hidden from the fire of the enemy.

Throwing himself down beside the girl Shoz-Dijiji raised his carbine
above the top of the ledge and took careful aim at the foremost of the
Chi-e-a-hen. At the shot the fellow dropped. Again Shoz-Dijiji fired and
the mount of another stumbled and fell. That was enough for the
Chi-e-a-hen. Running toward his remaining companion, the warrior who had
been dismounted leaped to a seat behind him and the two wheeled and
scurried away while the bullets of the Be-don-ko-he whistled about their
ears. For a while Shoz-Dijiji watched the retreating enemy in silence,
or scanned the country closely in all directions. Presently he turned
toward the girl.

“They come back,” he said.

“What makes you think so?”

“I know. They come back with many braves. They want kill Shoz-Dijiji.
They want you.”

“When they are out of sight I can ride for the post,” she suggested; but
she wondered if he would let her, after all.

“No,” he replied. “Apaches everywhere.” He waved his hand broadly from
west to east and back again. “Apaches on the war trail. You no reach
post. Shoz-Dijiji no reach post, mebby. Shoz-Dijiji take you to his own
people—to the Be-don-ko-he. You be safe there with Sons-ee-ah-ray and
Geronimo.”

To Shoz-Dijiji no promise could have seemed more reassuring, no name so
fraught with assurance of protection than that of the kind old man who
had always defended him, the powerful chief whose very name was a
bulwark of safety for any friend. To Wichita Billings the suggestion
awakened naught but fear and the name only horror. Geronimo! The fiend,
the red devil, murderer, torturer, scourge of two nations! She trembled
at the mere thought of him.

“No!” she cried. “Let me go back to the post—to my own people.”

“You would never reach them. Tomorrow we can be with the Be-don-ko-he.
They are not upon the war trail. When the fighting is over I will take
you back to your people.”

“I am afraid,” she said.

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of Geronimo.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You will be safe with him,” he said.
“Geronimo is my father.”

She looked up at him aghast. God have mercy upon her—alone with the son
of Geronimo!

“Come!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “Pretty soon they come back. No find us here.
Mebbyso they follow. We go now they no catch. We stay, they catch.
Come!”

He had mounted Nejeunee and was waiting for her. Tall and straight he
sat his war pony. The war band about his brow confined his black hair;
across his face, from ear to ear, spread a wide band of vermilion; a
single necklace of silver and turquoise encircled his neck and lay upon
his deep chest; beaded war moccasins encased his feet and legs.

From the painted face two steady eyes regarded her intently,
searchingly, conveying the impression that they saw beneath the surface,
deep into the secret recesses of her mind. They were not savage eyes
now, not the eyes that she had seen flash upon Tats-ah-das-ay-go, but,
rather, steadfast, friendly eyes that were, at the same time, commanding
eyes. They waited, but there was no inquiry in them as to whether she
would obey; that, they took for granted.

Still the girl hesitated. What was she to do? As deeply rooted within
her as is man’s natural repugnance for snakes was her fear and distrust
of all Apaches, yet Shoz-Dijiji seemed different. Three times he had had
her in his power and had offered her no harm; twice he had saved her
from harm at the hands of others, this last time at the cost of the
lives of four of his fellows, subjecting himself to what future dangers
she could only too well conjecture, aware as she was of the Indian’s
penchant for vengeance.

Had it been a matter only of trusting herself to him alone, perhaps she
would not have hesitated; but there were the other members of his
tribe—the squaws. She had heard stories of the cruelties of the squaws
toward white women—and Geronimo! She recalled every hideous atrocity
that had ever been laid at the door of this terrible old man, and she
shrank from the thought of permitting herself to be taken to his hidden
den and delivered into his cruel and bloody hands.

Shoz-Dijiji had ridden close to her side. “You come!” he said, and
reaching down he swept her up into his arms and headed Nejeunee into the
hills. Thus was the decision made for her.

He held her so easily, as though she had been a little child. He was so
strong, and his voice so commanding, without harshness, that she felt
almost reassured even with the coincident realization that she was being
carried off by force.

“I know why you afraid,” said Shoz-Dijiji presently. “You hear bad
stories about Apaches. You hear much talk, bad talk; but always from
mouth of enemies of Apache. You wait. You see how Apache treat friend.
You no be afraid. You savvy?”

Wichita Billings had thought that she knew this part of Arizona rather
well, but the Apache took her to a place, far back in what seemed
utterly arid mountains, that she had never dreamed of. It was a tiny,
well-hidden canyon; but it boasted that most precious of treasures,
water; and there were a few trees and a little grass for Nejeunee. The
water seeped out from between rocks, wet the ground for a few feet from
its source and disappeared again into the sand and gravel of a little
wash; but after Shoz-Dijiji scooped out a hole with his hands it quickly
filled and there was ample water for them all, even thirsty Nejeunee,
though it was a long time before he got his fill.

After they had drunk Shoz-Dijiji hobbled Nejeunee, lest he stray too
far, then he removed his cartridge belt and revolver and laid them
beside the girl, together with his carbine. “You stay here,” he said.
“Mebbyso Shoz-Dijiji catchem rabbit. Go see,” and unslinging his bow he
walked away. He went up the little canyon and soon disappeared.

Wichita Billings glanced down at the weapons beside her and up at the
hobbled pony grazing a few yards from her. How easy it would be, she
thought. She gathered up the cartridge belt with the holster and
revolver attached and rose to her feet. How easily she could outdistance
pursuit upon that swift pony.

It seemed strange that the Apache should have left her alone with his
weapons and his pony; he might have known that she could escape. She
wondered why he had done it and then the answer came to her—he trusted
her.

She stood there for several minutes with the belt dangling in her hand.
He trusted her! And what return was she about to make his confidence and
his sacrifices? Did he deserve this at her hands—to be left afoot and
primitively armed in a country swarming with enemy soldiers and equally
hostile Indians?

Wichita let the cartridge belt slip from her fingers to the ground and
sat down again to wait, her mind relieved with the acceptance of a
definite determination to put her trust implicitly in the honor of
Shoz-Dijiji. She tried to remember only his generous acts, his friendly
attitude, his noble mien, and the great strength and courage that
proclaimed him a safe refuge and a natural protector. She wanted to
forget that he was a renegade, a hostile, a savage “Cheeracow” Apache.

And then he returned, as silently as he had departed; and she saw his
almost naked body and the war paint on his face, and it took all the
courage of her brave little heart to smile up at him in greeting as he
stopped before her, tall, straight, magnificent, and laid a rabbit and a
brace of quail at her feet.

Then it was that Shoz-Dijiji did something the significance of which
passed above the head of the white girl, something that would have told
her more plainly than words the unique position that she held in the
regard of the red man. There, with a woman present, the Apache warrior
prepared the game, built the fire and cooked the meal. Wichita Billings
took it as a matter of course. Shoz-Dijiji excused it, mentally, upon
the ground that white women were helpless fools, that one of them would
not know how to build a fire without matches and with very little fuel,
how to prepare properly the quail and the rabbit.

It was almost dusk when they had finished their frugal meal. There were
no dishes to wash, but Shoz-Dijiji carefully buried all signs of their
fire and the remnants of their repast. By dark they were moving south
again upon the back of the rested Nejeunee. Down the mountains, out onto
a plain they rode, and by midnight entered another range farther south.
Here Shoz-Dijiji halted again, built a rude shelter for Wichita and told
her to sleep, while he threw himself down upon the ground a few yards
away.

All the following day they rode, through a rough, trailless, mountain
country, the brave finding food where there was none to be seen and
water where the girl would have sworn no water could exist. Wichita was
tired almost to exhaustion, yet the man seemed not to notice that they
had been undergoing any hardships whatsoever. To her he seemed a man of
iron, and almost as silent; and as the hours passed slowly,
monotonously, painfully, there grew within her a sense of trustfulness,
of security that she could imagine harboring for no other man she had
ever known. He seemed a very well of resourcefulness; a sanctuary as
granitic, as eternal as the everlasting bed rock they sometimes
crossed—a demi-god moving surely through a world of his own creation
where there were no secrets that might be hid from his omniscience.

And thus at last they came to the camp of the Be-don-ko-he, but Wichita
Billings was no longer afraid; where Shoz-Dijiji was, there was safety.
As they rode into the camp, there was a tendency to crowd about them and
there were looks in the eyes of some of the squaws that would have
filled her with apprehension had not the great shoulders of Shoz-Dijiji
loomed so reassuringly close; but after he had spoken to them, in words
she could not understand, their attitude changed. Scowling squaws smiled
up at her and one or two stroked her skirt in a friendly way, for
Shoz-Dijiji had told them that she was his friend—a friend of all the
Be-don-ko-he.

They dismounted before a rude tepee where squatted a wrinkled man and
two women. “This is Geronimo, my father,” said Shoz-Dijiji.

The girl looked, almost fearfully, into the face of the old archdemon.
She saw stern features there, and a wide mouth with almost bloodless
lips, and blue eyes, so uncharacteristic of the Apache. Contorted with
rage, she could sense that it might be a face of utter cruelty; but
today, as he listened to the words of his son, it was just the face of a
benevolent, tired, old man.

“Shoz-Dijiji brings a captive from the war trail?” Geronimo had asked
when the two first stood before him.

“No,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, “a friend.”

“Shoz-Dijiji has taken a white-eyed one for his woman?” demanded the old
chief.

Again the younger man shook his head, “She was a friend to Shoz-Dijiji,”
he explained. “She gave him food and water and a pony when the soldiers
of the pindah lickoyee were hunting him.

“When Shoz-Dijiji was upon the war trail with the Chi-e-a-hen they were
about to kill her. They would not stop when Shoz-Dijiji asked them to.
Shoz-Dijiji killed the Chi-e-a-hen, and because the country was filled
with Apaches upon the war trail and Shoz-Dijiji knew that many soldiers
would come, he brought her here to his own people, where she will be
safe until the trouble is over; then he will return her to her people.”

Geronimo turned his eyes upon Wichita. “Ink-tah,” he said.

“Geronimo says, ‘sit down,’” translated Shoz-Dijiji and the girl did as
she was bid. Geronimo patted her hand and smiled.

“You will be safe with the Be-don-ko-he,” he said. “We are your
friends.”

When Shoz-Dijiji had repeated the words in English Wichita knew that
they were true, yet at the same time it seemed beyond belief that she
could be sitting at the side of the notorious Geronimo in the remote
fastness of his hidden camp and yet be as innocent of fear as though
safe within the protecting walls of her father’s ranch house. The
thought came to her that perhaps she was safer here, since at least she
was not menaced by the threat of hostile Apaches.

That night she slept in the tepee of the mother-in-law of Geronimo and
as she dozed off to sleep she smiled as she thought of the terrors that
that name had always conjured to her mind and of the surprise and
incredulity that were certain to mark the reception of her story by her
father and her friends when she was restored to them—sleeping in the
tepee of the mother-in-law of Geronimo, not twenty paces from the war
chief of all the Apaches.




                               CHAPTER XX
                               COME BACK!


THROUGH that strange medium for the dissemination of information that
is one of the remarkable phenomena of the life of primitive peoples,
word of the activities of the hostiles was carried to the stronghold of
Geronimo.

The Be-don-ko-he knew of the attack upon San Carlos Agency which
resulted in the killing of Sterling, chief of Indian Scouts, and several
other whites; knew that Chief Loco, successor to the dead Victorio, had
joined the hostiles with all his Chi-hen-ne, men, women and children,
and that the whole band was heading south toward Mexico.

They had news of the fight in Horse Shoe Canyon, and learned of the
killing of Yuma Bill and three Yuma scouts and three soldiers in that
fight; followed the flight of the hostiles along the rough crest of
Stein’s Peak Range, down into the San Simon Valley, and from there into
the Chiricahua Mountains; knew that they had scattered there, only to
meet at another point; saw them safely all the way through Whitewater
Canyon, across the mountains, down Animas Valley toward Guadalupe Pass,
and near there across into Mexico.

Shoz-Dijiji kept Wichita posted on all that transpired, but he would not
start back with her toward her home until he was sure that the last of
the hostiles was out of the country, for they had scattered twice and he
was not sure that all had crossed the border. Too, there was the danger
from the troops, but that was secondary because it menaced only himself.
She tried to tell him that he would be safe from the soldiers as long as
he was with her, for when she had told them that he had rescued her from
the hostiles they would not only be friendly but would reward him, but
he shook his head.

“They kill Shoz-Dijiji first; ask you about him after,” he said.

They were sitting beneath the shade of a tree upon the shoulder of the
mountain, over-looking the camp of the Be-don-ko-he. In the distance
they could see the wide plain stretching to other mountains.

The girl had noticed that Shoz-Dijiji always seemed to be where he could
see to a great distance when he rested—or rather idled, for he never
seemed to be in the need of rest. Sometimes he scanned the horizon
through a pair of field glasses. Finally he touched the glasses to call
her attention to them.

“You know who belong these?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Your lover,” he said, laughing.

“My lover!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean? I have no lover.”

He looked at her intently for a moment. “You no love King?” he asked.

It was her turn to laugh. “He is only a friend,” she said. “Are those
his glasses?”

“You no love him?” he insisted.

“Of course not.”

“Shoz-Dijiji know that, he kill him that time,” he said, quite simply.

Impulsively she laid a hand upon his arm. “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji,” she cried,
“why do you want to kill every one? You are such a good man. Why don’t
you put away your weapons and come in to the reservation?”

“Shoz-Dijiji does not want to kill everyone,” replied the brave.
“Shoz-Dijiji does not want to kill you. If Shoz-Dijiji put away his
weapons, no hunt, no fight; what for he live? Be reservation Indian?”
There was a wealth of unveiled contempt in his voice. “Let agent cheat
him, starve him? Let white man laugh at him, make fun of him? No!”

“But they would help you, Shoz-Dijiji. I would help you.”

“Yes, you would help me; but you would always feel sorry for me because
I am an Indian. I do not want the help of the white-eyes. I do not think
that they would help me. Have they ever helped the Indian? What can they
give the Indian that Usen has not already given him? Only, they take
away what Usen has given.

“What has the pindah lickoyee better than the Shis-Inday? Is he braver?
Is he more honest? Can he teach the Indian how and where to find food
and clothing? No, the pindah lickoyee would starve where the Indian
grows fat. He would go naked where the Indian finds more clothing than
he needs. Has he more sense? He has none. See what he has done to this
country.

“Before he came there was plenty for all, but like a fool he set out to
kill every living thing that Usen had put here. He robs the Indian of
his food, but also he robs himself of food—food that cost only a little
effort to obtain—food that, hunted as the Indian knows how to hunt,
always increased in numbers.

“What has he done for us? He is trying to take away from us the ways of
our fathers—our dances, our medicine men, everything that we hold
sacred; and in return he gives us whiskey and shoots us wherever he
finds us. I do not think the pindah lickoyee are such good men that they
can tell the Indian how to be good.

“Around every post and agency the white men are always trying to ravish
our women. The women of the Apache are good women. When they are not we
cut off their noses. How many Apache women have you ever seen whose
noses had been cut off? Do you think we want to come and live beside
such men? Do you think there is anything that they can teach us that is
better than our fathers taught us?

“You think it is bad to kill. Yes, it is bad to kill; but it is better
to kill like men and braves, openly and upon the war trail, than to kill
by lies. Our people are told great lies to get them to come into the
reservations, and there they are starved; and if they leave the
reservation to hunt for food for their women and children, without a
pass from the agent who is robbing them, then the soldiers come and
shoot them.

“No, Shoz-Dijiji never be reservation Indian!”

“I am sorry,” she said. “I never thought of it from your side. I can see
that in some ways you are right; but in others you are wrong. All white
men are not bad.”

“All Indians are not bad,” he replied quickly, “but the pindah lickoyee
treat them all alike—bad.”

For some time they sat in silence, the Apache watching the girl’s face,
his own expressionless. What was passing behind that granitic mask? Once
he extended a hand toward her as though to touch her, then he drew it
back quickly and sprang to his feet.

“Come!” he said, almost roughly. “We go back to camp.”

Two days later Geronimo and Shoz-Dijiji thought that it would be safe to
return Wichita to her home, and the young war chief and the girl set out
upon the long journey, which was but a repetition of that which had
ended at the camp of the Be-don-ko-he.

During the journey Wichita could not but notice that the brave scarcely
let his eyes leave her face, a thing of which she had had a growing
consciousness for at least two days before they left the camp. Had she
not come to trust him so implicitly she would have found it difficult
not to have acknowledged something of nervous apprehension as she felt
his gaze constantly upon her; but he took no other liberties with
her—just looked at her through those steady, inscrutable eyes.

Every journey must have an end and at last the two stood upon the very
hill above her father’s ranch where they had stood upon another
occasion. Shoz-Dijiji drew rein and dismounted. “I will wait here until
you are safe in the house of your father,” he said.

“You are not coming down with me?” she exclaimed, surprised.

“No.”

“I want you to, Shoz-Dijiji. I want my father to know you, and thank you
for what you have done for me,” she insisted.

“Me no go,” he replied.

The girl became suddenly conscious of a feeling almost of panic. Was she
never to see Shoz-Dijiji again, this good friend, this best of friends?
She realized, and the realization came as a distinct shock, that this
man of another race had suddenly filled a great emptiness in her
life—an emptiness the existence of which she had never before
realized—and that life was going to be very different without him.
Already she felt a great loneliness creeping over her.

She was standing beside him and now she turned and came close, putting
her two palms upon his breast. “Please, Shoz-Dijiji,” she begged.
“Please come down—I do not want you to go away.”

The contact of her hands upon him broke the iron will of the Apache. The
habitual mask behind which he hid his emotions dropped away—it was a
new Shoz-Dijiji into whose face the girl looked. He seized her in his
arms and pressed her close; his lips covering hers.

She struck at his great chest and sought to push him away; she held her
head from him and he saw the horror in her eyes. Then it was that he
released her.

“Shoz-Dijiji sorry,” he said. “For days he fight the great fire burning
in his brain, burning up his heart, Shoz-Dijiji thought he was strong;
he did not know how much stronger is love—until you touched him. But
you are right. You are white—Shoz-Dijiji is Apache. White girl could
not love Apache. That is right.” He vaulted to the back of Nejeunee.
“Shoz-Dijiji sorry. Good-bye!”

She watched him ride away and the panic and the loneliness gripped her
like fingers of flesh and blood that sought to choke life and love and
happiness from her. She saw him disappear beyond a hill to the south and
she took a step after him, her hands outstretched in dumb pleading for
his return that her lips had not the courage to voice aloud. She stood
thus for a minute and then her arms dropped limply to her side and she
turned back toward her father’s house.

A few steps she took and then she wheeled suddenly about and extended
her arms again, in supplication.

“Shoz-Dijiji!” she cried, “Shoz-Dijiji, come back!”

But Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, did not hear.

                                THE END




                                GLOSSARY

   Cha-ja-la                                               Spirit dance
   Chidin-bi-kungua                                    House of spirits
   Chigo-na-ay                                                      Sun
   Duklij                                        (blue stone) Turquoise
   Es-a-da-ded                        Buckskin on a hoop—Primitive drum
   Gun-ju-le                                                    Be good
   Ink-tah                                                     Sit down
   Intchi-dijin                                          The black wind
   Ish-kay-nay                                                      Boy
   Ittindi                                                    Lightning
   Itza-chu                                                       Eagle
   Izze-nantan                                             Medicine man
   Ka-chu                                                   Jack rabbit
   Kah                                                            Arrow
   Kah                                                             Foot
   Klego-na-ay                                                Full moon
   Klij-litzogue                                            Yellow bear
   Kunh-gan-hay                                       (fire place) Camp
   Nejeunee                                                    Friendly
   Pesh-litzogue                                     (yellow iron) Gold
   Pindah-lickoyee                                           White eyes
   Shee-dah                                                      Myself
   Shis-Inday       (men of the woods) The Apaches’ name for themselves
   Shoz-dijiji                                               Black bear
   Shoz-lekay                                                White bear
   Shoz-litzogue                                            Yellow bear
   Tapida                                                          Dawn
   Tats-an                                                         Dead
   Tsoch                                                         Cradle
   Tzi-daltai                                                    Amulet
   Tzi-ditindi                   (sounding wood) Rhombus or bull roarer
   Usen                                                             God
   Yah-ik-tee                 He is not present (said of a dead friend)
   Yah-tats-an                 Now it is dead (said of a killed animal)
   Yandestan                                                        Sky




                           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.

A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.