Chapter Five
GIAN-NAH-TAH entered the hogan of Shoz-Dijiji. The young war chief, awakening instantly, sprang to his feet when he saw who it was standing in the opening.
“Does Gian-nah-tah come to the hogan of Shoz-Dijiji as friend or enemy?” he asked.
“Listen, Shoz-Dijiji, and you will know,” replied Gian-nah-tah. “Yesterday my heart was bad. Perhaps the fire-water of the white-eyed man made it so, but it is not of that that Gian-nah-tah has come to speak with Shoz-Dijiji. It is of the girl, Wichita.”
“Shoz-Dijiji does not wish to speak of her,” replied the war chief.
“But he will listen while Gian-nah-tah speaks,” said the other, peremptorily. “The white-eyed skunk that sells poisoned water has ridden with four of his braves to capture the white-eyed girl that Shoz-Dijiji loves,” continued Gian-nah-tah. “They follow her to Pimos Canyon, and there they will keep her in the hogan that the white fool with the strange clothing built there six summers ago. Shoz-Dijiji knows the place?”
The Black Bear did not reply. Instead he seized the cartridge belt to which his six-shooter hung and buckled it about his slim hips, took his rifle, his hackamore, ran quickly out in search of his hobbled pony.
Gian-nah-tah hastened to his own hogan for weapons. Warriors, eating their breakfasts, noted the haste of the two and questioned them. Nervous, restless, apprehensive of the results that might follow Geronimo’s departure from the reservation, smarting under the injustice of the white-eyed men in taking their herds from them, many of the braves welcomed any diversion, especially one that might offer an outlet to their pent wrath against the enemy; and so it was that by the time Shoz-Dijiji had found and bridled Nejeunee he discovered that instead of riding alone to the rescue of the white girl he was one of a dozen savage warriors.
Wrapped in blankets they rode slowly, decorously, until they had passed beyond the ken of captious white-eyes, six-shooters and rifles hidden beneath the folds of their blankets; then the blankets fell away, folded lengthways across the withers of their ponies, and a dozen warriors, naked but for G strings, quirted their ponies into swinging lope.
Knowing that the troops were out, the Indians followed no beaten road but rode south across the Gila and then turned southeast through the hills toward Pimos Canyon.
“Dirty” Cheetim, with a lead rope on Wichita’s horse, rode beside the girl.
“Thought you was too high-toned for ‘Dirty’ Cheetim, eh?” he sneered. “You was too damn good to be Mrs. Cheetim, eh? Well, you ain’t a-goin’ to be Mrs. Cheetim. You’re just a-goin’ to be one o’ ‘Dirty’ Cheetim’s girls down at the Hog Ranch. Nobody don’t marry them.”
Wichita Billings made no reply. She rode in silence, her eyes straight to the front. Hicks, the young puncher who had roped the girl’s horse, rode a few paces to the rear. In his drink muddled brain doubts were forming as to the propriety of the venture into which Cheetim had led him. Perhaps he was more fool than knave; perhaps, sober, he might have balked at the undertaking. After all he was but half conscious of vaguely annoying questionings that might eventually have crystallized into regrets had time sufficed, but it did not.
They were winding up Pimos Canyon toward the deserted shack. “Your old man kicked me out,” Cheetim was saying to the girl. “I reckon you’re thinking that he’ll get me for this, but he won’t. After you bin to the Ranch a spell you won’t be advertising to your old man, nor nobody else, where you be. They’s other girls there as good as you be, an’ they ain’t none of ’em sendin’ out invites to their folks to come an’ see ’em. You—Hell! Look! Injuns!”
Over the western rim of Pimos Canyon a dozen yelling Apaches were charging down the steep hillside.
“Geronimo!” screamed Cheetim and, dropping the lead rope, wheeled about and bolted down the canyon as fast as spur and quirt and horse flesh could carry him.
The four remaining men opened fire on the Apaches, and in the first exchange of shots two had their horses shot from under them. Hicks’ horse, grazed by a bullet, became unmanageable and started off down the canyon after Cheetim’s animal, pitching and squealing, while a third man, realizing the futility of resistance and unhampered by sentiments of chivalry, put spur and followed.
One of the dismounted men ran to the side of Wichita’s horse, seized her arm and dragged her from the saddle before she realized the thing that was in his mind; then, vaulting to the horse’s back, he started after his fellows while the girl ran to the shelter of a bowlder behind which the sole remaining white man had taken up a position from which he might momentarily, at least, wage a hopeless defense against the enemy.
Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah, racing toward the girl, saw her dragged from her horse, saw her take refuge behind the bowlder, and the latter, knowing that the girl was safe, raced after the white man who had stolen her horse and left her, as he thought, to the merciless attentions of a savage enemy.
Shoz-Dijiji, calling his warriors together, circled away from the bowlder behind which the two were crouching. The white man looked from behind the bowlder. Slowly he raised his rifle to take aim. The girl raised her eyes above the level of the bowlder’s top. She saw the Apache warriors gathered a hundred yards away, she saw the rifle of the white man leveled upon them, and then she recognized Shoz-Dijiji.
“Don’t shoot!” she cried to her companion. “Wait!”
“Wait, hell!” scoffed the man. “We ain’t got no more chanct than a snowball in Hell. W’y should I wait?”
“One of those Indians is friendly,” replied the girl. “I don’t think he’ll hurt us or let the others hurt us when he knows I’m here.”
Gian-nah-tah, riding fast, had pulled alongside his quarry. With clubbed rifle he knocked the white man from the saddle and in a dozen more strides had seized the bridle rein of the riderless horse.
The man behind the bowlder drew a fine sight on the buck who appeared to be the leader of the renegades. It was Shoz-Dijiji. Wichita Billings snatched the white man’s six-shooter from its holster and shoved the muzzle against his side.
“Drop that gun!” she cautioned; “or I’ll bore you.”
The man lowered his rifle to the accompaniment of lurid profanity.
“Shut up,” admonished Wichita, “and look there!”
Shoz-Dijiji had tied a white rag to the muzzle of his rifle and was waving it to and fro above his head. Wichita stood up and waved a hand above her head. “Stand up!” she commanded, addressing the white man behind the bowlder. The fellow did as he was bid and, again at her command, accompanied her as she advanced to meet Shoz-Dijiji, who was walking toward them alone.
As they met, the Black Bear seized the white man’s rifle and wrenched it from his grasp. “Now I kill him,” he announced.
“No! Oh, no!” cried Wichita, stepping between them.
“Why not?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “He steal you, eh?”
“Yes, but you mustn’t kill him,” replied the girl. “He came forward under the protection of your white flag.”
“White flag for you—not for dirty coyote,” the Black Bear assured her. “I give him his rifle, then. Him go back. Then I get him.”
“No, Shoz-Dijiji, you must let him go. He doesn’t deserve it, I’ll admit; but it would only bring trouble to you and your people. The troops are already out after Geronimo. If there is a killing here there is no telling what it will lead to.”
“No sabe white-eyed men,” said Shoz-Dijiji disgustedly. “Kill good Indian, yes; kill bad white-eye, no.” He shrugged. “Well, you say no kill, no kill.” He turned to the white man. “Get out, pronto! You sabe? Get out San Carlos. Shoz-Dijiji see you San Carlos again, kill. Get!”
“Gimme my rifle and six-gun,” growled the white, sullenly.
Shoz-Dijiji laid his hand on Wichita’s arm as she was about to return the man’s six-shooter. “Shut up, and hit the trail, white man,” he snapped.
The other hesitated a moment, as though about to speak, looked into the savage face of the Apache, and then started down Pimos Canyon toward the main trail just as Gian-nah-tah rode up leading the girl’s horse.
“Gian-nah-tah,” said the Black Bear, “Shoz-Dijiji, the Be-don-ko-he Apache, rides with the white-eyed girl to the hogan of her father to see that she is not harmed by white-eyed men upon the way.” There was the trace of a smile in the eyes of the Indian as he spoke. “Perhaps,” he continued, “Gian-nah-tah will ride to the camp of my father and tell him that Nan-tan-des-la-par-en has sent troopstoward the southto bring Geronimo in, dead or alive.
“When the white-eyed girl is safe Shoz-Dijiji will join his father. Perhaps other Apache warriors will join him. Who knows, Gian-nah-tah?”
“I shall join him,” said Gian-nah-tah.
The other warriors, who had slowly drawn near, had overheard the conversation and now, without exception, each assured Shoz-Dijiji that he would join Geronimo at once or later.
As Wichita mounted her horse and looked about her at the half circle of savage warriors partially surrounding her it seemed incredible that yesterday these men were, and perhaps again tomorrow would be, the cruel, relentless devils of the Apache war-trail.
Now they were laughing among themselves and poking fun at the white man plodding down the canyon and at the other whom Gian-nah-tah had knocked from Wichita’s horse and who was already regaining consciousness and looking about him in a dazed and foolish manner.
It seemed incredible that she should be safe among them when she had been in such danger but a moment before among men of her own race. Many of them smiled pleasantly at her as she tried to thank them for what they had done for her; and they waved friendly hands in adieu as they rode off with Gian-nah-tah toward the north, leaving her alone with Shoz-Dijiji.
“How can I ever thank you, Shoz-Dijiji?” she said. “You are the most wonderful friend that a girl could have.”
The war chief of the Be-don-ko-he looked her straight in the eyes and grunted.
“Me no sabe,” he said, and wheeled his pinto down toward the main trail, beckoning her to follow.
Wichita Billings looked at the man at her side in astonishment. She opened her lips to speak again but thought better of it and remained silent. They passed the two habitues of the Hog Ranch trudging disgustedly through the dust. The Apache did not even deign to look at them. They came to the main trail, and here Shoz-Dijiji turned southeast in the direction of the Billings ranch. San Carlos lay to the northwest. Wichita drew rein.
“You may go back to the reservation,” she said. “I shall be safe now the rest of the way home.”
Shoz-Dijiji looked at her. “Come!” he said, and rode on toward the southeast.
Wichita did not move. “I shall not let you ride with me,” she said. “I appreciate what you have done for me, but I cannot permit myself to be put under further obligations to you.”
“Come!” said Shoz-Dijiji, peremptorily.
Wichita felt a slow flush mounting her cheek, and it embarrassed and angered her.
“I’ll sit here forever,” she said, “before I’ll let you ride home with me.”
Shoz-Dijiji reined Nejeunee about and rode back to her side. He took hold of her bridle rein and started leading her horse in the direction he wished it to go.
For an instant Wichita Billings was furious. Very seldom in her life had she been crossed. Being an only child in a motherless home she had had her own way more often than not. People had a habit of doing the things that Wichita Billings wanted done. In a way she was spoiled; and, too, she had a bit of a temper. Shoz-Dijiji had humiliated her and now he was attempting to coerce her. Her eyes flashed fire as she swung her heavy quirt above her head and brought it down across the man’s naked shoulders.
“Let go of my bridle, you—” but there she stopped, horrified at what she had done. “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji! How could I?” she cried, and burst into tears.
The Apache gave no sign that he had felt the stinging blow, but the ugly welt that rose across his back testified to the force with which the lash had fallen.
As though realizing that she had capitulated the Apache dropped her bridle rein; and Wichita rode on docilely at his side, dabbing at her eyes and nose with her handkerchief and struggling to smother an occasional sob.
Thus in silence they rode as mile after mile of the dusty trail unrolled behind them. Often the girl glanced at the rugged, granitic profile of the savage warrior at her side and wondered what was passing through the brain behind that inscrutable mask. Sometimes she looked at the welt across his shoulders and caught her breath to stifle a new sob.
They were approaching the Billings ranch now. In a few minutes Wichita would be home. She knew what Shoz-Dijiji would do. He would turn and ride away without a word. Battling with her pride, which was doubly strong because it was composed of both the pride of the white and the pride of the woman, she gave in at last and spoke to him again.
“Can you forgive me, Shoz-Dijiji?” she asked. “It was my ugly temper that did it, not my heart.”
“You only think that,” he said, presently. “The thing that is deep down in your heart, deep in the heart of every white, came out when you lost control of yourself through anger. If Shoz-Dijiji had been white you would not have struck him!”
“Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, how can you say such a thing?” she cried. “There is no white man in the world that I respect more than I do you.”
“That is a lie,” said the Apache, quite simply. “It is not possible for a white-eyes to respect an Apache. Sometimes they think they do, perhaps, but let something happen to make them lose their tempers and the truth rises sure and straight, like a smoke signal after a storm.”
“I do not lie to you—you should not say such a thing to me,” the girl reproached.
“You lie to yourself, not to me; for you only try to deceive yourself. In that, perhaps, you succeed; but you do not deceive me. Shoz-Dijiji knows—you tell him yourself, though you do not mean to. Shoz-Dijiji will finish the words you started when you struck him with your quirt, and then you will understand what Shoz-Dijiji understands: ‘Let go of my bridle, you—’ dirty Siwash!”
Wichita gasped. “Oh, I didn’t say that!” she cried.
“It was in your heart. The Apache knows.” There was no rancor in his voice.
“Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, Icouldn’tsay that to you—I couldn’t mean it. Can’t you see that I couldn’t?”
They had reached the ranch gate and stopped. “Listen,” said the Apache. “Shoz-Dijiji saw the look in the white girl’s eyes when he kissed her. Shoz-Dijiji has seen that look in the eyes of white women when a snake touched them. Shoz-Dijiji understands.”
“You do not understand!” cried the girl. “God! you do not understand anything.”
“Shoz-Dijiji understands that white girl is for white man—Apache for Apache. If not, you would not have looked that way when Shoz-Dijiji took you in his arms. Cheetim wanted you. He is a white man.” There was a trace of bitterness in his tone. “Why did not you go with him? He is no Apache to bring the snake-look to your eyes.”
The girl was about to reply when they were interrupted by the sound of a gruff voice and looking up saw Billings striding angrily toward them.
“Get in here, Chita!” he ordered, roughly, and then turned to Shoz-Dijiji. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded.
“Father!” exclaimed the girl. “This is my friend. You have no right——”
“No dirty, sneaking, murdering Siwash can hang around my ranch,” shouted Billings angrily. “Now get the hell out of here and stay out!”
Shoz-Dijiji, apparently unmoved, looked the white man in the eyes. “She my friend,” he said. “I come when I please.”
Billings fairly danced about in rage. “If I catch you around here again,” he spluttered, “I’ll put a bullet in you where it’ll do the most good.”
“Pindah-lickoyee,” said the Apache, “you make big talk to a war chief of the Be-don-ko-he. When Shoz-Dijiji comes again, then may-be-so you not talk so big about bullets any more,” and wheeling his little pinto stallion about he rode away.
Attracted by the loud voice of Billings a cow-hand, loitering near the bunk house, had walked down to the gate, arriving just as Shoz-Dijiji left.
“Say,” he drawled, “why that there’s the Injun that give me water that time an’ tol’ me how to git here.”
“So he’s the damn skunk wot stole the ewe-neck roan!” exclaimed Billings.
“Yes,” snapped Wichita, angrily, “and he’s the ‘damn skunk’ that saved Luke’s life that time. He’s the ‘damn skunk’ that kept ‘Dirty’ Cheetim from gettin’ me three years ago. He’s the ‘damn skunk’ that saved me from Tats-ah-das-ay-go down at the Pringe ranch. He’s the ‘damn skunk’ that heard this mornin’ that Cheetim was after me again with a bunch of his bums and rode down to Pimos Canyon from San Carlos and took me away from them and brought me home. You ought to be damn proud o’ yourself, Dad!”
Billings looked suddenly crestfallen and Luke Jensen very much embarrassed. He had never heard the boss talked to like this before, and he wished he had stayed at the bunk house where he belonged.
“I’m damned sorry,” said Billings after a moment of silence. “If I see that Apache again I’ll tell him so, but ever since they got poor Mason I see red every time I drops my eyes on one of ’em. I’m shore sorry, Chita.”
“He won’t ever know it,” said the girl. “Shoz-Dijiji won’t ever come back again.”
Chapter Six
SHOZ-DIJIJI, riding cross-country, picked up the trail of Geronimo where it lay revealed to Apache eyes like a printed message across the open pages of Nature’s book of hieroglyphs, and in the evening of the second day he came to the camp of the War Chief.
Gian-nah-tah and several of the warriors who had accompanied Shoz-Dijiji in the pursuit of Cheetim and his unsavory company were already with Geronimo, and during the next two days other warriors and many women came silent footed into the camp of the Be-don-ko-he.
The Apaches were nervous and irritable. They knew that troops were out after them, and though the cunning of Shoz-Dijiji had sent the first contingent upon a wild goose chase toward Sonora the Indians were well aware that it could be but a matter of days before their whereabouts might be discovered and other troops sent to arrest them.
Among those that urged upon them the necessity of immediately taking the war trail was Mangas, son of the great dead chief, Mangas Colorado; but Geronimo held back. He did not wish to fight the white men again, for he realized, perhaps better than any of them, the futility of continued resistance; but there were two forces opposing him that were to prove more potent than the conservatism of mature deliberation. They were Sago-zhu-ni, the wife of Mangas, and the tizwin she was brewing.
It was in the early evening of May 16, 1885 that Shoz-Dijiji rode into the camp of Geronimo. The sacred hoddentin had been offered up with the prayers to Evening, and already the Be-don-ko-he had gathered about the council fire. Tizwin was flowing freely as was evidenced by the increasing volubility of the orators.
Mangas spoke forcefully and definitely for war, urging it upon Na-chi-ta, son of old Cochise and chief of the Chihuicahui Apaches and ranking chief of all those gathered in the camp of Geronimo; but Na-chi-ta, good-natured, fonder of tizwin and pretty squaws than he was of the war-trail and its hardships, argued, though halfheartedly, for peace.
Chihuahua, his fine head bowed in thought, nodded his approval of the moderate counsel of Na-chi-ta; and when it was his turn to speak he reminded them of the waste of war, of the uselessness and hopelessness of fighting against the soldiers of the white men; and old Nanáy sided with him; but Ulzanna, respected for his ferocity and his intelligence, spoke for war, as did Kut-le, the bravest of them all.
Stinging from the insults of the father of Wichita Billings, Shoz-Dijiji was filled with bitterness against all whites; and when Kut-le had spoken, the young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he arose.
“Geronimo, my father,” he said, “speaks with great wisdom and out of years filled with experience, but perhaps he has forgotten many things that have happened during the long years that the Shis-Inday have been fighting to drive the enemy from the country that Usen made for them. Shoz-Dijiji, the son of Geronimo, has not forgotten the things that he has seen, nor those of which his father has told him; they are burned into his memory.
“Geronimo is right when he says that peace is better than war for those who may no longer hope to win, and I too would speak against the war-trail if the pindah-lickoyee would leave us in peace to live our own lives as Usen taught us to live them. But they will not. They wish us to live in their way which is not a good way for Apaches to live. If we do not wish to they send soldiers and arrest us. Thus we are prisoners and slaves. Shoz-Dijiji cannot be happy either as a prisoner or as a slave, and so he prefers the war-trail and death to these things.
“Na-chi-ta speaks against the war-trail because there will be no tizwin there but, instead, many hardships. Shoz-Dijiji knew well the great Cochise, father of Na-chi-ta. Cochise would be angry and ashamed if he could have heard his son speak at the council fire tonight.
“Chihuahua speaks against war. Chihuahua thinks only of the little farm that the pindah-lickoyee are permitting him to use and forgets all the wide expanse of country that the pindah-lickoyee have stolen from him. Chihuahua is a brave warrior. I do not think that Chihuahua will long be happy working like a slave for the Indian Agent who will rob him of the sweat of his brow as he robs us all.
“Nanáy is old and lives in memories of past war-trails when he fought with glory at the side of Victorio and Loco. His day is done, his life has been lived. Why should we young men, who have our own lives to live, be content to live upon the memories of old men. We want memories of our own and freedom, if only for a short time, to enjoy them as our fathers did before us.
“Ulzanna and Kut-le are brave men. They do honor to the proud race from which we all spring. They know that it would be better to die in freedom upon the war-trail against the hated pindah-lickoyee than to live like cattle, herded upon a reservation by the white-eyes.
“They think of the great warriors, of the women, of the little children who have been murdered by the lies and treachery of the pindah-lickoyee. They recall the ridicule that is heaped upon all those things which we hold most sacred. They do not forget the insults that every white-eyed man hurls at the Shis-Inday upon every occasion except when the Shis-Inday are on the war-trail. Then they respect us.
“Shall we wait here until they come and arrest and kill our chiefs, as Nan-tan-des-la-par-en has ordered them to do, or shall we take to the war-trail and teach them once more to respect us? I, Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, speak for the war-trail. I have spoken.”
An old man arose. “Let us wait,” he said. “Perhaps the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee will not come. Perhaps they will let us live in peace if we do not go upon the war-trail. Let us wait.”
The tizwin had not as yet spoken its final word, and there were more who spoke against the war-trail than for it, and before the council was concluded many had spoken. Among the last was Sago-zhu-ni—Pretty Mouth—the wife of Mangas, for the voice of woman was not unknown about the council fires of the Apaches. And why should it be? Did not they share all the hardships of the war-trail with their lords and masters? Did they not often fight, and as fiercely and terribly as the men? Were they not as often the targets for the rifles of the pindah-lickoyee? Who, then, had better right to speak at the councils of the Apaches than the wives and mothers of their warriors.
Sago-zhu-ni spoke briefly, but to the point. “Are you men, old women, or children?” she cried fiercely. “If you are old women and children, you will stay here and wait to receive your punishment; but if you are warriors, you will take the war-trail, and then Nan-tan-des-la-par-en must catch you before he can punish you. May-be-so, you go to Sonora, he no catch you. I have spoken.”
Now Na-chi-ta, encouraged by tizwin and goaded by the reproaches of Shoz-Dijiji spoke for war. Geronimo, his savage brain inflamed by the fumes of the drink, applauded Sago-zhu-ni and demanded the blood of every pindah-lickoyee.
With fiery eloquence he ranged back through the history of the Shis-Inday for more than three hundred years and reminded them of every wrong that white men had committed against them in all that time. He spoke for more than an hour, and while he spoke Sago-zhu-ni saw that no warrior suffered from lack of tizwin. Of all who spoke vehemently for the war-trail Shoz-Dijiji alone spoke out of a clear mind, or at least a mind unclouded by the fumes of drink, though it was dark with bitter hatred and prejudice.
When Geronimo sat down they voted unanimously for the war-trail; and the next morning they broke camp and headed south—thirty-four warriors, eight boys, and ninety-one women. Hair was slicked down with tallow, swart faces streaked with war paint, weapons looked to. Hoddentin was sprinkled on many a tzi-daltai of lightning riven pine or cedar or fir as copper warriors prayed to these amulets for protection against the bullets of the pindah-lickoyee, for success upon the war-trail.
Shoz-Dijiji, with Gian-nah-tah and two other warriors, rode in advance of the main party, scouting far afield, scanning the distances from every eminence. No creature stirred in the broad landscape before them that was not marked by those eagle eyes, no faintest spoor beneath their feet was passed unnoted.
The young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he was again the Apache Devil. His face was painted blue but for the broad band of white across his eyes from temple to temple; around his head was wound a vivid yellow bandana upon the front of which was fastened a silver disc in the center of which was mounted a single turquoise; small rings of silver, from each of which depended another of these valued gems, swung from the lobes of his ears; other bits of this prized duklij were strung in the yard-long necklace of glass beads and magical berries and roots that fell across the front of his brown, print shirt, which, with his heavy buckskin war moccasins and his G-string, completed his apparel.
About his waist and across one shoulder were belts filled with ammunition for the revolver at his hip and the rifle lying across the withers of Nejeunee, and at his left side hung a pair of powerful field glasses that he had taken in battle from a cavalry officer several years before. From below the skirts of his shirt to the tops of his moccasins the Apache Devil’s bronzed legs were naked, as he seldom if ever wore the cotton drawers affected by many of his fellows. The bracelets of silver and brass that adorned his muscular arms were hidden by the sleeves of his shirt, a shirt that he probably soon would discard, being ever impatient of the confining sensation that clothing imparted.
Down into the mountains of southwestern New Mexico the Apaches marched, following trails known only to themselves, passing silently through danger zones by night, and established themselves among caves and canyons inaccessible to mounted troops.
Striking swiftly, raiding parties descended upon many an isolated ranch house both in Arizona and New Mexico, leaving behind horrid evidence of their ferocity as they rode away upon stolen horses from the blazing funeral pyres that had once been homes.
Scouts kept Geronimo informed of the location of the troops in the field against him; and the shrewd old war chief successfully avoided encounters with any considerable body of enemy forces, but scouting parties and supply trains often felt the full force of the strategy and courage of this master general of guerilla warfare and his able lieutenants.
It was during these days that the blue and white face of the Apache Devil became as well known and as feared as it was in Sonora and Chihuahua, for, though relentless in his war against the men of the pindah-lickoyee, Shoz-Dijiji killed neither women nor children, with the result that there were often survivors to describe the boldness and ferocity of his attacks.
Scouting far north for information relative to the movement of troops, Shoz-Dijiji one day came upon an Indian scout in the employ of the enemy; and having recognized him as an old friend he hailed him.
“Where are the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.
“They cannot catch you,” replied the scout, grinning, “and so they are sending Apaches after you. Behind me are a hundred White Mountain and Cho-kon-en braves. They are led by one white-eyed officer, Captain Crawford. Tell Geronimo that he had better come in, for he cannot escape the Shis-Inday as he has escaped the pindah-lickoyee.”
“Why do you and the others go upon the war-trail against your own people?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “Why do you fight as brothers at the side of the enemy?”
“We take the war-trail against you because you are fools and we are not,” replied the scout. “We have learned that it is useless to fight against the pindah-lickoyee. We do not love them more than you; and if we could kill them all we would, but we cannot kill them all—they are as many as the weeds that grow among our corn and beans and pumpkins—for though we cut them down they come again in greater numbers than before, flourishing best in soil that is wet with blood.
“When you go upon the war-trail against the white-eyed men it only makes more trouble for us. Geronimo is a great trouble maker. Therefore we fight against him that we may live in peace.”
“Either your mouth is full of lies or your heart has turned to water,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “No Apache wants peace at the price of slavery, unless he has become a coward and is afraid of the pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji has the guts of a man. He would rather die on the war-trail than be a reservation Indian. You have not even the guts of a coyote, which snarls and snaps at the hand of his captor and risks death to regain his freedom.”
“Be a coyote then,” sneered the scout, “and I will put your pelt on the floor of my hogan.”
“Here it is, reservation Indian,” replied the Black Bear. “Take it.”
Both men had dismounted when they met and were standing close and face to face. The scout reached quickly for his six-shooter, but the Apache Devil was even quicker. His left hand shot out and seized the other’s wrist, and with his right he drew from its scabbard the great butcher knife that hung at his hip.
The scout warded the first blow and grasped Shoz-Dijiji’s arm; and at the same instant tore his right arm free, but as he did so the renegade snatched the other’s gun from its holster and tossed it aside, while the scout, profiting by the momentary freedom of his right hand, drew his own knife, and the two closed in a clinch, each striving to drive his blade home in the body of his adversary.
At the time that their altercation had reached the point of physical encounter each of the men had dropped his hackamore rope with the result that Shoz-Dijiji’s horse, recently stolen from a raided ranch, took advantage of this God-given opportunity to make a break for freedom and home, while the scout’s pony, lured by the call of consanguinity, trotted off with the deserter.
Each of the combatants now held the knife arm of the other and the struggle had resolved itself into one of strength and endurance, since he who could hold his grip the longer stood the greater chance for victory, the other the almost certain assurance of death.
They struggled to and fro, pushing one another here and there about the sandy dust of a parched canyon bottom. The painted face of the Apache Devil remained almost expressionless, so well schooled in inscrutability were his features, nor did that of the scout indicate that he was engaged in a duel to the death.
Two miles to the north a detachment of twenty White Mountain Apaches from Crawford’s Indian Scouts were following leisurely along the trail of their comrade. In twenty minutes, perhaps, they would come within sight of the scene of the duel.
It is possible that the scout engaged with Shoz-Dijiji held this hope in mind, for when it became obvious to him that he was no match in physical strength for his adversary he dropped his own knife and grasped the knife arm of his foe in both hands.
It was a foolish move, for no sooner did the Apache Devil regain the freedom of his left hand than he transferred his weapon to it and before his unfortunate antagonist realized his danger Shoz-Dijiji plunged the blade between his ribs, deep into his heart.
Stooping over the body of his dead foe Shoz-Dijiji tore the red band that proclaimed the government scout from his brow and with a deft movement of his knife removed a patch of scalp. Then he appropriated the ammunition and weapons of his late adversary and turned to look for the two ponies. Now, for the first time, he realized that they were gone and that he was afoot far from the camp of Geronimo, probably the sole possessor of the information that a hundred scouts were moving upon the stronghold of the War Chief.
A white man might doubtless have been deeply chagrined had he found himself in a similar position, but to the Apache it meant only a little physical exertion to which he was already inured by a lifetime of training. The country through which he might pass on foot by the most direct route to Geronimo’s camp was practically impassable to horses but might be covered by an Apache in less time than it would have required to make the necessary detours on horseback. However, Shoz-Dijiji would have preferred the easier method of transportation, and so he regretted that he had ridden the new pony instead of Nejeunee, who would not have run away from him.
Knowing that other scouts might be near at hand, Shoz-Dijiji placed an ear to the ground and was rewarded by information that sent him quickly toward the south. Clambering up the side of the canyon, he adjusted the red band of the dead scout about his own head as he climbed, for he knew that eyes fully as keen as his own were doubtless scanning the horizon through powerful field glasses at no great distance and that if they glimpsed the red band they would not hasten in pursuit.
He grinned as he envisaged the anger of the scouts when they came upon the dead body of their scalped comrade, and the vision lightened the dreary hours as he trotted southward beneath the pitiless sun of New Mexico.
Late in the afternoon Shoz-Dijiji approached a main trail that led west to Fort Bowie and which he must cross, but with the caution of the Apache he reconnoitered first.
From the top of a low hill the trail was in sight for a mile or two in each direction and to this vantage point the Black Bear crept. Only his eyes and the top of his head were raised above the summit of the hill, and these were screened by a small bush that he had torn from the ground and which he held just in front of him as he wormed his way to the hill top.
Below him the trail led through a defile in which lay scattered huge fragments of rock among which the feed grew thick and rank, suggesting water close beneath the surface; but it was not these things that caught the eyes and interest of the Apache Devil, who was already as familiar with them as he was with countless other square miles of New Mexico, Arizona, Chihuahua, and Sonora, or with the wrinkles upon the face of his mother, Sons-ee-ah-ray.
That which galvanized his instant attention and interest was a cavalryman sitting upon a small rock fragment while his horse, at the end of a long riata, cropped the green feed. Shoz-Dijiji guessed that here was a military messenger riding to or from Fort Bowie. Here, too, was a horse, and Shoz-Dijiji was perfectly willing to ride the rest of the way to the camp of Geronimo.
A shot would dispose of the white-eyed soldier, but it would, doubtless, also frighten the horse and send him galloping far out of the reach of Apache hands; but Shoz-Dijiji was resourceful.
He quickly cached the rifle of the scout, for the possession of two rifles might raise doubts that two six-shooters would not; he adjusted the red scout band and with a bandana carefully wiped from his face the telltale war paint of the Apache Devil. Then he arose and walked slowly down the hillside toward the soldier, who sat with his back toward him. So silently he moved that he was within four or five feet of the man when he halted and spoke.
The soldier wheeled about as he sprang to his feet and drew his pistol, but the sight of the smiling face of the Indian, the extended hand and the red band of the government scout removed his fears instantly.
“Nejeunee, nejeunee,” Shoz-Dijiji assured him, using the Apache word meaning friend, and stepping forward grasped the soldier’s hand.
Smiling pleasantly, Shoz-Dijiji looked at the horse and then at the riata approvingly.
“You belong Crawford’s outfit?” inquired the soldier.
“Me no sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji. He picked up the riata and examined it. “Mucho bueno!” he exclaimed.
“You bet,” agreed the cavalryman. “Damn fine rope.”
The Apache examined the riata minutely, passing it through his hands, and at the same time walking toward the horse slowly. The riata, a braided hair “macarthy,” was indeed a fine specimen, some sixty feet in length, of which the soldier was pardonably proud, a fact which threw him off his guard in the face of the Indian’s clever simulation of interest and approval.
When Shoz-Dijiji reached the end of the rope which was about the horse’s neck he patted the animal admiringly and turned to the soldier, smiling enthusiastically. “Mucho bueno,” he said, nodding toward the horse.
“You bet,” said the trooper. “Damn fine horse.”
With his back toward the white man, Shoz-Dijiji drew his knife and quickly severed the rope, holding the two ends concealed in his left hand. “Mucho bueno,” he repeated, turning again toward the soldier, and then, suddenly and with seeming excitement, he pointed up the hill back of the trooper. “Apache on dahl!” he shouted—“The Apaches are coming!”
Quite naturally, under the circumstances, the soldier turned away to look in the direction from which the savage enemy was supposed to be swooping upon him, and as he did so the Apache Devil vaulted into the saddle and was away.
The great bowlders strewing the floor of the canyon afforded him an instant screen and though the soldier was soon firing at him with his pistol he offered but a momentary and fleeting target before he was out of range, carrying away with him the cavalryman’s carbine, which swung in its boot beneath the off stirrup of the trooper’s McClellan.
Shoz-Dijiji was greatly elated. He knew that he might have knifed the unsuspecting pindah-lickoyee had he preferred to; but a victory of wits and cunning gave him an even greater thrill of satisfaction, for, Apache to the core though he was, the Black Bear killed not for the love of it but from a sense of duty to his people and loyalty to the same cause that inspired such men as Washington and Lincoln—freedom.
Chapter Seven
REMOUNTED, and richer by a carbine, a six-shooter and many rounds of ammunition, Shoz-Dijiji rode into the camp of Geronimo late at night. When he had awakened the War Chief and reported the approach of the hundred scouts under Crawford, preparations were immediately started to break camp; and within an hour the renegades were moving silently southward.
Down into Sonora they went, raiding and killing as they passed through the terror stricken country, but moving swiftly and avoiding contact with the enemy. In the mountains west of Casa Grande Geronimo went into camp again, and from this base raiding parties took relentless toll throughout the surrounding country.
In the mountains above Casa Grande Pedro Mariel, the woodchopper, felled trees, cut them into proper lengths which he split and loaded upon the backs of his patient burros. This he did today as he had done for many years. With him now was Luis, his nineteen year old son. Other woodchoppers, joining with the Mariels for company and mutual protection, camped and worked with them. In all there were a dozen men—hardy, courageous descendants of that ancient race that built temples to their gods upon the soil of the Western Hemisphere long before the first show-boat stranded on Ararat.
As the sound of their axes rang in the mountains, a pair of savage eyes set in a painted face looked down upon them from the rim of the canyon in which they labored. The eyes were the eyes of Gian-nah-tah, the Be-don-ko-he Apache. They counted the number of the men below, they took in every detail of the nearby camp, of the disposal of the men engaged in felling new trees or cutting those that had been felled. For a half hour they watched, then Gian-nah-tah withdrew, silently as a shadow. The Mexicans, unsuspecting, continued at their work, stopping occasionally to roll a cigaret or pass some laughing remark. Luis Mariel, young and light hearted, often sang snatches of songs which usually concerned senoritas with large, dark eyes and red lips, for Luis was young and light hearted.
An hour passed. Gian-nah-tah returned, but not alone. With him, this time, were a dozen painted warriors, moving like pumas—silently, stealthily. Among them was Shoz-Dijiji, the Apache Devil. Down the canyon side they crept and into the bottom below the woodchoppers. Spreading out into a thin line that crossed the canyon’s floor and extended up either side they advanced slowly, silently, hiding behind trees, crawling across open spaces upon their bellies. They were patient, for they were Apaches—the personification of infinite patience.
Luis Mariel sang of a castle in Spain, which he thought of vaguely as a place of many castles and beautiful senoritas somewhere across a sea that was also “somewhere.” Close beside him worked his father, Pedro, thinking proudly of this fine son of his.
Close to them cruel eyes looked through a band of white out of a blue face. The Apache Devil, closest to them, watched the pair intently. Suddenly a shot rang above the ringing axes. Manuel Farias clutched his breast and crumpled to the ground. Other shots came in quick succession, and then the air was rent by wild Apache war-whoops as the savages charged the almost defenseless woodchoppers.
Luis Mariel ran to his father’s side. Grasping their axes they stood shoulder to shoulder, for between them and whatever weapons they had left in camp were whooping Apaches. Some of the other men tried to break through and reach their rifles, but they were shot down. Three surrendered. A huge warrior confronted Pedro and Luis.
“Pray,” said Pedro, “for we are about to die.” He was looking at the face of the warrior. “It is the Apache Devil!”
“Who is that?” demanded the Indian, pointing to the lad.
“He is my oldest son,” replied Pedro, wondering.
“Put down your axes and come here,” ordered the Apache. “You will not be harmed.”
Pedro was not surprised to hear the Indian speak in broken Spanish, as most Apaches understood much and spoke a little the language of their ancient enemies; but he was surprised at the meaning of the words he heard, surprised and skeptical. He hesitated. Luis looked up at him, questioningly.
“If we lay down our axes we shall be wholly unarmed,” said Pedro.
“What difference does it make?” asked Luis. “He can kill us whether we have axes in our hands or not—they will not stop his bullets.”
“You are right,” said Pedro and threw down his axe. Luis did likewise and together they approached the Apache Devil. “May the Holy Mary protect us!” whispered the father.
The other Mexicans, having been killed or captured, Gian-nah-tah and the balance of the braves came running toward Pedro and Luis; but Shoz-Dijiji stepped in front of them and raised his hand.
“These are my friends,” he said. “Do not harm them.”
“They are enemies,” cried one of the warriors, excited by blood and anticipation of torture. “Kill them!”
“Very well,” said Shoz-Dijiji quietly. “You may kill them, but first you must kill Shoz-Dijiji. He has told you that they are his friends.”
“Why does Shoz-Dijiji protect the enemy?” demanded Gian-nah-tah.
“Listen,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “Many years ago Shoz-Dijiji was hunting in these mountains. He was alone. He often saw this man felling trees, but he did not harm him because the Apaches were not upon the war-trail at that time. A tree fell upon the man in such a way that he could not free himself. He must have died if no one came to help him. There was no one to come but Shoz-Dijiji.
“Shoz-Dijiji lifted the tree from him. The man’s leg was broken. Shoz-Dijiji placed him upon one of his burros and took him to Casa Grande, where he lived.
“You-all remember the time when we made the treaty of peace with the people of Casa Grande and while we were celebrating it the Mexican soldiers came and attacked us. They made us prisoners and were going to shoot us.
“This man came to look at the captives and recognized Shoz-Dijiji. He begged the war chief of the Mexicans to let me go, and he took me to his home and gave me food and set me free. It was Shoz-Dijiji who was able to release all the other Apache prisoners because of what this man did. The other here is his son.
“Because of what his father did for Shoz-Dijiji neither of them shall be killed. We shall let them take their burros and their wood and go back in safety to their home. I have spoken.”
“Shoz-Dijiji speaks true words when he says that these two shall not be harmed,” said Gian-nah-tah. “Let them go in peace.”
“And look at them well,” added Shoz-Dijiji, “that you may know them and spare them if again you meet them.” He turned to Pedro. “Get your burros and your wood and go home quickly with your son. Do not come again to the mountains while the Apaches are on the war-trail, for Shoz-Dijiji may not be always near to protect you. Go!”
Bewildered, stammering their thanks, Pedro and Luis hastened to obey the welcome mandate of the savage while Shoz-Dijiji’s companions fell to with savage ardor upon the hideous business that is the aftermath of an Apache victory.
Uninterested, Shoz-Dijiji stood idly by until the Mariels had hastily packed their few belongings and departed, leaving their wood behind them. No longer did his fellows ridicule or taunt Shoz-Dijiji for his refusal to join them in the torture of their captives or the mutilation of the dead. His courage had been proved upon too many fields of battle, his hatred of the enemy was too well known to leave any opening for charges of cowardice or disloyalty. They thought him peculiar and let it go at that. Perhaps some of the older braves recalled the accusation of the dead Juh that Shoz-Dijiji was no Apache but a white-eyed man by birth; but no one ever mentioned that now since Juh was dead, and it was well known that he had died partly because he had made this charge against the Black Bear.
Back in the camp of the renegades Gian-nah-tah and the others boasted loudly of their victory, exhibited the poor spoils that they had taken from the camp of the woodchoppers, while the squaws cooked the flesh of one of the burros for a feast in celebration. Perhaps they were off their guard, but then, even Homer is charged with carelessness.
Just as a bullet had surprised the camp of the woodchoppers earlier in the day, so a bullet surprised the camp of the renegades. A little Indian boy clutched his breast and crumpled to the ground. Other shots came in quick succession, and then the air was rent by wild Apache war-whoops. Apache had surprised Apache. Perhaps no other could have done it so well.
As Crawford’s Scouts charged the camp of Geronimo, the renegades, taken completely off their guard, scattered in all directions. Pursued by a part of the attacking force, Geronimo’s warriors kept up a running fight until all the fighting men and a few of the women and children had escaped; but a majority of the latter were rounded up by the scouts and taken back to Crawford’s camp, prisoners of war. Only the dead body of a little boy remained to mark the scene of happy camp, of swift, fierce battle. In the blue sky, above the silent pines, a vulture circled upon static wings.
That night the renegades gathered in a hidden mountain fastness, and when the last far flung scout had come they compared notes and took account of their losses. They found that nearly all of their women and children had been captured. Of Geronimo’s family only Shoz-Dijiji remained to the old War Chief. Sons-ee-ah-ray was a captive.
When their brief council was concluded, Geronimo arose. “Above the water that falls over the red cliff in the mountains south of Casa Grande there is a place that even the traitors who hunt us for the pindah-lickoyee may find difficult to attack. If you start now you will be almost there before the rays of chigo-na-ay light the eastern sky and reveal you to the scouts of the enemy. If Geronimo has not returned to you by the second darkness he will come no more. Pray to Usen that he may guide and protect you. I have spoken.” The War Chief turned and strode away into the darkness.
Shoz-Dijiji sprang to his feet and ran after him. “Where do you go, Geronimo?” he demanded.
“To fetch Sons-ee-ah-ray from the camp of the enemy,” replied Geronimo.
Two other braves who had followed Shoz-Dijiji overheard. One of them was Gian-nah-tah.
“Shoz-Dijiji goes with Geronimo to the camp of the enemy,” announced the Black Bear.
Gian-nah-tah and the other warrior also announced their intention of accompanying the War Chief, and in silence the four started off single file down the rugged mountains with Geronimo in the lead. There was no trail where they went; and the night was dark, yet they skirted the edge of precipice, descended steep escarpment, crossed mountain stream on slippery bowlders as surely as man trods a wide road by the light of day.
They knew where Crawford’s camp lay, for Gian-nah-tah had been one of the scouts who had followed the victorious enemy; and they came to it while there were yet two hours before dawn.
Crawford had made his camp beside that of a troop of United States Cavalry that had been scouting futilely for Geronimo for some time, and in addition to the Indian Scouts and the cavalrymen in the combined camps there were a number of refugees who had sought the protection of the troops. Among them being several Mexican women and one American woman, the wife of a freighter.
Never quite positive of the loyalty of the Indian scouts, Crawford and the troop commander had thought it advisable to post cavalrymen as sentries; and as these rode their posts about the camp the four Apaches crept forward through the darkness.
On their bellies, now, they wormed themselves forward, holding small bushes in front of their heads. When a sentry’s face was turned toward them they lay motionless; when he passed on they moved forward.
They had circled the camp that they might approach it up wind, knowing that were their scent to be carried to the nostrils of a sentry’s horse he might reveal by his nervousness the presence of something that would warrant investigation.
Now they lay within a few paces of the post toward which they had been creeping. The sentry was coming toward them. There was no moon, and it was very dark. There were bushes upon either side of him, low sage and greasewood. That there were four more now upon his left than there had been before he did not note, and anyway in ten minutes he was to be relieved. It was this of which he was thinking—not bushes.
He passed. Four shadowy patches moved slowly across his post. A moment later he turned to retrace his monotonous beat. This time the four bushes which should now have been upon his right were again upon his left. His horse pricked up his ears and looked in the direction of the camp. The horse had become accustomed to the scent of Indians coming from the captives within the camp, but he knew that they were closer now. However, he was not startled, as he would have been had the scent come from a new direction. The man looked casually where the horse looked—that is second nature to a horseman—then he rode on; and the four bushes merged with the shadows among the tents.
The American woman, the wife of the freighter, had been given a tent to herself. She was sleeping soundly, secure in the knowledge of absolute safety, for the first time in many weeks. As she had dozed off to sleep the night before she had hoped that her husband was as comfortable as she; but, knowing him as she had, her mind had been assailed by doubts. He had been killed by Apaches a week previously.
She was awakened by a gentle shaking. When she opened her eyes she saw nothing as it was dark in the tent; but she felt a hand upon her arm, and when she started to speak a palm was slapped across her mouth.
“Make noise, gettum killed,” whispered a deep voice. “Shut up, no gettum killed.”
The hand was removed. “What do you want?” whispered the woman. “I’ll keep shet up.”
“Where is the wife of Geronimo?” pursued the questioner.
“I dunno,” replied the woman, sullenly. “Who are you—one o’ them Injun Scouts? Why don’t you go ask some other Injun? I dunno.”
“May-be-so you find out pronto. Me Apache Devil. She my mother. You tellum damn pronto or Apache Devil cut your damn fool throat. Sabe?”
The woman felt the edge of a knife against the flesh at her throat. “She’s in the next tent,” she whispered hastily.
“You lie me come back and kill,” he said, then he bound her hands and feet and tied a gag in her mouth, using strips torn from her own clothing for these purposes.
In the next tent they found Sons-ee-ah-ray, and a few minutes later five bushes crossed the post that four had previously crossed.
In the new camp south of Casa Grande the renegades found peace but for a few days, and then came Mexican troops one morning and attacked them. The skirmishing lasted all day. A few Mexican soldiers were killed; and at night the Apaches, having sustained no loss, moved eastward into the foothills of the Sierra Madres.
A few more days of rest and once again the Mexican troops, following them, attacked; but the Apaches had not been caught unawares. Their women and children were sent deeper into the mountains, while the warriors remained to hold the soldiers in check.
During a lull in the fighting Geronimo gathered several of his followers about him. “The Mexicans now have a large army against us,” he said. “If we stand and fight them many of us will be killed. We cannot hope to win. It is senseless to fight under such circumstances. Let us wait until our chance of victory is greater.”
The others agreed with the War Chief, and the renegades withdrew. Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah were sent to ascertain the strength of the troops against them and their location, while the main body of the renegades followed the squaws to the new camp.
It was very late when Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah rejoined their fellows. They came silently into camp after having been challenged and passed by savage sentries. They wore grave faces as they approached Geronimo. The War Chief had been sleeping; but he arose when he learned that his scouts had returned, and when he had had their report he summoned all the warriors to a council.
“Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah, with the speed of the deer, the cunning of the fox, and the vision of the eagle, have gone among the enemy and seen much. Let Shoz-Dijiji tell you what he told Geronimo.”
“For many days,” said Shoz-Dijiji, “we have been pressed closely by the enemy. First by the Scouts of the pindah-lickoyee, then by the warriors of the Mexicans. Wherever we go, they follow. We have had no time to hunt or raid. We are almost without food. Usen has put many things in the mountains and upon the plains for Apaches to eat. We can go on thus for a long time, but I do not think we can win.
“These things you should know. We are but a few warriors, and against us are the armies of two powerful nations. Shoz-Dijiji thinks that it would be wise to wait a little until they forget. In the past they have forgotten. They will forget again. Then the Apaches may take up the war-trail once more or remain in peaceful ways, hunting and trading.
“Today Gian-nah-tah and Shoz-Dijiji saw soldiers in many places all through the mountains. There were soldiers of the Mexicans, there were soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee, there were the Apache Scouts of Crawford. They are all waiting to kill us. Perhaps we can escape them, perhaps we cannot. It would be foolish to attack them. We are too few, and our brothers have turned against us.”
“How many soldiers did you see?” asked Na-chi-ta.
“Perhaps two thousand, perhaps more,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “There are infantry and cavalry, and cannon mounted on the backs of mules.”
“Chihuahua thought Shoz-Dijiji wished only to fight against the pindah-lickoyee,” said Chihuahua. “He made big talk before we went on the war-trail after we left San Carlos. Has Shoz-Dijiji’s heart turned to water?”
“I do not know,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “I think it has not turned to water, but it is very sad. Shoz-Dijiji learned at his mother’s breast to love nothing better than fighting the enemies of the Shis-Inday, but he did not learn to love to fight his own people. I think it made his heart sick that day that he saw White Mountain firing upon White Mountain, Cho-kon-en upon Cho-kon-en. That is not war, that is murder.
“Every man’s hand is against us, but that Shoz-Dijiji did not mind. What he does mind is to know that our own hands are against us, too.”
“Shoz-Dijiji has spoken true words,” said Kut-le. “It sickens the heart in the breast of a warrior to see brother and cousin fighting against him at the side of his enemies.
“We know that we are surrounded by many soldiers. We cannot fight them. Perhaps we can escape them, but they will follow us. It will be hard to find food and water, for these things they will first try to deprive us of.
“I think that we should make peace with our enemies. I have spoken.”
Thus spoke Kut-le, the bravest of the renegades. Savage heads nodded approval.
“Let us go to the camp of the white-eyed soldiers in the morning,” suggested one, “and lay down our weapons.”
“And be shot down like coyotes,” growled Geronimo. “No! Geronimo does not surrender. He makes peace. He does not stick his head in a trap, either. We will send a messenger to Crawford to arrange a parley with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en. The heart of Crawford is good. He does not lie to the Shis-Inday. By the first light of Chigo-na-ay Shoz-Dijiji shall go to the kunh-gan-hay of the scouts and carry the message of Geronimo to Crawford. If he promises to protect us from the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee and the Mexicans, we will accompany him north and hold a peace parley with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en.” He turned toward Shoz-Dijiji. “You have heard the words of Geronimo. When dawn comes go to Crawford. You will know what to say to him.”