Chapter Seventeen
IT was night. The oil lamps were burning brightly in the barroom of the Hog Ranch. The games were being well patronized. The girls were circulating among the customers, registering thirst. It looked like a large night.
In the back room two men, seated at opposite sides of a table, were conversing in low tones. A bottle, two glasses, and a mutilated jack of spades lay between them. One of the men was Cheetim, the other was Kreff.
“How much longer does thet feller think we kin hold them critters without hevin’ every galoot in the Territory ridin’ onto ’em an’ blowin’ the whole business?” demanded Kreff.
“I been tellin’ him to see you,” said Cheetim.
Kreff pushed the jack of spades across the table to the other man. “You take this,” he said. “You see him oftener than I do. Don’t turn this over to him ’til you git the money, but tell him that ef he don’t get a hump on hisself we’ll drive the bunch north an’ sell ’em up there. They can’t stay around here much longer—the girl’s wise now thet somethin’s wrong. Two of the hands has told her they been missin’ stock lately.”
Cheetim sat in silence, thinking. Slowly he filled Kreff’s glass and poured another drink for himself.
“Here’s how!” he said and drank.
“How!” replied Kreff.
“I been thinkin’,” said Cheetim.
“Don’t strain yourself, ‘Dirty,’ ” Kreff admonished him.
“It’s this-a-way,” continued the other, ignoring Kreff’s pleasantry. “Ef it warnt for the girl we could clean up big on thet herd. This here Agent’ll buy anything an’ not ask no questions.”
“What do you want me to do,” inquired Kreff, “kill her?”
“I want you to help me get her. Ef I kin get her fer a few days she’ll be glad enough to marry me. Then I’ll give you half what I get out of the cattle.”
“Ride your own range, ‘Dirty,’ ” said Kreff, rising, “and keep off o’ mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ef either one of us gets her it’s me, that’s what I mean.” There was an ugly edge to his voice that Cheetim did not fail to note.
“Oh, hell,” he said, “I didn’t know you was sweet on her.”
“You know it now—keep off the grass.”
A pinto stallion, tied to a stunted cedar, dozed in the mid-day heat. His master, sprawled at the summit of a rocky knoll, looked down upon the other side at a bunch of cattle resting until it should be cooler, the while they pensively chewed their cuds. A youth lay upon his back beneath the shade of a tree. A saddled pony, with drooping head and ears, stood nearby lazily switching its tail in mute remonstrance against the flies. Bridle reins, dragging on the ground, suggested to the pony that it was tethered and were all-sufficient.
Somnolence, silence, heat—Arizona at high noon.
Shoz-Dijiji surveyed the scene. With a reward of a thousand dollars on his head it behooved him to survey all scenes in advance. The reward, however, was but a secondary stimulus. Training and environment had long since fixed upon him the habit of reconnaissance.
Immediately he had recognized Luis Mariel. If he were surprised he gave no evidence of it, for his expression did not change. His eyes wandered over the herd. They noted the various brands, ear-marks, wattles, jug-handles; and though Shoz-Dijiji could not have been termed a cattle man he read them all and knew the ranch and range of every animal in the bunch, for there was no slightest thing from one end of Apacheland to the other that an Apache let pass as of too slight importance to concern him.
He saw that most of the cattle belonged to Wichita Billings; but he knew that it was not a Crazy B cowboy that was herding them, for the Crazy B outfit employed no Mexicans.
Long before Luis Mariel was aware of the fact Shoz-Dijiji knew that several horsemen were approaching; but he did not change his position since, if they continued in the direction they were going, they would pass without seeing him.
Presently four men rode into view. He recognized them all. Two of them were Navajoes, one a half-breed and the fourth a white man—the Indian Agent.
Shoz-Dijiji did not like any of them, especially the Indian Agent. He fingered his rifle and wished that Geronimo had not made that treaty with General Miles in Skeleton Canyon.
Presently Luis heard the footfalls of the approaching horses and sat up. Seeing the men, he arose. They rode up to him, and the Agent spoke. Shoz-Dijiji saw him take a bit of paper from his pocket and show it to Luis. Luis took another similar bit of paper from his own pocket and compared it with the one that the Agent now handed him. Shoz-Dijiji could not quite make out what the bits of paper were—from a distance they looked like two halves of a playing card.
Luis mounted his pony and helped the men round up the cattle, but after they had started them in the direction of the Agency Luis waved hisadiosand reined his pony southward toward the Hog Ranch.
Shoz-Dijiji remained motionless until all were well out of sight, then he wormed his way below the brow of the hill, rose and walked down to Nejeunee. He had spent the preceding night in the hogan of friends on the reservation. They had talked of many things, among them being the fact that the Agent was still buying stolen cattle at a low price and collecting a high price for them from the Government.
Shoz-Dijiji knew that he had seen stolen cattle delivered to the Agent, which would not, of itself, have given him any concern; but the fact that most of these cattle had evidently been stolen from Wichita Billings put an entirely different aspect on the matter.
The fact that she hated him, that she had offered a reward for him, dead, could not alter the fact that he loved her; and, loving her, he must find a way to inform her of what he had discovered. Naturally, the first means to that end which occurred to him was Luke Jensen. He would ride back to where Luke Jensen rode and find him.
It is a long way from where Cheetim and Kreff had hidden the stolen herd to the Billings east range, and when one is a fair target for every rifle and six-shooter in the world it behooves one to move warily; so Shoz-Dijiji lay up until night and then rode slowly toward the east.
Luis Mariel had ridden directly to the Hog Ranch and reported to Cheetim, handing him both halves of the jack of spades as evidence that the herd had been turned over to the proper party in accordance with Luis’ instructions.
“That’s jest what I been waitin’ fer,” said Cheetim. “Now I got some more work fer you, if you’re game. They’s fifty dollars extra in it fer you.”
“What is it?” asked Luis.
“It ain’t none o’ your business what it is,” replied Cheetim. “All you got to know is thet they may be some shootin’ in it, an’ all you got to do is do what I tell you. If you’re skeered I don’t want you.”
“I am not afraid, Senor,” replied Luis. The fifty dollars appeared a fortune.
“All right. You savvy the Crazy B Ranch?”
“Si, Senor.”
“I want you to take a note to ‘Smooth’ Kreff, the foreman o’ thet outfit.”
“Is that all?”
“No. After you deliver the note you hang around and see what happens. They’s a girl there. When I come I’ll want to know where she is and how many men there are left at the ranch. There’ll be four or five fellers with me. After that I’ll tell you what to do.”
“When does the shooting happen?” asked Luis.
“Oh, maybe they won’t be no shootin’,” replied Cheetim. “I was jest warnin’ you in case they was. I’ll write the letter now an’ then you hit the trail. Ef you ride hard you’ll make it before sun up. I want you there before the hands start out fer the day. Savvy?”
Laboriously, with the stub of a pencil that he constantly wet with his tongue, “Dirty” Cheetim wrote. It appeared to Luis that Senor Cheetim was not accustomed to writing—he seemed to be suffering from mental constipation—but at last the agony was over and Cheetim handed Luis a sheet of soiled paper folded many times into a small wad.
“If Kreff asks you about the cattle you say that when you went up this mornin’ the bars o’ the c’rral was down an’ the cattle gone, an’ don’t you tell him nothin’ different. If you do you won’t get no fifty dollars ’cause you won’t need ’em where I’ll send you.” Cheetim slapped the six-shooter at his hip.
“I understand,” said Luis. He did not like Senor Cheetim, but fifty dollars are fifty dollars.
The sun was but a few minutes high when Luis Mariel reined into the Billings ranch yard. From a slight eminence a mile or two away, beyond the east pasture fence, Shoz-Dijiji saw him come and wondered.
The Apache had taken his position just before dawn and at the first flush of the new day had fixed his field glasses upon the ranch yard. He wished to get in touch with Jensen as quickly as possible and saw in this plan the surest method of determining when and in what direction Luke rode that morning.
Luis went at once to the bunk house, where the men were already astir, and delivered the letter to Kreff, whom he at once recognized as the tall, sandy haired man who had taken him to the herd and given him the torn playing card and his instructions. Kreff recognized Luis, too, but he only frowned.
Almost as laboriously as Cheetim had written it, Kreff deciphered the note.
“Frend Kref:” he read. “Sum fellers stole the herd bring al yore hands & help Me round them up they will think the fellers stol them & That will let us out doan fetch the greser i think he wus in on it dirty yours truely.”
“Frend Kref:” he read. “Sum fellers stole the herd bring al yore hands & help Me round them up they will think the fellers stol them & That will let us out doan fetch the greser i think he wus in on it dirty yours truely.”
“Hell!” ejaculated Kreff.
“What’s eatin’ you?” inquired “Kansas.”
“ ‘Dirty’ Cheetim says a bunch of rustlers is runnin’ off some of our stock. He seen ’em headin’ past his place. Luke! Rustle up that ‘cavvy,’ pronto. You fellers feed while Luke’s gone. We’re all hittin’ the trail after them lousy thieves.”
“I reckon ‘Dirty’ is jest sore ’cause he didn’t git to the bunch ahead o’ them other fellers,” drawled “Kansas.”
Luke tucked his shirt tails into his trousers, grabbed his Stetson, and bolted for the corral. When Kreff had finished dressing he went to the cook house and told the Chinese cook to hurry breakfast. Then he walked over to the ranch house and stopping under Wichita’s window called her name aloud.
A moment later, a Navajo blanket about her shoulders, the girl appeared at the window. “What is it, ‘Smooth?’ ” she asked.
“You was right about the rustling,” he said. “Cheetim jest sent a Greaser with a note sayin’ he’d seen some fellers runnin’ off a bunch of our stock. I’m takin’ all the men an’ ridin’ after ’em. They can’t git away.”
“Good!” cried the girl. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, you better not. They’s almost sure to be shootin’.”
“I can shoot,” she replied.
“I know thet; but please don’t do it, Chita. We’d all be lookin’ after you an’ couldn’t do like we would if they wasn’t a woman along.”
“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted. “Gosh! Why wasn’t I born a boy?”
“I’m shore glad you wasn’t.”
Shoz-Dijiji, seeing Luke riding early and alone straight in his direction, felt that once again, after long forgetfulness, Usen had remembered him. He knew that the youth would come only as far as the horses pastured in the east pasture, and so he rode down and came through the gate to meet the cowboy. The willows in the draw screened them from each other’s sight until Luke spurred up the steep bank of the wash and came face to face with the Apache.
“Hello, there!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What you doin’ here?”
“I want you take word to Wichita,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “The Indian Agent is buying cattle that are stolen from her. I saw it yesterday, on the reservation. You tell her?”
“We jest got word of the same bunch, I reckon,” replied Luke. “We’re all ridin’ out after ’em now. Which way was they headin’ when you saw them?”
“Toward the Agency.”
“Thanks a lot, Shoz-Dijiji,” said Luke. “I’ll tell her anyway when I see her about your sendin’ the word to her.”
“No,” said the Apache. “Do not tell her who sent the word.”
“All right. I got to be movin’. The boys is waitin’ fer these broncs. So long, Shoz-Dijiji!”
“Adios!” replied the Apache, and as Jensen herded the horses toward the corrals Shoz-Dijiji rode away, out through the pasture gate, onto the east range.
Something was troubling Shoz-Dijiji’s mind. He had seen Luis Mariel guarding the stolen herd and yet it was he who brought word to the ranch concerning these same cattle. What did it mean?
Through his glasses the Apache watched the departure of the Crazy B cow hands. Apparently all had left the ranch with the exception of Luis Mariel. Why was Luis remaining? He had seen Wichita come into the yard and talk with some of the men as they were mounting, and he had seen her wave them godspeed. She had spoken to Luis, too, and then gone into the house. Luis was hanging around the corrals.
Shoz-Dijiji shook his head. Luis was a good boy. He would not harm anyone. There was something else to think about and that was breakfast. Shoz-Dijiji rode a short distance to the east, dismounted and with bow and arrows set forth in search of his breakfast. In half an hour he had a cottontail and a quail. Returning to Nejeunee he sought a secluded spot and cooked his breakfast.
Ten minutes after Luis Mariel had departed from the Hog Ranch the previous evening Cheetim with four others had ridden out along the same trail; and when Kreff and the other men of the Crazy B rode away in the morning in search of the rustlers, from the hills south of the ranch these five had watched them depart.
“We got lots of time,” said Cheetim, “an’ we’ll wait until they are plenty far away before we ride down. You four’ll hev to git the girl. Ef she seen me comin’ she’d start shootin’ before we was inside the gate, but she don’t know none of you. I was damn sure to pick fellers she didn’t know. You ride in an’ ask fer grub an’ a job. The Greaser’ll be there to tell you ef they is any men left around an’ where the girl is. You won’t have no trouble. Jes’ grab her an’ don’t give her no chance to draw thet gun o’ hers, fer I’m here to state thet ol’ man Billings’ girl wouldn’t think no more o’ perforatin’ your ornery hides then she would of spittin’.”
The ride ahead of Kreff and his men was, the foremen knew, a long and hard one. There was some slight chance of borrowing a change of horses at a ranch near Cheetim’s place; but it was only a chance, and so Kreff conserved his horse flesh and did not push on too rapidly.
As he rode he had time to think things out a little more clearly than he had in the excitement and rush of preparation, and he wondered why it had been that Cheetim had not organized a party to go after the rustlers and save the cattle for themselves. He could easily have done it, as there were always several tough gun-men hanging around his place who would commit murder for a pint of whiskey. Yes, that did seem peculiar. And if he had mistrusted the Mexican, why had he intrusted the message to him? Kreff did not trust Cheetim to any greater extent than a cottontail would trust a rattler, and now that he had an opportunity to consider the whole matter carefully he grew suspicious.
Suddenly it occurred to him that he had left Wichita alone on the ranch with only the Chinese cook, and that the Mexican had remained behind after they had left. The more he thought about it the more it worried him. He called Luke to his side.
“Kid,” he said, “we left thet Greaser there on the ranch. I don’t guess we should have. You ride back an’ look after things—an’ don’t let no grass grow under you while you’re doin’ it.”
Luke, though disappointed at the thought of missing the excitement of a brush with the rustlers, reined in, wheeled his pony, and spurred back toward the ranch.
Wichita, coming from the office door after breakfast, saw four strange men ride into the ranch yard. She saw the Mexican youth who had brought word of the stolen cattle ride up to them, but she could not hear what they said, nor was it apparent that the Mexican was acquainted with the newcomers.
The four rode toward her presently, and as they neared her one of them removed his hat and asked if he could see the boss.
“I’m the boss,” she replied.
“We’re lookin’ fer work,” said the man; and as he spoke he dismounted and walked close to her, the others reining near as though to hear what her answer would be.
When the man was quite close he suddenly seized her, whirled her about and held her hands behind her. At the same instant another of his fellows dismounted and stepped quickly to her. She struggled and fought to free herself; but she was helpless, and in another moment they had bound her wrists behind her.
As they were lifting her to one of the horses the Chinese ran from the cook house, calling to them to stop; but one of the men drew his six-shooter, and a single, menacing shot was enough to send the unarmed domestic back into his kitchen.
Cheetim, watching from the hills south of the ranch, saw all that transpired within the yard and was highly elated at the ease with which his nefarious plan was being carried out; but, alas, things were running far too smoothly.
What was that? He bent an attentive ear toward the west and recognized the cadenced pounding of the hoofs of a rapidly galloping horse—the little rift within the lute.
In the ranch yard the men had stopped to argue. Cheetim could see them but he could not understand the delay. He could only curse silently, dividing his attention between them and the road to the west, along which he could hear the approaching hoof beats.
“What’s the use of packin’ this girl double?” the man who had been assigned to carry Wichita demanded. “We got plenty time an’ they’s a hoss standin’ right down there in the c’ral.”
“ ‘Dirty’ said not to waste no time,” demurred another.
The mention of Cheetim’s descriptive nickname was the first intimation Wichita had received of the origin and purpose of the plan to abduct her. Now she understood—it was all clear, horribly clear. For years the man had hounded and annoyed her. Twice before he had tried to take her forcibly. It looked now as though he might succeed. Who was there to succor her? Her father dead and every man in her employ gone, for how long she could not guess. There was no one. She wondered why it was that at that moment the figure of an almost naked, bronze savage filled her thoughts to the exclusion of every other source of salvation, and that while she nursed her hatred of him she involuntarily almost prayed that some miracle might bring him to her.
The man who had suggested a separate horse for Wichita insisted. “It won’t take two minutes,” he said, “an’ if we are follered we kin make better time than if one of the hosses is packin’ double.”
“Hell, then,” exclaimed one of his fellows, “instead of chawin’ the fat let’s git a hoss. Here, you!” he addressed Luis. “Fetch that hoss. Throw a saddle onto him an’ a lead rope.”
As Luis hastened to obey, Cheetim, seeing the further delay, became frantic. The horseman was approaching rapidly along the road from the west, and the men in the ranch yard were wasting valuable time.
Out on the east range Shoz-Dijiji, having finished his breakfast, mounted Nejeunee and turned the pony’s head toward the east, toward the distant mountains where the Gila rises, toward the ancient stamping grounds of the Be-don-ko-he.
He had no plans for the future. He wanted only to get away. He had seen Wichita Billings through his field glasses, and the sight of her had but aggravated the old hurt. Sad and lonely, the war chief rode toward the deserted camp grounds of his vanished people, where now were only brooding memories.
Luke Jensen galloped into sight of the ranch. Cheetim, lying behind a boulder at the top of a hill, covered him with his rifle sights and fired. Luke heard the bullet scream past his ear. Forewarned of some danger, he knew not what, he was prepared. He took two flying shots at the puff of smoke at the hill top where his unknown assailant lay, dug the rowels into his pony’s sides, and raced for the ranch gate that he saw was standing open.
Cheetim fired once more; but again he missed, and then Luke was inside the yard. Coming toward him from the corrals he saw five men and Wichita, and he knew that something was radically wrong even before one of the men drew his gun and opened fire on him. Unable to return the man’s fire without endangering Wichita, Jensen spurred in the direction of an out-building that would give him shelter until he could get his rifle into action.
The five men spurred toward the gate, quirting Wichita’s horse to equal speed. Three of them were firing at Luke; and just as he reached the out-building, just when he was within a second of safety, Wichita saw him lunge from his saddle, hit.
Then her captors raced through the gate and into the hills south of the ranch, whirling Wichita Billings away with them.
Chapter Eighteen
OUT on the east range a horseman reined in his mount and listened as the rapid reports of rifle and pistol came faintly to his ears. There was something amiss at the Crazy B Ranch and Wichita was there, practically alone! Shoz-Dijiji wheeled Nejeunee so suddenly that the little pinto reared almost straight in air and then, at a touch of his master’s heels and a word in his pointed ears, leaped off in the new direction at a swift run.
After sending Luke back to the ranch Kreff’s suspicions, now thoroughly aroused, continued to increase. He began to realize that if they were well founded one man might not be sufficient. He wished that he had sent more. Presently he wished that he had gone himself; and soon he reined in, halting his companions.
“Fellers,” he said, “the more I think about it the more I think that mebby Cheetim’s givin’ us a dirty deal. He may have jest wanted to git us all away from the ranch. He’s tried to get Chita twicet before. I’m a-goin’ back an’ I’m a-goin’ to take Jake an’ Sam with me. ‘Kansas,’ you take Charlie an’ Matt an’ ride after them rustlers. Ef you kin pick up some fellers along the way, all right; ef you can’t, do the best you kin alone. So long! Come on, fellers!”
As the five men entered the hills with Chita, Cheetim joined them. It was evident that he was much elated.
“Good work, boys!” he cried. “I reckon I didn’t pull the wool over ‘Smooth’s’ eyes nor nothin’, eh?” He rode to Chita’s side and grinned into her face. “Say, dearie,” he exclaimed, “you don’t hev to worry none. I’ve decided to do the right thing by you. We’ll spend our honeymoon up in the hills ’til things blows over a bit an’ then we’ll mosey down to the Hog Ranch an’ git married.”
Wichita looked the man straight in the eyes for a moment and then turned away in disgust, but she did not speak. Luis Mariel, sober eyed, serious, looked on. He had not bargained on a part in any such affair as this.
“Well, fellers,” said Cheetim, “let’s pull up a second an’ licker. I reckon we’ve earned a drink.”
They stopped their ponies and from five hip pockets came five pint bottles.
“Here’s to the bride!” cried Cheetim, and they all laughed and drank, all except Luis, who had no bottle.
“Here, kid,” said Cheetim, “hev a drink!” He proffered his flask to Luis.
“Thank you, Senor, I do not care to drink,” replied the Mexican.
Deep into the hills they rode—five miles, ten miles. Wichita guessed where they were taking her—to an old two room shack that prospectors had built years before beside a little spring far back in the mountains. Apaches had gotten the prospectors, and the shack had stood deserted and tenantless ever since.
She felt quite hopeless, for there seemed not the slightest foundation for belief that there could be any help for her. Luke, if he were not badly hurt, or possibly Chung, the cook, could get word to their nearest neighbor; but he lived miles and miles away; and any help to be effective must reach her within a few hours, for after that it would be too late. And even if men were found to come after her it might be a long time before they could locate Cheetim’s hiding place.
Cheetim and his men had finished a flask apiece as they rode; but this was not the extent of their supply—each had another flask in his shirt—so that by the time they reached the shack they were more than content with themselves and all the world.
Once Luis had ridden close beside Wichita and spoken to her. “I am sorry, Senorita,” he whispered. “I did not know what they were going to do. If I can help you, I will. Maybe, when they are drunk, I can help you get away.”
“Thanks,” replied the girl. As she spoke she turned and looked at the youth, noticing him more than casually for the first time, and realized that his face seemed familiar. “Where have I seen you before?” she asked.
“I brought the pinto pony from El Teniente King to your rancho a year ago,” replied Luis.
“Oh, yes, I remember you now. You brought Shoz-Dijiji’s pony up from Mexico.”
“Shoz-Dijiji’s pony? Was that Shoz-Dijiji’s pony? You know Shoz-Dijiji, Senorita?”
“I know him,” said the girl; “do you?”
“Yes, very well. He saved my father’s life, and twice when he could have killed me he did not.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Cheetim who rode back to Wichita’s side.
“Well, here we are, dearie,” he said, “but we ain’t goin’ to stay here long. Tomorrow morning we hit the trail fer a place I know where God himself couldn’t find us.”
The shack, before which the party had stopped and were dismounting, was a rough affair built of stone and mud and such timber as grew sparsely on the slopes of the canyon in the bottom of which it nestled. A tiny spring, now choked with dirt, made a mud hole a few yards to one side of the building. The men led their horses to the rear of the building where there were a few trees to which they could fasten them. Two of the men started to clean out the spring, and Cheetim escorted Wichita into the shack.
“We brung along some grub,” he said. “It won’t be much of a weddin’ breakfast to brag on, but you wait ’til we git back to the Hog Ranch! We’ll have a reg’lar spread then an’ invite every son-of-a-gun in the territory. I’m goin’ to treat you right, kid, even ef you haven’t been any too damn nice to me.”
Wichita did not speak.
“Say, you can jest start right now cuttin’ out thet high-toned stuff with me,” said Cheetim. “I’ll be good to you ef you treat me right, but by God I ain’t a-goin’ to stand much more funny business. You kin start now by givin’ me a little kiss.”
“Cheetim,” said the girl, “listen to me. You’re half drunk now, but maybe you’ve got sense enough left to understand what I am going to say to you. I’d a heap rather kiss a Gila monster than you. You may be able to kiss me because you’re stronger than I am, and I guess even kissing a Gila monster wouldn’t kill me; but I’m warning you that if you ever do kiss me you’d better kill me quick, for I’m going to kill myself if anything happens to me——”
“Ef you want to be a damn fool that’s your own look out,” interrupted Cheetim, with a snarl, “but it won’t keep me from doin’ what I’m goin’ to do. Ef you’re fool enough to kill yourself afterward, you can.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” said Wichita. “I’ll kill myself, all right, but I’ll kill you first.”
The men were entering the room; and Cheetim stood, hesitating, knowing the girl meant what she said. He was a coward, and he had not had quite enough whiskey to bolster up his courage to the point of his desires.
“Oh, well,” he said, “we won’t quarrel this a-way on our honeymoon. You jest go in the other room there, dearie, an’ make yourself to home; an’ we’ll talk things over later. Git me a piece of rope, one o’ you fellers. I ain’t goin’ to take no chances of my bride vamoosin’.”
In the small back room of the shack they tied Wichita’s wrists and ankles securely and left her seated on an old bench, the only furniture that the room boasted.
Out in the front room the men were making preparations to cook some of the food they had brought with them, but most of their time was devoted to drinking and boasting. Cheetim drank with a purpose. He wanted to arrive, as quickly as possible, at a state of synthetic courage that would permit him to ignore the moral supremacy of the girl in the back room. He knew that he was physically more powerful, and so he could not understand why he feared her. Cheetim had never heard of such a thing as an inferiority complex, and so he did not know that that was what he suffered from in an aggravated form whenever he faced the level gaze and caustic tongue of Wichita Billings.
The more Cheetim drank the louder and more boastful he became. Wichita could hear him narrating the revolting details of numerous crimes that he had committed.
“Yo shua ah some bad hombre, ‘Dirty’,” eulogized one of his party.
“Oh, I don’t claim to be no bad man,” replied Cheetim, modestly. “What I says is thet I has brains, an’ I use ’em. Look how I fooled ‘Smooth’—sent him off on a wild goose chase an’ then swipes his girl while he’s gone.” They all laughed uproariously.
“An’ he better not get funny about it neither, even ef he don’t like it. I kin use my brains fer other things besides gettin’ me my women. Ol’ man Billings larnt thet. He kicked me out oncet; an’ I suppose he thought I was afraid of him, but I was jest waitin’. I waited a long time, but I got him.”
“You got him? You did not. He was kilt by Injuns,” contradicted one.
“Injuns, Hell!” ejaculated Cheetim. “Thar’s where I used my brains. I killed Billings, but I was cute enough to scalp him. I——”
Drunk as he was, he realized that he had gone too far, had admitted too much. He looked wickedly about the room. “What I’ve told you is among friends,” he said. “Ef any of you fellers ever feels like you’d like to join Billings all you got to do is blab what I jest told you. Savvy?”
In the other room Wichita Billings, listening, heard every word that Cheetim spoke, and her soul was seared by shame and vain regret for the wrong she had done the friendless red man. She reproached herself for not listening to the counsel and the urging of her heart, for she knew—she had always known—that she had battled against her love for Shoz-Dijiji, had trampled it beneath her feet, that she might encourage her belief in his perfidy.
If she could only see him once more, if she could only tell him that she knew and ask his forgiveness; but now it was too late.
She heard Cheetim speaking again. “You fellers finish rustlin’ the grub,” he said. “I’m goin’ in an’ visit my wife.” This sally was applauded with much laughter. “An’ I don’t want to be disturbed,” he concluded. “Savvy?”
A pinto stallion, racing like the wind, bore its rider toward the Crazy B ranch house following the shots that had attracted the attention of the Apache. Fences intervened, but though there were gates in them Shoz-Dijiji had no time to waste on gates. Straight for them he rode Nejeunee; and the pinto took them in his stride, soaring over them like a bird on the wing.
Chung, kneeling beside Luke in the ranch yard, voiced a startled cry as he saw a pinto stallion, bearing a feared Apache warrior, rise over the bars of the corral; but Chung did not flee. He stood his post, though scarce knowing what to do. Luke’s six-shooter was close beside his hand; but Chung was too surprised to think of it, and a second later the warrior had reined in beside them, his pony sliding upon its haunches for a dozen feet.
Throwing himself to the ground Shoz-Dijiji knelt beside Luke.
“What has happened?” he demanded. “Where is Chita?”
Luke looked up. “Oh, it’s you, Shoz-Dijiji? Thank God for that. A bunch of skunks jest rid off into the south hills with her. I ain’t hurted bad, but I caint ride. You go!”
“Sure I go!” As he arose Shoz-Dijiji stripped his clothing from him in an instant, and when he leaped to Nejeunee’s back again he wore only moccasins, his G-string, and a head band.
“I get her!” he cried, reassuringly, waving his rifle above his head, and an instant later he was racing for the gate.
Down the road from the west thundered Kreff and Jake and Sam just as Shoz-Dijiji swept through the gate.
“There’s the Siwash killed the Boss!” shouted Sam, who was in the lead, and the words were scarce out of his mouth before he had drawn his gun and opened fire on the Indian. Jake joined in the fusillade of shots; and Shoz-Dijiji, turning upon the back of his war pony, sent a half dozen bullets among them before he vanished into the hills. It was only the rapidity with which their mounts had been moving that prevented any casualties.
“Even a coyote will fight for his life,” soliloquized the Apache Devil; but he did not feel like a coyote. Once more he was an Apache war chief riding naked upon the war trail against the hated pindah-lickoyee; and just as he rode from the sight of the white men he could not restrain a single, exultant Apache war whoop.
Into the ranch yard thundered Kreff and his companions. They saw Luke trying to drag himself to his feet and stagger toward him.
“You lop-eared idiots!” he yelled. “Wot in Hell you shootin’ at him fer? He’s ridin’ after the fellers that stole Chita.”
“Stole Chita?” cried Kreff. “By God, I was right! Cheetim!”
“I didn’t see Cheetim,” said Luke. “Whoever it was rid south into the hills. Git the hell out of here and git after them, an’ ef you see that Apache leave him be—he’s the best friend Wichita Billings’s got.”
“Chung, you git Luke into the bunk house an’ take keer o’ him ’til we gets back,” Kreff called over his shoulder as the three spurred away again, this time following the trail taken by Shoz-Dijiji.
Plain before the trained eyes of Shoz-Dijiji lay the spoor of his quarry. Swiftly he rode. The errand, the speed of his fleet pony, his own nakedness stirred every savage instinct within him. He had never expected to live again; but this, O, Usen, was life! He dipped into the pouch at his side and drew out a little silver box that he had never expected to use again, and dipping into it with a forefinger he banded his face with the blue and white war paint of the Apache Devil. He could not lay the colors on carefully at the speed Nejeunee was carrying him; but he wore them, as a ship of war runs up its battle flag as it goes into action.
As Cheetim left them and entered the rear room of the shack, the men in the front room nudged one another, chuckled, and took a drink. They were wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands when the outer door swung open, and a painted warrior stepped into the room.
Luis Mariel, who was standing in a corner, looked wide eyed at the newcomer. The other men reached for their six-shooters.
“The Apache Devil!” cried Luis.
Shoz-Dijiji looked quickly at him. “Lie down!” he said to him in Spanish. Already he had commenced to shoot. He asked no questions. A man fell.
In the back room Cheetim and Wichita heard the dread name as Luis cried it aloud. Cheetim had just entered and closed the door behind him. He was approaching Wichita as Luis spoke the name of the scourge of three states. At the first shot Cheetim crossed the room at a bound and leaped from the window. A half dozen shots followed in quick succession. Four men lay dead in the outer room when Shoz-Dijiji sprang to the door of the smaller room and swung it open, just in time to see Cheetim mounting a horse in the rear of the building. He recognized him instantly; then he turned toward the girl.
“You hurt?” he demanded.
“No. Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, thank God, you came!”
The Apache called to Luis who came running to the door. “You,” he said, pointing at the youth. “You know the Apache Devil. You know what he do to his enemies. You take this girl home. If she don’t get home safe the Apache Devil settle with you. Sabe?”
He crossed the room to the window.
“Where are you going?” cried Wichita.
“To kill my last pindah-lickoyee,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, as he vaulted across the sill.
“Wait! Wait, Shoz-Dijiji,” the girl called after him; but Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, war chief of all the Apaches, had gone.
The little pinto stallion was scrambling up the steep canyon side as Luis Mariel cut the bonds that held Wichita Billings. The girl ran to the window.
Far above she saw war pony and warrior silhouetted against the darkening sky; and then Shoz-Dijiji, last of the war chiefs, and Nejeunee, last of his wild friends, dropped below the crest and disappeared.
For several minutes the girl stood at the window gazing out into the gathering night; then she turned back into the room where Luis stood just within the doorway.
“The Apache Devil!” There was a shudder in Wichita’s voice. Her eyes discovered Luis. “Oh,” she said, as though she had forgotten his presence, “you are here?”
“Si, Senorita.”
Again there was a long silence.
“The Apache Devil!” Wichita squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I do not care,” she cried, defiantly.
“No, Senorita.”
The girl looked fixedly at the Mexican youth for a moment as though his presence suggested a new thought that was formulating in her mind.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Luis, Senorita,” he replied; “Luis Mariel.”
“You said that you would help me, Luis, if you could. Do you remember?”
“I remember, Senorita.”
“You can, Luis. Ride after the—the Apache Devil and tell him that I want him to come back.”
“Gladly, Senorita.”
“Go,” she urged. “Hurry! Go now!”
Luis glanced behind him through the doorway into the other room and then back at Wichita.
“And leave you alone, at night, with all these dead men?” he exclaimed. “Santa Maria, Senorita! No, I cannot do that.”
“I am not afraid, Luis,” she said.
“S-s-st!” exclaimed Luis in a hoarse whisper. “What is that?”
They both listened.
“Someone is coming,” said the girl. “Perhaps—perhaps it is he.”
“There is more than one,” said the youth. “I hear them talking now.” He stepped quickly into the adjoining room and, stooping, took a six-shooter from the floor where it lay beside one of the dead men. Returning, he handed it to Wichita Billings. “Perhaps these are more of Senor Cheetim’s friends,” he suggested.
Together they stood waiting. The sounds of approaching horses ceased, and all was quiet. Wichita knew that whoever it was that came had reached a point where the shack was visible for the first time and were doubtless reconnoitering. Finally a voice broke the silence.
“Chita!” it called aloud, ringing and echoing through the canyon.
“They are my friends,” she said to Luis and ran through the outer room to the front doorway. “Here, ‘Smooth’!” she called. “It is all right. I am in the shack.”
Luis came and stood just behind her shoulder. It was not yet so dark but that features might be recognized at short distances. The two saw Kreff riding forward with Sam and Jake. Luis layed a hand on Wichita’s arm. “They are Cheetim’s friends,” he said. “I know that first one well.” He brushed by her, his revolver in his hand.
“No!” she cried, seizing his arm. “They are my own men. The first one is my foreman.”
“Here’s one of ’em, boys!” cried Kreff as he recognized Luis. “Here’s the damned Greaser that brought me thet lyin’ letter from ‘Dirty.’ Git out o’ the way, Chita!” and leaping from his horse he ran forward.
“Stop!” cried Luis. His weapon was levelled at Kreff’s stomach.
“This boy is all right!” exclaimed Wichita. “Put your guns away, all of you.”
Slowly and with no great alacrity Kreff and Mariel returned their revolvers to their holsters. The other two men followed their example.
“What’s happened here?” demanded Kreff. “Has anyone hurted you, Chita?”
“No, I’m all right,” she replied. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Get your horse, Luis, and take the message that I gave you. I’ll be starting back for the ranch now. I’ll be waiting there. Tell him that I shall be waiting there for him.”
Kreff looked on, puzzled, as Wichita gave her instructions to Luis. He saw the youth mount and ride up the canyon side. Then he turned to the girl. “Where’s he goin’?” he demanded. “Who you goin’ to wait fer?”
“For Shoz-Dijiji,” she replied. “He did not kill Dad—it was Cheetim. Come along, now; I want to go home.”