=S=HOZ-DIJIJI, riding cross-country, picked up the trail of Geronimo
where it lay revealed to Apache eyes like a printed message across the
open pages of Nature’s book of hieroglyphs, and in the evening of the
second day he came to the camp of the War Chief.
Gian-nah-tah and several of the warriors who had accompanied Shoz-Dijiji
in the pursuit of Cheetim and his unsavory company were already with
Geronimo, and during the next two days other warriors and many women
came silent footed into the camp of the Be-don-ko-he.
The Apaches were nervous and irritable. They knew that troops were out
after them, and though the cunning of Shoz-Dijiji had sent the first
contingent upon a wild goose chase toward Sonora the Indians were well
aware that it could be but a matter of days before their whereabouts
might be discovered and other troops sent to arrest them.
Among those that urged upon them the necessity of immediately taking the
war trail was Mangas, son of the great dead chief, Mangas Colorado; but
Geronimo held back. He did not wish to fight the white men again, for he
realized, perhaps better than any of them, the futility of continued
resistance; but there were two forces opposing him that were to prove
more potent than the conservatism of mature deliberation. They were
Sago-zhu-ni, the wife of Mangas, and the tizwin she was brewing.
It was in the early evening of May 16, 1885 that Shoz-Dijiji rode into
the camp of Geronimo. The sacred hoddentin had been offered up with the
prayers to Evening, and already the Be-don-ko-he had gathered about the
council fire. Tizwin was flowing freely as was evidenced by the
increasing volubility of the orators.
Mangas spoke forcefully and definitely for war, urging it upon
Na-chi-ta, son of old Cochise and chief of the Chihuicahui Apaches and
ranking chief of all those gathered in the camp of Geronimo; but
Na-chi-ta, good-natured, fonder of tizwin and pretty squaws than he was
of the war-trail and its hardships, argued, though halfheartedly, for
peace.
Chihuahua, his fine head bowed in thought, nodded his approval of the
moderate counsel of Na-chi-ta; and when it was his turn to speak he
reminded them of the waste of war, of the uselessness and hopelessness
of fighting against the soldiers of the white men; and old Nanáy sided
with him; but Ulzanna, respected for his ferocity and his intelligence,
spoke for war, as did Kut-le, the bravest of them all.
Stinging from the insults of the father of Wichita Billings, Shoz-Dijiji
was filled with bitterness against all whites; and when Kut-le had
spoken, the young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he arose.
“Geronimo, my father,” he said, “speaks with great wisdom and out of
years filled with experience, but perhaps he has forgotten many things
that have happened during the long years that the Shis-Inday have been
fighting to drive the enemy from the country that Usen made for them.
Shoz-Dijiji, the son of Geronimo, has not forgotten the things that he
has seen, nor those of which his father has told him; they are burned
into his memory.
“Geronimo is right when he says that peace is better than war for those
who may no longer hope to win, and I too would speak against the
war-trail if the pindah-lickoyee would leave us in peace to live our own
lives as Usen taught us to live them. But they will not. They wish us to
live in their way which is not a good way for Apaches to live. If we do
not wish to they send soldiers and arrest us. Thus we are prisoners and
slaves. Shoz-Dijiji cannot be happy either as a prisoner or as a slave,
and so he prefers the war-trail and death to these things.
“Na-chi-ta speaks against the war-trail because there will be no tizwin
there but, instead, many hardships. Shoz-Dijiji knew well the great
Cochise, father of Na-chi-ta. Cochise would be angry and ashamed if he
could have heard his son speak at the council fire tonight.
“Chihuahua speaks against war. Chihuahua thinks only of the little farm
that the pindah-lickoyee are permitting him to use and forgets all the
wide expanse of country that the pindah-lickoyee have stolen from him.
Chihuahua is a brave warrior. I do not think that Chihuahua will long be
happy working like a slave for the Indian Agent who will rob him of the
sweat of his brow as he robs us all.
“Nanáy is old and lives in memories of past war-trails when he fought
with glory at the side of Victorio and Loco. His day is done, his life
has been lived. Why should we young men, who have our own lives to live,
be content to live upon the memories of old men. We want memories of our
own and freedom, if only for a short time, to enjoy them as our fathers
did before us.
“Ulzanna and Kut-le are brave men. They do honor to the proud race from
which we all spring. They know that it would be better to die in freedom
upon the war-trail against the hated pindah-lickoyee than to live like
cattle, herded upon a reservation by the white-eyes.
“They think of the great warriors, of the women, of the little children
who have been murdered by the lies and treachery of the pindah-lickoyee.
They recall the ridicule that is heaped upon all those things which we
hold most sacred. They do not forget the insults that every white-eyed
man hurls at the Shis-Inday upon every occasion except when the
Shis-Inday are on the war-trail. Then they respect us.
“Shall we wait here until they come and arrest and kill our chiefs, as
Nan-tan-des-la-par-en has ordered them to do, or shall we take to the
war-trail and teach them once more to respect us? I, Shoz-Dijiji, war
chief of the Be-don-ko-he, speak for the war-trail. I have spoken.”
An old man arose. “Let us wait,” he said. “Perhaps the soldiers of the
pindah-lickoyee will not come. Perhaps they will let us live in peace if
we do not go upon the war-trail. Let us wait.”
The tizwin had not as yet spoken its final word, and there were more who
spoke against the war-trail than for it, and before the council was
concluded many had spoken. Among the last was Sago-zhu-ni—Pretty
Mouth—the wife of Mangas, for the voice of woman was not unknown about
the council fires of the Apaches. And why should it be? Did not they
share all the hardships of the war-trail with their lords and masters?
Did they not often fight, and as fiercely and terribly as the men? Were
they not as often the targets for the rifles of the pindah-lickoyee?
Who, then, had better right to speak at the councils of the Apaches than
the wives and mothers of their warriors.
Sago-zhu-ni spoke briefly, but to the point. “Are you men, old women, or
children?” she cried fiercely. “If you are old women and children, you
will stay here and wait to receive your punishment; but if you are
warriors, you will take the war-trail, and then Nan-tan-des-la-par-en
must catch you before he can punish you. May-be-so, you go to Sonora, he
no catch you. I have spoken.”
Now Na-chi-ta, encouraged by tizwin and goaded by the reproaches of
Shoz-Dijiji spoke for war. Geronimo, his savage brain inflamed by the
fumes of the drink, applauded Sago-zhu-ni and demanded the blood of
every pindah-lickoyee.
With fiery eloquence he ranged back through the history of the
Shis-Inday for more than three hundred years and reminded them of every
wrong that white men had committed against them in all that time. He
spoke for more than an hour, and while he spoke Sago-zhu-ni saw that no
warrior suffered from lack of tizwin. Of all who spoke vehemently for
the war-trail Shoz-Dijiji alone spoke out of a clear mind, or at least a
mind unclouded by the fumes of drink, though it was dark with bitter
hatred and prejudice.
When Geronimo sat down they voted unanimously for the war-trail; and the
next morning they broke camp and headed south—thirty-four warriors,
eight boys, and ninety-one women. Hair was slicked down with tallow,
swart faces streaked with war paint, weapons looked to. Hoddentin was
sprinkled on many a tzi-daltai of lightning riven pine or cedar or fir
as copper warriors prayed to these amulets for protection against the
bullets of the pindah-lickoyee, for success upon the war-trail.
Shoz-Dijiji, with Gian-nah-tah and two other warriors, rode in advance
of the main party, scouting far afield, scanning the distances from
every eminence. No creature stirred in the broad landscape before them
that was not marked by those eagle eyes, no faintest spoor beneath their
feet was passed unnoted.
The young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he was again the Apache Devil. His
face was painted blue but for the broad band of white across his eyes
from temple to temple; around his head was wound a vivid yellow bandana
upon the front of which was fastened a silver disc in the center of
which was mounted a single turquoise; small rings of silver, from each
of which depended another of these valued gems, swung from the lobes of
his ears; other bits of this prized duklij were strung in the yard-long
necklace of glass beads and magical berries and roots that fell across
the front of his brown, print shirt, which, with his heavy buckskin war
moccasins and his G-string, completed his apparel.
About his waist and across one shoulder were belts filled with
ammunition for the revolver at his hip and the rifle lying across the
withers of Nejeunee, and at his left side hung a pair of powerful field
glasses that he had taken in battle from a cavalry officer several years
before. From below the skirts of his shirt to the tops of his moccasins
the Apache Devil’s bronzed legs were naked, as he seldom if ever wore
the cotton drawers affected by many of his fellows. The bracelets of
silver and brass that adorned his muscular arms were hidden by the
sleeves of his shirt, a shirt that he probably soon would discard, being
ever impatient of the confining sensation that clothing imparted.
Down into the mountains of southwestern New Mexico the Apaches marched,
following trails known only to themselves, passing silently through
danger zones by night, and established themselves among caves and
canyons inaccessible to mounted troops.
Striking swiftly, raiding parties descended upon many an isolated ranch
house both in Arizona and New Mexico, leaving behind horrid evidence of
their ferocity as they rode away upon stolen horses from the blazing
funeral pyres that had once been homes.
Scouts kept Geronimo informed of the location of the troops in the field
against him; and the shrewd old war chief successfully avoided
encounters with any considerable body of enemy forces, but scouting
parties and supply trains often felt the full force of the strategy and
courage of this master general of guerilla warfare and his able
lieutenants.
It was during these days that the blue and white face of the Apache
Devil became as well known and as feared as it was in Sonora and
Chihuahua, for, though relentless in his war against the men of the
pindah-lickoyee, Shoz-Dijiji killed neither women nor children, with the
result that there were often survivors to describe the boldness and
ferocity of his attacks.
Scouting far north for information relative to the movement of troops,
Shoz-Dijiji one day came upon an Indian scout in the employ of the
enemy; and having recognized him as an old friend he hailed him.
“Where are the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.
“They cannot catch you,” replied the scout, grinning, “and so they are
sending Apaches after you. Behind me are a hundred White Mountain and
Cho-kon-en braves. They are led by one white-eyed officer, Captain
Crawford. Tell Geronimo that he had better come in, for he cannot escape
the Shis-Inday as he has escaped the pindah-lickoyee.”
“Why do you and the others go upon the war-trail against your own
people?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “Why do you fight as brothers at the side
of the enemy?”
“We take the war-trail against you because you are fools and we are
not,” replied the scout. “We have learned that it is useless to fight
against the pindah-lickoyee. We do not love them more than you; and if
we could kill them all we would, but we cannot kill them all—they are
as many as the weeds that grow among our corn and beans and
pumpkins—for though we cut them down they come again in greater numbers
than before, flourishing best in soil that is wet with blood.
“When you go upon the war-trail against the white-eyed men it only makes
more trouble for us. Geronimo is a great trouble maker. Therefore we
fight against him that we may live in peace.”
“Either your mouth is full of lies or your heart has turned to water,”
said Shoz-Dijiji. “No Apache wants peace at the price of slavery, unless
he has become a coward and is afraid of the pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji
has the guts of a man. He would rather die on the war-trail than be a
reservation Indian. You have not even the guts of a coyote, which snarls
and snaps at the hand of his captor and risks death to regain his
freedom.”
“Be a coyote then,” sneered the scout, “and I will put your pelt on the
floor of my hogan.”
“Here it is, reservation Indian,” replied the Black Bear. “Take it.”
Both men had dismounted when they met and were standing close and face
to face. The scout reached quickly for his six-shooter, but the Apache
Devil was even quicker. His left hand shot out and seized the other’s
wrist, and with his right he drew from its scabbard the great butcher
knife that hung at his hip.
The scout warded the first blow and grasped Shoz-Dijiji’s arm; and at
the same instant tore his right arm free, but as he did so the renegade
snatched the other’s gun from its holster and tossed it aside, while the
scout, profiting by the momentary freedom of his right hand, drew his
own knife, and the two closed in a clinch, each striving to drive his
blade home in the body of his adversary.
At the time that their altercation had reached the point of physical
encounter each of the men had dropped his hackamore rope with the result
that Shoz-Dijiji’s horse, recently stolen from a raided ranch, took
advantage of this God-given opportunity to make a break for freedom and
home, while the scout’s pony, lured by the call of consanguinity,
trotted off with the deserter.
Each of the combatants now held the knife arm of the other and the
struggle had resolved itself into one of strength and endurance, since
he who could hold his grip the longer stood the greater chance for
victory, the other the almost certain assurance of death.
They struggled to and fro, pushing one another here and there about the
sandy dust of a parched canyon bottom. The painted face of the Apache
Devil remained almost expressionless, so well schooled in inscrutability
were his features, nor did that of the scout indicate that he was
engaged in a duel to the death.
Two miles to the north a detachment of twenty White Mountain Apaches
from Crawford’s Indian Scouts were following leisurely along the trail
of their comrade. In twenty minutes, perhaps, they would come within
sight of the scene of the duel.
It is possible that the scout engaged with Shoz-Dijiji held this hope in
mind, for when it became obvious to him that he was no match in physical
strength for his adversary he dropped his own knife and grasped the
knife arm of his foe in both hands.
It was a foolish move, for no sooner did the Apache Devil regain the
freedom of his left hand than he transferred his weapon to it and before
his unfortunate antagonist realized his danger Shoz-Dijiji plunged the
blade between his ribs, deep into his heart.
Stooping over the body of his dead foe Shoz-Dijiji tore the red band
that proclaimed the government scout from his brow and with a deft
movement of his knife removed a patch of scalp. Then he appropriated the
ammunition and weapons of his late adversary and turned to look for the
two ponies. Now, for the first time, he realized that they were gone and
that he was afoot far from the camp of Geronimo, probably the sole
possessor of the information that a hundred scouts were moving upon the
stronghold of the War Chief.
A white man might doubtless have been deeply chagrined had he found
himself in a similar position, but to the Apache it meant only a little
physical exertion to which he was already inured by a lifetime of
training. The country through which he might pass on foot by the most
direct route to Geronimo’s camp was practically impassable to horses but
might be covered by an Apache in less time than it would have required
to make the necessary detours on horseback. However, Shoz-Dijiji would
have preferred the easier method of transportation, and so he regretted
that he had ridden the new pony instead of Nejeunee, who would not have
run away from him.
Knowing that other scouts might be near at hand, Shoz-Dijiji placed an
ear to the ground and was rewarded by information that sent him quickly
toward the south. Clambering up the side of the canyon, he adjusted the
red band of the dead scout about his own head as he climbed, for he knew
that eyes fully as keen as his own were doubtless scanning the horizon
through powerful field glasses at no great distance and that if they
glimpsed the red band they would not hasten in pursuit.
He grinned as he envisaged the anger of the scouts when they came upon
the dead body of their scalped comrade, and the vision lightened the
dreary hours as he trotted southward beneath the pitiless sun of New
Mexico.
Late in the afternoon Shoz-Dijiji approached a main trail that led west
to Fort Bowie and which he must cross, but with the caution of the
Apache he reconnoitered first.
From the top of a low hill the trail was in sight for a mile or two in
each direction and to this vantage point the Black Bear crept. Only his
eyes and the top of his head were raised above the summit of the hill,
and these were screened by a small bush that he had torn from the ground
and which he held just in front of him as he wormed his way to the hill
top.
Below him the trail led through a defile in which lay scattered huge
fragments of rock among which the feed grew thick and rank, suggesting
water close beneath the surface; but it was not these things that caught
the eyes and interest of the Apache Devil, who was already as familiar
with them as he was with countless other square miles of New Mexico,
Arizona, Chihuahua, and Sonora, or with the wrinkles upon the face of
his mother, Sons-ee-ah-ray.
That which galvanized his instant attention and interest was a
cavalryman sitting upon a small rock fragment while his horse, at the
end of a long riata, cropped the green feed. Shoz-Dijiji guessed that
here was a military messenger riding to or from Fort Bowie. Here, too,
was a horse, and Shoz-Dijiji was perfectly willing to ride the rest of
the way to the camp of Geronimo.
A shot would dispose of the white-eyed soldier, but it would, doubtless,
also frighten the horse and send him galloping far out of the reach of
Apache hands; but Shoz-Dijiji was resourceful.
He quickly cached the rifle of the scout, for the possession of two
rifles might raise doubts that two six-shooters would not; he adjusted
the red scout band and with a bandana carefully wiped from his face the
telltale war paint of the Apache Devil. Then he arose and walked slowly
down the hillside toward the soldier, who sat with his back toward him.
So silently he moved that he was within four or five feet of the man
when he halted and spoke.
The soldier wheeled about as he sprang to his feet and drew his pistol,
but the sight of the smiling face of the Indian, the extended hand and
the red band of the government scout removed his fears instantly.
“Nejeunee, nejeunee,” Shoz-Dijiji assured him, using the Apache word
meaning friend, and stepping forward grasped the soldier’s hand.
Smiling pleasantly, Shoz-Dijiji looked at the horse and then at the
riata approvingly.
“You belong Crawford’s outfit?” inquired the soldier.
“Me no sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji. He picked up the riata and examined it.
“Mucho bueno!” he exclaimed.
“You bet,” agreed the cavalryman. “Damn fine rope.”
The Apache examined the riata minutely, passing it through his hands,
and at the same time walking toward the horse slowly. The riata, a
braided hair “macarthy,” was indeed a fine specimen, some sixty feet in
length, of which the soldier was pardonably proud, a fact which threw
him off his guard in the face of the Indian’s clever simulation of
interest and approval.
When Shoz-Dijiji reached the end of the rope which was about the horse’s
neck he patted the animal admiringly and turned to the soldier, smiling
enthusiastically. “Mucho bueno,” he said, nodding toward the horse.
“You bet,” said the trooper. “Damn fine horse.”
With his back toward the white man, Shoz-Dijiji drew his knife and
quickly severed the rope, holding the two ends concealed in his left
hand. “Mucho bueno,” he repeated, turning again toward the soldier, and
then, suddenly and with seeming excitement, he pointed up the hill back
of the trooper. “Apache on dahl!” he shouted—“The Apaches are coming!”
Quite naturally, under the circumstances, the soldier turned away to
look in the direction from which the savage enemy was supposed to be
swooping upon him, and as he did so the Apache Devil vaulted into the
saddle and was away.
The great bowlders strewing the floor of the canyon afforded him an
instant screen and though the soldier was soon firing at him with his
pistol he offered but a momentary and fleeting target before he was out
of range, carrying away with him the cavalryman’s carbine, which swung
in its boot beneath the off stirrup of the trooper’s McClellan.
Shoz-Dijiji was greatly elated. He knew that he might have knifed the
unsuspecting pindah-lickoyee had he preferred to; but a victory of wits
and cunning gave him an even greater thrill of satisfaction, for, Apache
to the core though he was, the Black Bear killed not for the love of it
but from a sense of duty to his people and loyalty to the same cause
that inspired such men as Washington and Lincoln—freedom.