=D=AWN broke and Wichita Billings still sat fully dressed waiting for
her father. It was the first time that she had ever worried greatly over
his absence, and she could not explain why she worried now. She had
always thought of her father as absolutely able to take care of himself
in any emergency. He was a masterful man, utterly fearless, and yet not
prone to take unnecessary chances.
A dozen times she had been upon the point of going to the bunk house and
sending the entire outfit out to search for him, but each time she had
shrunk from the ridicule that she well knew would be slyly heaped upon
both her father and herself if she did so without good warrant; but now
with a new day come and no word from him, she determined to swallow her
pride and carry out her plan, however foolish it might appear.
Persistent knocking on the bunk house door finally elicited a profane
request for information as to what was “eating” her.
“Dad’s not back yet,” she shouted.
“Oh, hell, is that you Miss? I didn’t know it was you.”
“Never mind. Roll out and get busy. We’re goin’ to find him if we have
to ride to Boston,” she cried.
Luke Jensen, being the youngest man in the outfit, both in years and
point of service, was first from the bunk house, it being his duty to
bring the saddle horses in from pasture. At the barn, he found that
Wichita had already bridled the horse that was kept up for the purpose
of bringing the others in and was on the point of swinging the heavy
saddle to its back.
He greeted her cheerily, took the saddle from her, and completed its
adjustment.
“You worried about your Paw, Miss?” he asked as he drew the latigo
through the cinch ring.
“Something might have happened to him,” she replied. “It won’t hurt to
look for him.”
“No, it won’t do no hurt, though I reckon he kin take keer o’ hisself
about as good as the next man. I wouldn’t worry none, Miss,” he
concluded, reassuringly, as he stepped into the stirrup and swung his
leg over the horse’s rump.
Wichita stood by the corral gate watching Luke riding down into the east
pasture at an easy lope. She saw him disappear among the willows that
grow along the draw a mile from the corrals and two thirds of the way
across the pasture; and then “Smooth” Kreff, her father’s foreman,
joined her.
“Mornin’, Miss,” he greeted her. He looked at her sharply. “You-all been
up all night, ain’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Pshaw! Why didn’t you rout us out? We’d a-gone lookin’ fer him any
time.”
“There wouldn’t have been much use looking for him at night.”
“No, and there ain’t much use lookin’ fer him now; but it would a-made
you-all feel easier,” replied the man.
“Why isn’t there any use looking for him now?” she demanded.
“Because the Boss kin take keer of himself. He ain’t a-goin’ to thank us
none, I’m figgerin’.”
“No, if he’s all right, he won’t; but if he isn’t all right we’ll be
glad we did.”
“Them hosses must a-gone plumb to the fer end of the pasture,” remarked
Kreff.
“They always do, if we’re in a particular hurry to get them up,” said
Wichita.
The other men had come from the bunk house by now and were standing
around waiting.
“Thet dog-gone ‘cavvy’ must a-knowed we wanted ’em bad,” said one.
“Like as not they seed Luke comin’ an’ hid out in the willows,”
suggested another.
“They shore are an ornery bunch,” admitted a third.
“I could of ridden down there backwards on a bicycle an’ rounded ’em up
before this,” boasted a fourth.
“Here they come now,” exclaimed Wichita, as several horses broke from
the willows and trotted toward the corrals.
In twos and threes they emerged from the dense foliage until some forty
or fifty horses were strung out on the trail to the corrals, and then
Luke Jensen rode into sight from out the willows.
“What’s thet critter he’s leadin’?” demanded one of the men.
“It’s saddled,” volunteered another.
“It’s Scar Foot,” said Kreff.
After that there was silence. Some of the men glanced at Wichita; but
most of them stood looking away, embarrassed. Scar Foot was Billings’
favorite horse—the animal he had ridden out on the previous day.
The men walked out of the corral into the pasture to head the horses
through the bars that had been let down to receive them. No one said
anything. Kreff walked forward toward Luke; and the latter reined in
and, leaning down, spoke to the foreman in a low voice. Wichita
approached them.
“Where did you find Scar Foot?” she asked. “Where is Dad?”
“Scar Foot was jest outside the east gate, Miss,” explained Jensen. “The
other hosses was all up there by him, jest inside the fence.”
“Did you see anything of Dad?” she demanded again.
“We-all’s goin’ to ride right out an’ look fer him, Miss,” said Kreff.
Inside the corral two men were roping, and the others were busy saddling
their horses as they were caught.
Wichita climbed to the top of the corral. “I’ll ride Two Spot,” she
called to one of the ropers.
Finally all the horses they needed had been caught and the others turned
back into the pasture. One of the men who had been among the first to
saddle was saddling Two Spot for Wichita. Luke Jensen, who had
transferred his outfit to one of his own string, kept as far from
Wichita as he could; but as she was about to mount, Kreff approached
her, leading his own horse.
“I wouldn’t come along, Miss, ef I was you,” he advised. “We may have
some hard ridin’.”
“When did I get so I couldn’t ride with any of you?” she asked, quietly.
“There may be some fightin’,” he insisted, “an’ I wouldn’t want you-all
to get hurted.”
The girl smiled, ever so slightly. “It’s good of you, ‘Smooth,’” she
said; “but I understand, I think.” She swung into the saddle, and Kreff
said no more.
Luke Jensen leading, they rode at a run down through the pasture,
scattering the “cavvy,” and into the dense willows, emerging upon the
opposite side, climbing the steep bank of the draw, and away again at
top speed toward the east gate. In silence they rode, with grim faces.
There, just beyond the fence, they found Billings—where Luke Jensen had
found him. Wichita knelt beside her father and felt of his hands and
face. She did not cry. Dry eyed she arose and for the first time saw
that one of the men who had brought up the rear had led Scar Foot back
with them; but even had she known it when they started she would not
have been surprised, for almost from the moment that she had seen Luke
Jensen leading the horse back toward the corrals and had seen him
whisper to Kreff she had expected to find just what she had found.
Tenderly the rough men lifted all that was mortal of Jefferson Billings
across the saddle in which he had ridden to his death, and many were the
muttered curses that would have been vented vehemently and aloud had it
not been for the presence of the girl, for Billings had been shot in the
back and—scalped.
On walking horses the cortege filed slowly toward the ranch house, the
men deferentially falling in behind the led horse that bore the body of
the “Boss” directly in rear of the girl who could not cry.
“He never had a chanct,” growled one of the men. “Plugged right in the
back between the shoulders!”
“God damned dirty Siwashes!” muttered another.
“I seen an Injun here yestiddy evenin’,” said Luke.
“Why the Hell didn’t you say so before?” demanded Kreff.
“I told Miss Chita,” replied the young man; “but, Lor’, it warnt him did
it.”
“Wot makes you-all think it warnt?” asked Kreff.
“He’s a friend of hern. He wouldn’t have hurted her old man.”
“What Injun was it?”
“Thet Shoz-Dijiji fellow what saved me thet time I was hurted an’ lost.
I know he wouldn’t hev done it. They must hev been some others around,
too.”
Kreff snorted. “Fer a bloke wot’s supposed to hail from Texas you-all
shore are simple about Injuns. Thet Siwash is a Cheeracow Apache an’ a
Cheeracow Apache’d kill his grandmother fer a lead nickel.”
“I don’t believe thet Injun would. Why didn’t he plug me when he had the
chancet?” demanded Jensen.
“Say!” exclaimed Kreff. “Thet there pinto stallion thet thet there
greaser brung up from Chihuahua fer King warnt with the ‘cavvy’ this
mornin’. By gum! There’s the answer. Thet there pony belonged to
Shoz-Dijiji. He was a-gettin’ it when the Boss rid up.”
“They had words last time the Siwash was around here,” volunteered
another.
“Sure! The Boss said he’d plug him if he ever seen him hangin’ around
here again,” recalled one of the men.
At the ranch house they laid Jefferson Billings on his bed and covered
him with a sheet, and then “Smooth” Kreff went to Wichita and told her
of his deductions and the premises upon which they were based.
“I don’t believe it,” said the girl. “Shoz-Dijiji has always been
friendly to us. I ran across him by accident in the hills yesterday, and
he rode home with me because, he said, there were other renegades around
and it might not be safe for me to ride alone. It must have been some
other Indian who did it.”
“But his cayuse is gone,” insisted Kreff.
“He may have taken his pony,” admitted the girl. “I don’t say that he
didn’t do that. It was his; and he had a right to take it, but I don’t
believe that he killed Dad.”
“Your Paw didn’t have no use fer Injuns,” Kreff reminded her. “He might
have taken a shot at this Siwash.”
“No; his guns were both in their holsters, and his rifle was in its
boot. He never saw the man that shot him.”
Kreff scratched his head. “I reckon thet’s right,” he admitted. “It
shore was a dirty trick. Thet’s what makes me know it was a Siwash.”
The girl turned away sadly.
“Don’t you worry none, Miss,” said Kreff; “I’ll look after things fer
you, jes’ like your Paw was here.”
“Thanks, ‘Smooth,’” replied Wichita. “You boys have been wonderful.”
After the man had left the room the girl sat staring fixedly at the
opposite wall. A calendar hung there and a colored print in a cheap
frame, but these she did not see. What she saw was the tall, straight
figure of a bronzed man, an almost naked savage. He sat upon his war
pony and looked into her eyes.
“Shoz-Dijiji does not kill anyone that you love,” he said to her.
The girl dropped her face into her hands, stifling a dry sob. “Oh,
Shoz-Dijiji, how could you?” she cried.
Suddenly she sprang to her feet. Her lips were set in a straight, hard
line; her eyes flashed in anger.
“Oh, God!” she cried. “You gave me love; and I threw it away upon an
Indian, upon an enemy of my people; and now, in your anger, you have
punished me. I was blind, but you have made me to see again. Forgive me,
God, and you will see that I have learned my lesson well.”
Stepping through the doorway onto the porch, Wichita seized a short
piece of iron pipe and struck a triangle of iron that hung suspended
from a roof joist. Three times she struck it, and in answer to the
signal the men came from bunk house and corrals until all that had been
within hearing of the summons were gathered before her.
Dry eyed, she faced them; and upon her countenance was an expression
that none ever had seen there before. It awed them into silence as they
waited for her to speak. They were rough, uncouth men, little able to
put their inmost thoughts into words, and none of them ever had looked
upon an avenging angel; otherwise they would have found a fitting
description for the daughter of their dead Boss as she faced them now.
“I have something to say to you,” she commenced in a level voice. “My
father lies in here, murdered. He was shot in the back. He never had a
chance. As far as we know no one saw him killed, but I guess we all know
who did it. There doesn’t seem to be any chance for a doubt—it was the
Be-don-ko-he war chief, Shoz-Dijiji, Black Bear.
“If it takes all the rest of my life and every acre and every critter
that I own, I’m going to get the man that killed my father; and I’m
starting now by offering a thousand dollars to the man who brings in
Shoz-Dijiji—_dead!_”
When she had ceased speaking she turned and walked back into the house,
closing the door after her.
The men, moving slowly toward the bunk house, talked together in low
tones, discussing the girl’s offer.
Inside the house, Wichita Billings threw herself face down upon a sofa
and burst into tears.
* * * * *
Shoz-Dijiji slid from the back of the pinto war pony, Nejeunee, in the
camp of Geronimo and stood before the great war chief of the Apaches.
“Seven times, my son,” said the old chief, “have I cast hoddentin to the
four winds at evening since you rode away; seven times have I cast
hoddentin to the four winds at dawn; twice seven times have I prayed to
the spirits whose especial duty it is to watch over you to bring you
back in safety. My prayers have been answered. What word do you bring?”
“Shoz-Dijiji went to the reservation at San Carlos,” replied the young
man. “None of our friends or relatives who went out upon the war-trail
with us is there. I heard many stories, but I do not speak of anything
that I did not see with my own eyes or hear with my own ears.
“There are many soldiers scouting everywhere. There are so many that I
think all the soldiers that were sent to Mexico after us must have been
called back to hunt for us here.
“The reservation Indians say that now that Miles is after us we shall
all be killed. They advise us to lay down our arms and surrender. I
think that very soon the soldiers will find our camp here.”
“You are a war chief, my son,” said Geronimo. “Already you are very
wise. At the councils even the old men listen to you with respect. What
would you advise?”
“We are very few,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, thoughtfully. “We cannot take
the war-trail successfully against the pindah-lickoyee in this country
where we are. Sooner or later they will kill us or capture us. This is
no longer a good country for the Apache. It is our country that Usen
made for us, but we cannot be happy in it any longer because of the
pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji does not wish to live here any more. Let us
go to Mexico. Perhaps the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee will not again
follow us into Mexico. There we may live as we would wish to live and
not as the pindah-lickoyee want us to live.”
“And we can punish the Mexicans for inviting the soldiers of the
pindah-lickoyee to come down to their country and kill us,” added
Geronimo. “I think you have spoken true words. I think we should go to
Mexico. Perhaps there we shall find all of our friends and relatives
from whom we became separated when the soldiers were hunting us in
Sonora and Chihuahua. Perhaps we can even be happy again. Who knows?”
And so it was that when the troopers of “B” Troop rode into the camp of
Geronimo a week later they found nothing but cold ashes where the
cooking fires had been and the débris of a deserted Indian village that
the Apaches had not taken their usual precautions to hide, since they
expected never again to return to their beloved mountains.
Far to the south, below the line, frightened peons burned many candles
and said many prayers, for they had heard stories. A man had found the
bodies of three vaqueros, and he had seen the print of an Apache
moccasin in the camp where they had been killed. They had not been
tortured nor mutilated.
“The Apache Devil again!” whispered the peons.
A terrified freighter, a bullet through his shoulder, galloped an
exhausted mule into a little hamlet. The wagon train that he had been
with had been attacked by Apaches and all had been slain save he, and
with his own eyes he had recognized Geronimo.
“Holy Mother, preserve us! Geronimo and the Apache Devil, both!”
Leaving a trail of blood and ashes behind them the renegades headed for
the mountains near Casa Grande. Having committed no depredations north
of the line they felt confident that the United States soldiers would
not follow them into Sonora. Why should they? There was nothing for the
soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee to avenge.
Thus the Apaches reasoned, since, in common with white men, they
possessed the very human trait of easily forgetting the wrongs that they
committed against others, even though they might always harbor those
that were committed against them.
So now they either forgot or ignored what the whites still considered
just causes for righteous anger—burnt ranches, stolen stock, tortured
men, women, and children, mutilated corpses that had emblazoned their
trail through Arizona from San Carlos to the border over a year before;
but the whites had no intention of permitting these occurrences to go
brown in their memories.
From one end of the country to the other Geronimo and his bloody deeds
occupied more front page newspaper space than any other topic, and to
the readers of the newspapers of all the civilized world his name was a
household word. For over a year the armies of two nations had been
futilely engaged in an attempt to capture or kill a handful of men,
women, and children. Geronimo and his renegades had outwitted,
outgeneraled, and outfought them; and now, after again outwitting the
army of the United States, they had come back to Mexico and were meting
out punishment to those whom they mistakenly believed were responsible
for bringing United States troops below the border to fight them; and in
carrying out this policy they attacked every Mexican they saw after they
crossed the border, all the way to Casa Grande. Nor did they desist
then.
South of Casa Grande, near a place which the Apaches called Gosoda, a
road wound out of the town through a mountain pass. Many were the
freight trains that lumbered through the dust along this road; and near
here hid Geronimo, the Apache Devil, and their followers.
Here the renegades remained for some time, killing freighters, taking
what supplies they desired, and destroying the remainder; but the
reputation that this road achieved was such as to discourage freighting
for the nonce, though it attracted Mexican soldiers in embarrassing
numbers.
Geronimo then led his followers into the Sierra de Antunez Mountains
where they found all that now remained of their depleted tribe and
learned that the United States soldiers had not left the mountains of
Mexico but, on the contrary, were becoming more active than ever.
Geronimo was disheartened when he learned of this, for he had banked
wholly on the belief that he would be rid of the menace of United States
troops if he returned to Mexico without committing more depredations in
the United States.
“What are we to do?” he demanded at the council fire. “Every man’s hand
is against us. If we return to the reservation we shall be put in prison
and killed; if we stay in Mexico they will continue to send more and
more soldiers to fight us.”
“There is but one thing to do,” replied Shoz-Dijiji when Geronimo had
finished. “We must continue fighting until we are all killed. Already we
are reckless of our lives; let us be more so; let us give no quarter to
anyone and ask no favors. It is better to die on the war trail than to
be put in prison and choked to death with a rope about the neck. I,
Shoz-Dijiji, shall continue to fight the enemies of my people until I am
killed. I have spoken.”
“You are a young man,” said Geronimo. “Your words are the words of a
young man. When I was young I wanted nothing better than to fight, but
now that I am getting old I should like a little peace and quiet;
although I should not object to fighting to obtain them if I thought
that I might win them thus.
“But now,” he continued, sadly, “I cannot see any hope of winning
anything but death by fighting longer against the pindah-lickoyee. There
are too many of them, and they will not let us rest. I would make a
peace treaty with them, if I could.”
“They do not want to make a peace treaty with us,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
“They want only to kill us all that there may be no more Apaches left to
dispute the ownership of the land they have stolen from us. Let the old
men and the women and the children make a peace treaty with the
pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji will never make peace if it means that he
must return to San Carlos and be a reservation Indian.”
“I think that we should make peace with them,” said Na-chi-ta, “if they
will promise that we shall not be killed.”
“The promises of the pindah-lickoyee are valueless,” growled a warrior.
Thus they spoke around their council fires at night, and though most of
them wanted peace and none of them saw any other alternative than death,
they clung doggedly to the war trail. During three months they had many
skirmishes with the white soldiers; and five times their camps were
surprised, yet in no instance were the troops of the pindah-lickoyee
able either to capture or defeat them; never was there a decisive
victory for the trained soldiers who so greatly outnumbered them.
In July 1886 Geronimo’s force numbered some twenty-five fighting men, a
few women, and a couple of boys. Outside of their weapons and the
clothing that they wore they possessed a few hundred pounds of dried
meat and nineteen ponies—the sole physical resources at their command
to wage a campaign against a great nation that already had expended a
million dollars during the preceding fourteen months in futile efforts
to subjugate them and had enlisted as allies the armed forces of another
civilized power.
Moving farther and farther into Old Mexico as the troops pressed them,
the renegades were camped on the Yongi River, nearly three hundred miles
south of the boundary, late in July. They believed that they had
temporarily thrown their pursuers off the track and, war weary, were
taking advantage of the brief respite they had earned to rest.
Peace and quiet lay upon the camp beside the Yongi. The braves squatted,
smoking, or lay stretched in sleep. The squaws patched war worn
moccasins. There was little conversation and no laughter. The remnant of
a once powerful nation was making its last stand, bravely, without even
the sustaining influence of hope.
A rifle cracked. War whoops burst upon their ears. Leaping to their
feet, seizing the weapons that lay always ready at hand, the renegades
fell back as the soldiers and scouts of Lawton’s command charged their
camp. The surprise had been complete, and in their swift retreat the
Apaches lost three killed, whom they carried off with them, as they
abandoned their supply of dried meat and their nineteen ponies to the
enemy. Now they had nothing left but their weapons and their indomitable
courage.
Clambering to inaccessible places among the rocks, where mounted men
could not follow, they waited until the soldiers withdrew. Shoz-Dijiji
arose and started down toward the camp.
“Where are you going?” demanded Geronimo.
“The white-eyes have taken Nejeunee,” replied the war chief.
“Shoz-Dijiji goes to take his war pony from them.”
“Good!” exclaimed Geronimo. “I go with you.” He turned and looked
inquiringly at the other warriors before he followed Shoz-Dijiji down
the steep declivity. After the two came the balance of the grim
warriors.
Keeping to the hills, unseen, they followed Lawton’s command in the rear
of which they saw their ponies being driven. As the hours passed,
Geronimo saw that the distance between the main body of troopers and the
pony herd was increasing.
A few miles ahead was a small meadow just beyond which the trail made a
sharp turn around the shoulder of a hill. Geronimo whispered to
Shoz-Dijiji who nodded understanding and assent. The word was passed
among the other warriors; and at the same time Shoz-Dijiji turned to the
left to make a detour through the hills, while a single warrior remained
upon the trail of the troops.
At a smart trot the Be-don-ko-he war chief led his fellows through the
rough mountains. For an hour they pushed rapidly on until Shoz-Dijiji
dropped to his belly near the summit of a low hill and commenced to worm
his way slowly upward. Behind him came twenty painted savages. In the
rear of concealing shrubbery at the hill top the Apache Devil stopped,
and behind him stopped the twenty.
Below Shoz-Dijiji was a little meadow. It lay very quiet and peaceful in
the afternoon sun, deserted; but Shoz-Dijiji knew that it would not be
deserted long. Already he could hear the approach of armed men.
Presently they came into sight. Captain Lawton rode in advance. At his
side was Lieutenant Gatewood. Behind them were the scouts and the
soldiers. The formation was careless, because they all knew that the
renegades, surprised and defeated, were far behind them.
Shoz-Dijiji watched them pass. In the rear of the column he saw
Lieutenant King who had been temporarily detached from his own troop to
serve with this emergency command of Lawton’s. The length of the meadow
they rode. The head of the column disappeared where the trail turned the
shoulder of a hill, and still Shoz-Dijiji and the twenty lay quietly
waiting.
Now half the column was out of sight. Presently Shoz-Dijiji watched King
disappear from view, and once again the little meadow was deserted, but
not for long.
A little pinto stallion trotted into view, stopped, pricked dainty ears
and looked about. Behind him came other ponies—nineteen of them—and
behind the ponies three sun parched troopers in dusty, faded blue.
Silently Shoz-Dijiji arose, and behind him arose twenty other painted
warriors. They uttered no war whoops as they raced silently down into
the meadow in front of the ponies. There would be noise enough in a
moment; but they wished to delay the inevitable as long as possible lest
the main body of the command, warned by the sounds of combat, should
return to the meadow before the mission of the Apaches was completed.
The first trooper to see them vented his surprise in lurid profanity and
spurred forward in an attempt to stampede the ponies across the meadow
before the renegades could turn them. His companions joined him in the
effort.
Shoz-Dijiji and six other warriors raced swiftly to intercept the
ponies, while the other renegades moved down to the turn in the trail
where they could hold up the troop should it return too soon.
The Apache Devil whistled sharply as he ran and the pinto stallion
stopped, wheeled, and ran toward him. Three ponies, frightened by the
shouts of the soldiers, raced swiftly ahead, passing Shoz-Dijiji and his
six, passing the balance of the twenty who had not yet reached their
position, and disappeared around the turn.
Shoz-Dijiji leaped to Nejeunee’s back and headed the remaining ponies in
a circle, back in the direction from which they had come and toward the
six who had accompanied him.
It was then that one of the three soldiers opened fire, but the Apaches
did not reply. They were too busy catching mounts from the frightened
herd, and they had not come primarily to fight. When they had recaptured
their ponies there would be time enough for that, perhaps, but it was
certain that there was no time for it now. They had their hands full for
a few seconds, but eventually seven warriors were mounted; and Geronimo
and the remainder of the renegades were coming down the meadow at a run
as Shoz-Dijiji and his six drove the herd along the back trail.
Hopelessly outnumbered, cut off from their fellows, the three troopers
looked for some avenue of escape and fell back in front of the herd,
firing. It was then that the Apaches opened fire; and at the first
volley one of the soldiers fell and the other two turned and raced for
safety, rounding the side of the herd, they spurred their mounts along
the flank of the renegades.
A few hasty shots were sent after them; but the Apaches wasted no time
upon them, and they won through in safety while Shoz-Dijiji and the six
urged the ponies at a run along the back trail toward camp, as those on
foot took to the hills and disappeared just as Lawton’s command came
charging to the rescue, too late.
Lawton followed the Apaches; but, being fearful of ambush, he moved
cautiously, and long before he could overtake them the renegades had
made good their escape.