_Flight_
Light from a thin slice of moon glanced from the Bavispe River, stole
through thinly leaved trees, and painted a lichen-crusted boulder with
moonbeams.
But the moonlight made not the faintest impression in the grove of
thick-limbed, heavy-trunked trees on the river's bank. Beneath the trees
it was black enough for devils to dance. But any devils who might have
been there would have been frightened away by the Apaches who had come
to Mexico in peace but who knew now that there must be war. This grove
was their appointed rendezvous should anything go amiss while they were
trading.
Geronimo sat as though he had lost everything that made him alive but
was still not dead. He knew dimly that Mangus Coloradus was talking in
low tones with men whom Geronimo was too dazed to recognize.