_The Discontented_
A mile and a half from his farm on Turkey Creek, in Arizona's White
Mountains, Geronimo skulked in a thicket and looked sourly at a flock of
wild turkeys. They were so many that they seemed a living carpet over
the five-acre clearing in which they were catching grasshoppers. But
they held no charm for Geronimo. Who besides white men would eat a bird
that ate snakes?
White men also ate the trout that swarmed in White Mountain streams, and
trout were akin to snakes. Geronimo grimaced. He had had enough, and
more than enough, of white men and their ways.
A lark called three times. The turkeys skulked away. They knew that it
was not a lark calling, but a man imitating a lark. A moment later
Naiche slipped into the thicket where Geronimo hid.