THE TRAIL AND ITS END
DEEP in the mountains in a lone cave Shoz-Dijiji buried Ish-kay-nay,
covered the soft contours of the girlish body with hard, cold rocks,
piled more rocks before the entrance to the cave until it was choked;
buried light and love and happiness in the grave with his sweetheart.
There, beside her grave he spent two days and two nights—days of
mourning, nights of prayer. There he killed the pony he had ridden, that
Ish-kay-nay might find a mount ready to carry her to the spirit world.
This he did, though she was no warrior, nor a great chief, because to
Shoz-Dijiji she was more than either. All the hoddentin he possessed he
had sprinkled upon her before he covered her dear form, and with her he
had buried his most sacred things: his tzi-daltai and his phylactery of
buckskin with its precious contents, even the izze-kloth that
Nan-ta-do-tash had blessed for him.
Upon the third day, alone, on foot, with no medicine to protect him from
evil spirits or from the weapons or machinations of his enemies, he
emerged from the hills, cruel, relentless, stark savage, and turned his
face toward the south upon the trail of Juh. For two days he had been
without food and for one without water, yet he did not suffer. Forgotten
were the sufferings of the flesh in the greater anguish of the soul.
Terrible were the days that followed. Scant was food, scant was water;
long and hideous were the marches, with only hate and vengeance to buoy
his spirits, to goad on his nagging muscles. He lashed his legs with
switches of mesquite until they bled; he ate lizards and snakes and
prairie mice; he drank stinking water when he drank at all, for there
were soldiers everywhere, at every spring and water hole, upon every
trail, and he must go on, for beyond the soldiers was Juh, somewhere to
the south, somewhere in that vast labyrinth of mountain and desert.
No turned stone, no bent twig, no down-pressed bit of grass escaped his
eye, and each told its story of the passing of the Apaches, of the
pursuit of the soldiers. He passed through the line of troops at last,
not a difficult thing for an Apache in such rough country as this, and
the spoor of the Ned-ni became plainer. He pushed on and discovered
soldiers once more ahead of him. Their trail came in from the northeast
and he could see that they had been moving rapidly, without pack
animals. That night he passed them, a single troop of lean, gaunt
fighting men, and he saw them cross the international boundary and enter
Mexico.
By dawn he was a good ten miles in advance of them when he became aware
of something moving just ahead of him. He saw it dimly from the bottom
of a swale as it topped the rise above him. He moved even more
cautiously than before, but the figure ahead made no noise either. It
was a man on foot and Shoz-Dijiji knew that it must be an Indian; but
there were enemies among the Indians as well as among the white men.
This might be a Navajo scout and if it were—a terrible expression of
cruel anticipation crossed the features of the Black Bear, the nearest
he had come to smiling for many a bitter day.
When dawn came suddenly upon them Shoz-Dijiji was looking down from
another hilltop upon the figure of an Indian. It was an Apache, but the
red head band proclaimed him a scout in the service of the pindah
lickoyee; also the quick eyes of Shoz-Dijiji discovered that the man was
an old acquaintance from the White Mountain tribe. The Black Bear hailed
him. The scout turned with ready carbine, but Shoz-Dijiji was behind a
boulder.
“Do not shoot,” he said. “It is Shoz-Dijiji, the Be-don-ko-he.”
The other lowered the muzzle of his carbine and Shoz-Dijiji stepped from
behind the boulder.
“Where is Juh?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.
The other pointed toward the south. “There are Ned-ni a few miles
ahead,” he said, “but Juh is not with them. I talked with them two days
ago. I am going to talk with them again. The soldiers will not stop this
time at the border. They have orders to follow Juh and Geronimo until
they catch them, no matter where they go. This I was going to tell the
Ned-ni.”
“You are going to join the warriors against the white-eyes?” asked
Shoz-Dijiji.
The man shook his head. “No. I return to tell the fool white chief that
the Ned-ni have gone in another direction.”
“Good!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “But you need not go on. I will tell the
Ned-ni where the soldiers are and what orders they have been given.
Perhaps they will wait and meet the soldiers. There is a place where the
trail runs between the steep walls of a canyon. There the soldiers will
be cautious against an attack, but just beyond, where it looks safe
again they will be off their guard and there the Ned-ni might wait for
them—if you will lead them there. Eh?”
“I will lead them there,” he said.
Shoz-Dijiji trotted on and the White Mountain Apache turned back to lead
the hated white men, that he served, into an ambush.
Shocking! Dishonorable! Disgraceful! Yes, of course; but many a
civilized man wears a decoration today for betraying the confidence of
the enemy. It makes a difference who does it—that is all.
Before noon Shoz-Dijiji overtook the Ned-ni and delivered his message
after first discovering that Juh was not with them. They were surprised
to see him, for there were many of them who really believed that he was
dead. There were only eight warriors and about twice as many women and
children. The latter the sub-chief sent ahead while the warriors he
disposed in strategic positions at the point where the ambush was to
occur, and along their trail came “B” Troop of the ——th Cavalry,
protected by the Apache scouts ahead and upon the flanks.
With his troop rode Lieutenant Samuel Adams King, eager for his first
brush with the hostiles, his stay at the Billings ranch having been
abruptly terminated the very night that Wichita had led the ewe-necked
roan out to Shoz-Dijiji. An hour later a courier had come with orders
for Lieutenant King to rejoin the troop with his detachment, and there
had followed days of hard riding in an effort to intercept the hostiles
before they crossed the boundary into Mexico.
Lieutenant King had preferred the company of Wichita Billings to futile
scouting after Indians that one never saw, but this was different. For
two days they had been hot on the trail of the renegades, with an
engagement constantly imminent, and the young blood of the subaltern
coursed hot in anticipation of a brush with the enemy. For four years he
had slaved and sweat at the Point in preparation for this, and he prayed
now that he would not be cheated out of it at the last minute by the
dirty, sneaking Siwashes. Gad! If the cowards would only stand and fight
once!
Nasty place for an ambush, thought Lieutenant King, as the troops
entered a narrow, steep-walled canyon. Good thing the “old man” had sent
flankers along the crest on either side. Beastly dusty! Rotten idea to
make the second lieutenant ride in rear of the outfit. Some day he would
revise Regulations—lots of things wrong with them. He could see that
already and he had only joined up a few weeks before.
Now, this was better. They were through that canyon and the dust had a
chance to blow somewhere else than down his throat, up his nose and into
his eyes.
Crack! Pin-n-ng! Crack! Crack! Pin-n-n-ng!
“Left front into line! Gallop! _MARCH!_ _CHARGE!_” The high voice of the
“old man” rose shrilly above the crack of the hostile rifles, the wild
Apache war whoops, the cursing of men, the screams of hit horses.
A ragged, yelling line of blue galloped among the great boulders from
behind which the nine warriors poured their deadly fire, and as the
hostiles fell back to other cover the captain dismounted his troop and
sent one platoon in on foot while the horses were withdrawn to better
cover. It was no place for cavalry action—that is why the sub-chief had
chosen it.
Lieutenant King found himself crawling along on his belly from rock to
rock. Bullets spit at him. He raised himself occasionally and fired,
though he seldom saw anything to fire at—a puff of smoke—a bronze
shoulder—once a painted face. He was at the left of the line and he
thought that by moving farther to the left he could pass the hostiles’
right and reach a position where he could enfilade them. Obsessed by
this idea, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of battle, he forgot everything
else. The men of his own command no longer existed. He was fighting
alone. It was his first fight and he was having the time of his young
life. He worked his way rapidly ahead and to the left.
From the right of the line his captain caught a fleeting glimpse of him
and shouted after him. “_MISTER_ King!” he screamed. “Where in hell are
you going? Come back here, you blankety, blank, blank fool!” But in his
heart the old man thrilled with pride as _MISTER_ King crawled on toward
the hostile line, the commands of his superior lost in the din of the
engagement and the excitement of the moment.
Just ahead of him King saw two large rocks, each capable of sheltering a
couple of men. They stood about two feet apart and if he could reach
them they would offer him almost perfect protection from the enemy’s
fire while at the same time they commanded his right flank.
What Lieutenant King did not see was the painted savage crouching behind
the one farthest to the left, nor did he know that this same warrior had
been patiently watching and awaiting his advance.
Reaching the opening between the two King crawled cautiously on, his
eyes, his whole attention turning to the right toward the position of
the enemy. He had reached a position where he could look around behind
the right-hand rock and see several of the warriors lying behind other
sheltering boulders to his right; and at that instant a heavy body fell
upon him, while simultaneously the captain gave the command to charge.
The troopers leaped to their feet and, yelling like the Apaches
themselves, stumbled forward among the thick strewn boulders. King’s
carbine was torn from his grasp. He struggled to free himself from the
clutching fingers and the great weight upon him, and managed to turn
over onto his back. Glaring down upon him were two savage eyes set in a
hideously painted face. A great butcher knife hovered above his breast.
He could hear the shouts of his fellows drawing nearer.
The knife halted, poised in mid-air. He saw the Apache stare intently
into his face for an instant and then look up in the direction from
which the soldiers were charging. The lieutenant struggled, but the man
who held him was a giant in strength. King recalled that some fool had
told him that one white man was a match for ten Indians. He wished that
he might relinquish his present position to his informant.
Suddenly the brave yanked him to his feet as easily as though King had
been a little child, and the officer saw two of the men of his own
platoon running toward them. Backing slowly up the hillside the warrior
kept King directly in front of him. The other hostiles had fallen back
rapidly, leaving two of their number dead. There was only one other
Apache retreating up the hillside with King’s captor and he was above
them now and moving swiftly.
The troopers dared not fire on the brave who was dragging King away with
him for fear of hitting the officer, and when the other Apache reached
the hilltop and found shelter he opened fire on them, forcing them to
cover. A moment later King was dragged over the brow of the hill close
to where the other Indian was covering the retreat of his fellow. Here
he was relieved of his field glasses and cartridge belt, his carbine and
revolver having already been appropriated by his captor.
“Now you kill him?” asked the Ned-ni of Shoz-Dijiji.
“No,” replied the Be-don-ko-he.
“Take him along and kill him slow, by and by?” suggested the other.
“No kill,” snapped Shoz-Dijiji with finality.
“Why?” demanded the Ned-ni, an ugly look distorting his painted face.
“Juh right. Shoz-Dijiji’s heart turn to water in face of pindah
lickoyee. Good! I kill him.” He turned his rifle toward King. There was
a flash and a burst of flame and smoke; but they did not come from the
rifle of the Ned-ni. He was dead.
King had understood no word of what had passed between the two Apaches,
and he had only seen that one of them had prevented the other from
killing him, but that he did not understand either. No other eyes than
his had seen Shoz-Dijiji kill the Ned-ni, for the hill hid them from the
sight of all others upon the field of battle. Now his captor turned
toward him.
“You savvy white girl, Billings ranch?” he demanded.
King nodded, puzzled. “She like you,” continued the Apache. “Me friend
white girl. No kill her friend. You savvy?”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” ejaculated Lieutenant King. “How did you know
me? I never saw you before.”
“No, but I see you. Apache see everything—know everything. You see
white girl again you tell her Shoz-Dijiji no can return her pony. Him
dead.”
“Who, Shoz-Dijiji?”
“No, pony. I am Shoz-Dijiji,” and he tapped his chest proudly. “Pony
dead.”
“Oh.”
“You tell her by and by. Shoz-Dijiji no can send her pony back; he send
back her white-eyed lover instead. You savvy?”
“Why, I’m not her—well, I _will_ be damned!”
“Now I go. You move—Shoz-Dijiji shoot. This time he kill. You savvy?”
“Yes, go ahead; and you needn’t think I’ll try to get you after what
you’ve done for me,” and he glanced at the dead Ned-ni beside them.
“But, say, before you go won’t you tell me how and where and when you
got a pony from Wichita Billings?”
“Me no savvy,” stated Shoz-Dijiji, and turning, he leaped swiftly down
the hillside to disappear a moment later from the sight of the
astonished subaltern.
As Shoz-Dijiji had vanished among the hills so had the other warriors,
and as the commanding officer reassembled his troop a crestfallen second
lieutenant walked down a hillside and approached his captain. The “old
man” was furious at himself because he had ridden directly into an
ambush, because he had lost some good men and several horses, but
principally because the hostiles had slipped through his fingers with
the loss of only two of their number. And so he vented his spleen upon
the unfortunate King, who had never guessed until that moment how much
contempt, sarcasm and insult could be crowded into that single word
_MISTER_.
He was relieved of duty and ordered into arrest, released and returned
to duty, three times in the ensuing fifteen minutes after he rejoined
the troop. His spirit was raw and sore, and he conceived for his
superior a hatred that he knew would survive this life and several lives
to come; but that was because he had been but a few weeks under the “old
man.” Before that campaign was over Lieutenant King would have ridden
jubilantly into the mouth of Hell for him. But just then he did not know
that his captain’s flow of vitriolic invective and censure but masked
the fear the older man had felt when he saw the youth’s utter disregard
of danger leading him straight into the jaws of death.
The old captain knew a brave man when he saw one and he knew, too, that
the steadying influence of experience in active service would make a
great Indian fighter of such as his second had proven himself to be, and
in the depth of his heart he was very proud of the boy, though he would
have rather his tongue had been cut out than to admit it in words. It
was his way to win loyalty by deeds, with the result that his men cursed
him—and worshipped him.
In the light of what Lieutenant King had heard of the character and
customs of Apaches he found it difficult to satisfactorily explain the
magnanimity of the very first one it had been his fortune to encounter.
He found his preconceived estimate of Apache character hanging in
mid-air with all its props kicked from under it, and all he could do was
wonder.
Shoz-Dijiji was wondering, too. He knew that he had not acted upon
impulse and perhaps that was why his action troubled him in retrospect.
He tried to be sorry that he had not slain the hated pindah lickoyee,
yet, when he thought of the happiness of the white girl when she learned
that her lover had been spared, he was glad that he had not killed him.
Too fresh was the wound of his own great grief to permit him to be
callous to the possible grief of another in like circumstance, and in
this case that other was a friend who had been kind to him. Yes,
Shoz-Dijiji was satisfied that he had done right. He would have no
regrets. As for the Ned-ni—well, he had earned death by his insult.
Following the fight with “B” Troop the little band of Ned-ni broke up
once again into still smaller parties and scattered by ones and twos, so
that there remained nothing in the way of a trail for the soldiers to
follow. Shoz-Dijiji moved directly south into the Sierra Madre,
searching for Juh. To every familiar haunt of the Apache went the
silent, terrible figure, searching, ever searching; his sorrowing heart
like lead in his bronze breast, his soul a torment of consuming fires of
hate.
From many a commanding peak he scanned the country north and south, east
and west, through the field glasses he had taken from the young officer,
and then one day he came upon the spoor of an Apache in the soft earth
beside a bubbling spring. You or I might not have been able to discern
that a man had stepped there, but Shoz-Dijiji saw the dim print of an
Apache war moccasin. He plucked some of the down-pressed grass and
breaking it knew from the condition of the juices within that a man had
stood there on the preceding day, and then he sought and quickly found
the direction of the other’s trail, leading toward the south.
Not again, no matter where it went, did Shoz-Dijiji lose sight of the
spoor of him whom he followed. Early the next morning he left it
momentarily while he ascended a peak and scanned the mountains to the
south. Ah, at last! In the distance, tenuous, vapory blue, almost
invisible rose a tiny waft of smoke. Indians! Apaches, doubtless.
Ned-ni, perhaps. Juh! Be good, O Usen! Let it be Juh!
It was noon when Shoz-Dijiji passed silently and unseen the sentries of
the Ned-ni and stalked majestically into the camp. His quick eyes took
in every detail of the scene. He saw two of Juh’s squaws and several of
his children, but Juh he did not see. But Juh must be near. His long
search was ended.
Warriors gathered about him, asking many questions; surprised to see him
in the flesh, whom they had thought dead. He told them of the fight with
the white soldiers, of the scattering of the balance of the hostiles;
that the troops might be following them down into Mexico. He did not ask
for Juh; that was not his way. He waited. Perhaps Juh would come soon,
but he was impatient. A terrible thought smote him.
“Were many of the Ned-ni killed when you fought the white-eyes?” he
asked.
“No,” they told him, “two warriors, whose bodies we brought along and
buried, and a squaw was missing.” They did not mention her name. Seldom
do the Apaches call their dead by name. But there was no
need—Shoz-Dijiji knew that they spoke of Ish-kay-nay.
“Was she killed by the soldiers?” asked Shoz-Dijiji.
“We do not know. Juh would not return to find out.”
“Juh—he is not here,” remarked Shoz-Dijiji, casually. That was as near
as he would come to asking where Juh was.
“He is hunting in the mountains,” said a warrior, waving an informatory
hand in the direction of a rugged ridge above the camp.
Shoz-Dijiji walked away. He could not wait. He went from shelter to
shelter, talking, but only to throw off suspicion, for he knew that some
of them must guess why he was here. When he could, he slipped away among
the trees and moved rapidly up the shoulder of the ridge, diagonally
that he might cross the spoor of the man he sought, nor had he long to
go before he picked up the imprint of a great moccasin, such a moccasin
as Juh might wear.
A human tiger, then, he tracked his prey. Up rugged mountainsides ran
the trail, across rocky hogbacks where none but an Apache eye might
trace it, down into dank ravines and up again along the bold shoulder of
a mighty peak. It was there that Shoz-Dijiji heard something moving just
beyond the curve of the mountain ahead of him.
He stopped and listened. The thing was approaching, already he had
interpreted it, the sound of moccasined feet moving through low brush.
Shoz-Dijiji waited. Two seconds, three, five. The figure of a man loomed
suddenly before him. It was Juh. The end of the hate-trail had been
reached. Juh was returning to camp.
The chief saw and recognized Shoz-Dijiji instantly. He was armed with
bow and arrows and a knife. Shoz-Dijiji carried these and a revolver in
addition. The carbine he had cached before he entered the Ned-ni camp.
“What does the Be-don-ko-he here?” demanded Juh.
“I, Shoz-Dijiji, have come to kill a great liar. I have come to kill a
great coward who cannot protect his women. I have come to kill Juh.”
“You cannot kill Juh,” said the older man. “Strong is the medicine of
Juh. The bullets of the white-eyes cannot enter the body of Juh—they
will bounce back and kill you. Nakay-do-klunni made this medicine
himself. Go away, before it kills you.”
“Nakay-do-klunni is dead,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “His medicine is no
good.”
“What he made for Juh is good.”
“Shoz-Dijiji will throw away all his weapons except his knife,” said the
young warrior. “Let Juh do likewise. Then, with his knife, Shoz-Dijiji
will cut the vile heart of Juh out of his breast.”
Juh was a big, strong man. He was afraid of no one in a hand-to-hand
encounter, so the other’s proposal met with instant approval. With a
sneer he tossed aside his bow and arrows and Shoz-Dijiji similarly
discarded all his weapons but his knife. Like great fighting cats the
two drew closer. Juh taunted and insulted his adversary, after the code
Apachean. He applied the vilest epithets to which he could lay his
naturally vile tongue to the mother of Shoz-Dijiji, to his father, to
his grandmother, to his grandfather, to all his forebears back to the
first one, whose dam, according to Juh, had been a mangy coyote; then he
vilified the coyote.
Shoz-Dijiji, grim, terrible, silent, crept stealthily toward his
lifelong enemy. Juh mistook his silence for an indication of fear. He
rushed upon the son of Geronimo thinking to bear him down by the
suddenness and weight of his bull-like charge. His plunging knife was
struck aside and the two closed, but Shoz-Dijiji gave back no single
step. With as great effect Juh might have charged one of the ancient
pines that soughed above them.
Each seeking to sink his blade in the flesh of the other, they surged
and strained to and fro upon the rocky shoulder of the mountain. Below
them yawned an abyss whose sheer granite wall dropped straight a
thousand feet to the jagged rocks that formed the débris at its base.
“Pindah-lickoyee,” growled the Ned-ni. “Die, son of a white-eyed man!”
Shoz-Dijiji, the muscles rolling beneath his copper hide, forced his
knife hand, inch by inch, downward upon the straining, sweating warrior.
Juh tried to break away, but a mighty arm held him—held him as he had
been bound with thongs of rawhide.
In his efforts to escape, Juh dragged his antagonist nearer and nearer
the edge of that awful precipice waiting silently behind him. Juh did
not see, but Shoz-Dijiji saw, and did not care. Rather than permit his
enemy to escape the Black Bear would go over with him—to death; perhaps
to oblivion, perhaps to Ish-kay-nay. What did it matter?
Closer and closer came the sharp point to the breast of Juh. “Speak the
truth, Juh, for you are about to die.” Shoz-Dijiji spoke for the first
time since the duel had begun. “Say that Shoz-Dijiji is no pindah
lickoyee.”
“Juh speaks the truth,” panted the other. “You are white.”
The Ned-ni, straining with every ounce of strength that he possessed,
slowly pushed away the menacing blade. He surged suddenly to the right,
almost hurling them both to the ground. It was then that he realized how
close they had been to the edge of the abyss. A pebble, struck by his
foot, rolled a hand breadth and dropped over the edge.
Juh shuddered and tried to draw away, but Shoz-Dijiji, determined never
to relinquish his hold until his enemy was dead, even if he must die
with him, dragged him relentlessly to the verge again. There they
toppled for an instant, Juh trying to pull back and the Black Bear
straining to precipitate them both to the rocks below. Now Shoz-Dijiji’s
feet were upon the very edge of the precipice and his back was toward
it. His time had come! Surging backward he threw his feet out over the
abyss, bringing all his weight into his effort to drag Juh over with
him.
The chief of the Ned-ni, seeing death staring him in the face, voiced a
single, piercing, horrified shriek and hurled himself backward. For an
instant they rocked back and forth upon the brink, and then Juh managed
to take a backward step and, for the second, they were saved.
Heaving, straining, dripping sweat that ran down their sleek bodies in
rivulets, these men of iron who scarce had ever sweat before—so lean
their thews and fatless—struggled, turning, twisting, until once again
they stood upon the verge of eternity. This time it was Juh whose back
was toward the awful gulf.
Now Shoz-Dijiji was seeking to push him over the edge. So rapt had each
been in this pushing and pulling toward and away from the verge that one
might have thought each had forgotten the rigid knife-hand clasped in
the grip of the other. Perhaps they had, momentarily; but it was
Shoz-Dijiji who remembered first. With a twisting, sudden wrench, he
tore his wrist free from Juh’s grasp.
“Die, Ned-ni!” he growled, glaring into the eyes of his foe. He drove
his blade deep into the breast of Juh. “Die! Ish-kay-nay is avenged!”
Again and again the blade sank deep into the heart of the Chief of the
Ned-ni, his arms dropped limp, he reeled and tried to speak, to beg for
mercy. Then it was that Shoz-Dijiji, the Be-don-ko-he, put both palms
against the bloody chest of his antagonist and pushed him backward.
Screaming, Juh toppled from the rocky ledge and, turning and twisting,
his body fell down, down to the jagged rocks a thousand feet below.