“I should say that after all Usen has at last been good to me in giving me you as a friend. Tell me where he is.”

  “He’s on our ranch—in the back pasture.”

  “On your ranch? How did Nejeunee get there?”

  “You left him near the picket line of Lieutenant King’s troop, and when they got back across the border he sent him up to me.”

  “King did not tell me.”

  “You have seen the lieutenant?”

  “We met in Chihuahua,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “And you talked with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you were on the war path, and he was after you. How could you have met and talked?”

  “King and Shoz-Dijiji went into the cattle business together.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Wichita.

  “When you see King ask him. He will tell you.”

  “Were you two alone together?”

  “Yes, for a day and a night.”

  “And you did not kill him?”

  “No. Shoz-Dijiji does not kill anyone that you love.”

  “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji,” exclaimed the girl, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that; but really you are mistaken in thinking that I love Lieutenant King.”

  “All right, next time I kill him.”

  “No, oh, no, you mustn’t do that.”

  “Why not? He is on the war trail against me. He kill me all right, if he get the chance. If you no love him, I kill him.”

  “But he is my friend, my very good friend,” insisted the girl. “He is your friend, too, Shoz-Dijiji. If I ask you not to kill him will you promise me that you wont?”

  “Shoz-Dijiji promise you he no try to kill King. Mebbe so, in battle, Shoz-Dijiji have to kill him. That he cannot help.”

  “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji, why don’t you come in and stop fighting us? It is so useless. You can never win; and you are such a good man, Shoz-Dijiji, that it seems a shame that you should sacrifice your life uselessly.”

  “No, we can never win. We know that, but what else is there for us? The white-eyed men make war upon us even in peace. They treat us like enemies and prisoners. We are men, the same as they. Why do they not treat us like men? They say that we are bad men and that we torture our prisoners and that that is bad. Do they not torture us? We torture the bodies of our enemies, but the white men torture our hearts. Perhaps all the feelings of the white-eyed men are in their bodies, but that is not so with the Shis-Inday. Bad words and bad looks make wounds in our hearts that hurt us more than a knife thrust in the body. The body wounds may heal but the heart wounds never—they go on hurting forever. No, I shall not come in. I am a war chief among the Be-don-ko-he. Shall I come in to be a ‘dirty Siwash’ among the white-eyes?”

  For a while the girl was silent after the Apache had ceased speaking. Their patient ponies stepped daintily along the rough trail. The descending sun cast their shadows, grotesquely, far ahead. The stifling heat of midday was gradually giving place to the promise of the coming cool of evening.

  “We are almost home,” said the girl, presently. “I wish you would come and talk with my father. He is not a bad man. Perhaps he can find some way to help you.”

  “No,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “His people and my people are at war. His heart is not friendly toward Apaches. It is better that I do not come.”

  “But you want to get Nejeunee,” insisted the girl.

  “You have told me where Nejeunee is. I will get him.”

  She did not insist, and again they rode in silence until the warrior reined in his pony just below the summit of a low hill. Beyond the hill, but hidden from their sight, stood the Billings ranch house.

  “Good-bye,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “I think perhaps we never see each other again. When the soldiers come back from Mexico we go back there and do not come to this country any more.”

  “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji,” cried the girl, “I do not want you to go.”

  “Shoz-Dijiji does not want to go,” he replied. “Your people have driven Shoz-Dijiji from his own country.”

  “I should think that you would hate me, Shoz-Dijiji.”

  “No, I do not hate you. I love you,” he said simply.

  “You must not say that, Shoz-Dijiji,” she answered, sadly.

  “If Shoz-Dijiji was a white-eyed man, you would listen,” he said.

  She was silent.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, “is that not true?”

  “Oh, God! I don’t know, I don’t know,” she cried.

  “Shoz-Dijiji knows,” said the Be-don-ko-he. “Good-bye!”

  He wheeled his pony and rode away.

  The sun was setting as Wichita Billings dismounted wearily at the corral back of the ranch house. Luke Jensen came from the bunk house to take her pony.

  “Where’s Dad?” she asked.

  “One of the boys found a beef killed this mornin’. He said it looked like Injuns hed done it. Yore Dad rid over to hev a look at it. He ought to be back right smart soon now.” Luke glanced over across the back pasture toward the east.

  Wichita knitted her brows. “Did he go that way?” she asked.

  “Yep,” assented Luke.

  “Get one of the other boys to go with you, and ride out and meet him. If Apaches killed the beef there may be some of them around.” Wichita turned toward the ranch house, hesitated, and then walked back to Luke.

  “Luke,” she said, “you don’t hate all Indians do you?”

  “You know I don’t, Miss. I’d a bin dead now ef it hedn’t a-bin fer one of ’em. Why?”

  “Well, if you ever meet an Apache, Luke, remember that, and don’t shoot until you’re plumb sure he’s hostile.”

  Jensen scratched his head. “Yes, Miss,” he said, “but what’s the idee?”

  “There may be friendly Indians around, and if you should shoot one of them,” she explained, “the rest might turn hostile.”

  As Wichita walked toward the house Luke stood looking after her.

  “I don’t reckon she’s gone loco,” he soliloquized, “but she shore better watch herself.”

  It was ten o’clock before Luke Jensen returned to the ranch. He went immediately to the house and knocked on the door, entering at Wichita’s invitation.

  “Your Dad back?” he demanded.

  “No. Didn’t you see anything of him?”

  “Nary hide nor hair.”

  “Where do you suppose he can be?”

  “I dunno. They’s Indians around, though. I bumped plumb into one tother side of the willows in the draw outside the fer pasture gate, an’ who do you reckon it was? Why none other than that Shoz-Dijiji fellow what give me a lift that time. He must-a thought some o’ the hosses in the pasture were comin’ through them willows, fer he never tried to hide hisself at all. I jest rid plumb on top o’ him. He knew me, too. I couldn’t help but think o’ wot you told me just before I left about bein’ sure not to shoot up any friendly. Say, did you know he was around?”

  “How could I know that?” demanded Wichita.

  “I dunno,” admitted Luke, scratching his head; “but it did seem dern funny to me.”

  “It’s funny the man with you didn’t take a shot at him,” commented Wichita. “Most all of the boys believe in shooting an Apache first and inquiring about his past later.”

  “There wasn’t no one with me,” explained Luke. “There wasn’t no one around but me when I left, and I didn’t want to waste time waiting fer someone to show up. Anyways, I kin see alone jest as fer as I kin with help.”

  “Well, I reckon he’ll be coming along pretty soon, Luke,” said Wichita. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Miss,” replied Jensen.

  CHAPTER XIII

  BACK TO SONORA

  Dawn 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 wont hurt to look for him.”

  “No, it wont 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, aint 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 aint much use lookin’ fer him now; but it would a-made you-all feel easier,” replied the man.

  “Why isn’t there any now?” she demanded.

  “Because the Boss kin take keer of himself. He aint a-goin’ to thank us none, I’m figgerin’.”

  “No, if he’s all right, he wont; 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 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 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.”