About his waist and across one shoulder were belts filled with ammunition for the revolver at his hip and the rifle lying across the withers of Nejeunee, and at his left side hung a pair of powerful field glasses that he had taken in battle from a cavalry officer several years before. From below the skirts of his shirt to the tops of his moccasins the Apache Devil's bronzed legs were naked, as he seldom if ever wore the cotton drawers affected by many of his fellows. The bracelets of silver and brass that adorned his muscular arms were hidden by the sleeves of his shirt, a shirt that he probably soon would discard, being ever impatient of the confining sensation that clothing imparted.
Down into the mountains of southwestern New Mexico the Apaches marched, following trails known only to themselves, passing silently through danger zones by night, and established themselves among caves and canyons inaccessible to mounted troops.
Striking swiftly, raiding parties descended upon many an isolated ranch house both in Arizona and New Mexico, leaving behind horrid evidence of their ferocity as they rode away upon stolen horses from the blazing funeral pyres that had once been homes.
Scouts kept Geronimo informed of the location of the troops in the field against him; and the shrewd old war chief successfully avoided encounters with any considerable body of enemy forces, but scouting parties and supply trains often felt the full force of the strategy and courage of this master general of guerilla warfare and his able lieutenants.
It was during these days that the blue and white face of the Apache Devil became as well known and as feared as it was in Sonora and Chihuahua, for, though relentless in his war against the men of the pindah-lickoyee, Shoz-Dijiji killed neither women nor children, with the result that there were often survivors to describe the boldness and ferocity of his attacks.
Scouting far north for information relative to the movement of troops, Shoz-Dijiji one day came upon an Indian scout in the employ of the enemy; and having recognized him as an old friend he hailed him.
"Where are the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee?" demanded Shoz-Dijiji.
"They cannot catch you," replied the scout, grinning, "and so they are sending Apaches after you. Behind me are a hundred White Mountain and Cho-kon-en braves. They are led by one white-eyed officer, Captain Crawford. Tell Geronimo that he had better come in, for he cannot escape the Shis- Inday as he has escaped the pin-dah-lickoyee."
"Why do you and the others go upon the war trail against your own people?" demanded Shoz-Dijiji. "Why do you fight as brothers at the side of the enemy?"
"We take the war trail against you because you are fools and we are not," replied the scout. "We have learned that it is useless to fight against the pindah-lickoyee. We do not love them more than you; and if we could kill them all we would, but we cannot kill them all--they are as many as the weeds that grow among our corn and beans and pumpkins--for though we cut them down they come again in greater numbers than before, flourishing best in soil that is wet with blood.
"When you go upon the war trail against the white-eyed men it only makes more trouble for us. Geronimo is a great trouble maker. Therefore we fight against him that we may live in peace."
"Either your mouth is full of lies or your heart has turned to water," said Shoz-Dijiji. "No Apache wants peace at the price of slavery, unless he has become a coward and is afraid of the pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji has the guts of a man. He would rather die on the war trail than be a reservatlon Indian. You have not even the guts of a coyote, which snarls and snaps at the hand of his captor and risks death to regain his freedom."
"Be a coyote then," sneered the scout, "and I will put your pelt on the floor of my hogan."
"Here it is, reservation Indian," replied the Black Bear. "Take It."
Both men had dismounted when they met and were standing close and face to face. The scout reached quickly for his six-shooter, but the Apache Devil was even quicker. His left hand shot out and seized the other's wrist, and with his right he drew from its scabbard the great butcher knife that hung at his hip.
The scout warded the first blow and grasped Shoz-Dijiji's arm; and at the same instant tore his right arm free, but as he did so the renegade snatched the other's gun from its holster and tossed it aside, while the scout, profiting by the momentary freedom of his right hand, drew his own knife, and the two closed in a clinch, each striving to drive his blade home in the body of his adversary.
At the time that their altercation had reached the point of physical encounter each of the men had dropped his hackamore rope with the result that Shoz-Dijiji's horse, recently stolen from a raided ranch, took advantage of this God-given opportunity to make a break for freedom and home, while the scout's pony, lured by the call of consanguinity, trotted off with the deserter.
Each of the combatants now held the knife-arm of the other and the struggle had resolved itself into one of strength and endurance, since he who could hold his grip the longer stood the greater chance for victory, the other the almost certain assurance of death.
They struggled to and fro, pushing one another here and there about the sandy dust of a parched canyon bottom. The painted face of the Apache Devil remained almost expressionless, so well schooled in inscrutability were his features, nor did that of the scout indicate that he was engaged in a duel to the death.
Two miles to the north a detachment of twenty White Mountain Apaches from Crawford's Indian Scouts were following leisurely along the trail of their comrade. In twenty minutes, perhaps, they would come within sight of the scene of the duel.
It is possible that the scout engaged with Shoz-Dijiji held this hope in mind, for when it became obvious to him that he was no match in physical strength for his adversary he dropped his own knife and grasped the knife arm of his foe in both hands.
It was a foolish move, for no sooner did the Apache Devil regain the freedom of his left hand than he transferred his weapon to it and before his unfortunate antagonist realized his danger Shoz-Dijiji plunged the blade between his ribs, deep into his heart.
Stooping over the body of his dead foe Shoz-Dijiji tore the red band that proclaimed the government scout from his brow and with a deft movement of his knife removed a patch of scalp. Then he appropriated the ammunition and weapons of his late adversary and turned to look for the two ponies. Now, for the first time, he realized that they were gone and that he was afoot far from the camp of Geronimo, probably the sole possessor of the information that a hundred scouts were moving upon the stronghold of the War Chief.
A white man might doubtless have been deeply chagrined had he found himself in a similar position, but to the Apache it meant only a little physical exertion to which he was already inured by a lifetime of training. The country through which he might pass on foot by the most direct route to Geronimo's camp was practically impassable to horses but might be covered by an Apache in less time than it would have required to make the necessary detours on horseback. However, Shoz-Dijiji would have preferred the easier method of transportation, and so he regretted that he had ridden the new pony instead of Nejeunee, who would not have run away from him.
Knowing that other scouts might be near at hand, Shoz- Dijiji placed an ear to the ground and was rewarded by information that sent him quickly toward the south. Clambering up the side of the canyon, he adjusted the red band of the dead scout about his own head as he climbed, for he knew that eyes fully as keen as his own were doubtless scanning the horizon through powerful field glasses at no great distance and that if they glimpsed the red band they would not hasten in pursuit.