Geronimo, handicapped by the paucity of his following, nevertheless kept scouts afield who watched the movements of the troops and kept fairly well in touch with the progress of the campaign through the medium of friendly reservation Indians.
Shoz-Dijiji was often engaged in some enterprise of this nature, and upon one occasion he went into the heart of the reservation at San Carlos. Returning, he rode through familiar mountains along an unmarked trail that recalled many memories of other days.
Shoz-Dijiji rode out of his way and against his better judgment. He was an Apache, iron willed and schooled to self-denial; but he was human, and so he would torture his poor heart by riding a trail that he had once ridden with her.
He would ride near the ranch. Perhaps he might see her, but she would never know that he was near.
The war chief of the Be-don-ko-he dreamed and, dreaming, relaxed his vigilance. Love, sorrow, reminiscence dulled his faculties for the moment. Otherwise he would never have been so easily surprised.The way he had chosen led here down the steep declivity of a canyon side and along the canyon's bottom for a few hundred yards to a point where a nimble pony might clamber up the opposite side. It was very hot in the sun scorched cleft and very quiet. The only sound was the crunching of gravelly soil beneath unshod hoofs--the hoofs of the pony Shoz-Dijiji rode down the canyon and the hoofs of another pony bearing a rider up the canyon.
Perhaps chance so synchronized the gaits of the two animals that the footfalls of each hid those of the other from the ears of their riders. Perchance Fate--but why speculate?
The fact remains that as Shoz-Dijiji rounded an abrupt turn he came face to face with the other pony and its rider. Surprise was instantly reflected upon the face of the latter; but the Apache, though equally surprised, let no indication of it disturb the imperturbability of his countenance.Each reined in instantly and, for a moment, sat eyeing the other in silence. Shoz-Dijiji was the first to speak.
"You are alone?" he demanded.
"Yes."
"Why you ride alone when the Apaches are on the war-trail?" he asked, sternly.
"The Apaches are my friends. They will not harm me."
"Some of the Be-don-ko-he Apaches are your friends, white girl; but there are others on the war trail who are not your friends," replied Shoz-Dijiji. "There are Cho-kon-en and Ned-ni with Geronimo."
"Shoz-Dijiji and Geronimo would not let them harm me."
"Shoz-Dijiji and Geronimo are not like the God of the white-eyed men--they cannot be here, there, and everywhere at the same time."
Wichita Billings smiled. "But perhaps He guides them to the right place at the right time," she suggested."Are you not here now, Shoz-Dijiji, instead of a Cho-kon-en or a Ned-ni?"
"You have strong medicine, white girl; but so did the great izze-nantan, Nakay-do-klunni. He made strong medicine that turned away the bullets of the white-eyed soldiers, but at Cibicu Creek they killed him. The best medicine is to stay out of danger."
"Well, to tell you the truth, Shoz-Dijiji," admitted the girl, "I did not dream that there was a renegade within a hundred miles of here."
"When the Shis-Inday are on the war trail they are like your God--they are here, there, and everywhere."
"Are there others with you, Shoz-Dijiji?"
"No, I am alone."
"What are you doing here? Were you--were you coming to the ranch, Shoz-Dijiji?" she asked, hesitatingly. "Were you coming to see me?" There was potential gladness in her voice.
"Shoz-Dijiji has been scouting," replied the Apache. "He is returning to the camp of Geronimo."
"But you were going to stop and see me, Shoz-Dijiji," she insisted.
"No. It would have made trouble. Your father does not like Shoz-Dijiji, and he would like to kill a renegade. Shoz- Dijiji does not wish to be killed. Therefore there would be trouble."
"My father is sorry for the things he said to you, Shoz- Dijiji. Come to the ranch, and he will tell you so. He was angry, because he was very fond of Mason; and you know that they had just found Mason murdered--and scalped."
"Shoz-Dijiji knows. He knows more about that than your father. Shoz-Dijiji knows that it was not an Apache that killed Mason."
"How do you know? Do you know who did kill him? He was scalped."
"Are the white-eyed men such fools that they think that only an Apache can scalp? If they were not such fools they would know that it is only occasionally that Apaches do take the scalps of their enemies. They do know this, but they do not want to admit it. They know that whenever a white-eyed man wishes to kill an enemy he need only scalp him to convince everyone that Apaches did it, because everyone wishes to believe that every murder is done by Apaches.
"Yes, I know who killed Mason and why. He was robbed in Cheetim's Hog Ranch, and he had sworn to get Cheetim. He was looking for him with a gun. Cheetim hired a man to ride out with Mason and shoot him in the back. That is all.
"Now come. Shoz-Dijiji ride back with you until you are near the ranch. You must not ride alone again even if you are not afraid of the Apaches, for there are bad men among the white-eyes--men who would harm you even more surely than an Apache."
He motioned her to precede him up the steep canyon side; and when the two ponies had scrambled to the summit he rode at her side, where the ground permitted, as they walked their ponies in the direction of the Billings ranch.
For a while they rode in silence, the Apache constantly on the alert against another and more dangerous surprise, the girl thoughtful, her face reflecting the cast of sadness in which her thoughts were molded.
Wichita Billings knew that the man at her side loved her. She knew that she was drawn to him more than to any other man that she had ever known, but she did not know that this attraction constituted love. Raised as she had been in an atmosphere of racial hatred, schooled in ignorance and bigotry by people who looked upon every race and nation, other than their own race and nation, as inferior, she could scarce believe it possible that she could give her love to an Indian; and so her mind argued against her heart that it was not love that she felt for him but some other emotion which should be suppressed.
Shoz-Dijiji, on his part, realized the barrier that prejudice had erected between them and the difficulty that the white girl might have to surmount it in the event that she loved him. He, too, had faced a similar barrier in his hatred of the white race, but that his love had long since leveled. A greater obstacle, one which he could not again face, was the hurt that his pride had suffered when she had recoiled from his embrace.
Thoughts such as these kept them silent for some time until Wichita chanced to recall Nejeunee.
"Shoz-Dijiji,"she exclaimed, "where is your pinto war pony?"
The Apache shrugged. "Who knows?"
"What became of him? Is he dead, or did you lose him in battle?"
"We were starving," said the Apache. "We had eaten all the ponies except Nejeunee. It was in Sonora. Your soldiers were pressing us on one side, the Mexicans upon the other. At night I led Nejeunee close to the picket line of the white-eyed soldiers. I have not seen him since."
"You were very fond of Nejeunee, Shoz- Dijiji."
"In Apache Nejeunee means friend," said the man. "One by one all of my friends are being taken from me. Nejeunee was just one more. Usen has forgotten Shoz-Dijiji."
"Perhaps not," replied Wichita. "What would you say if I told you that Nejeunee is alive and that I know where he is?"
"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."