More recently he had been reduced to the expedience of performing the duties of porter around the bar of "Dirty" Cheetim's Hog Ranch in order that he might eat to live and live to eat. Here, his estimate of the Gringoes had not been materially raised.
Pedro Mariel, the woodchopper of Casa Grande, was a poor man in worldly goods; but in qualities of heart and conscience he had been rich, and he had raised his children to fear God and do right.
Luis often thought of his father as he watched the Gringoes around "Dirty" Cheetim's place, and at night he would kneel down and thank God that he was a Mexican.
Many of the Gringoes that he saw were not bad, only fools; but there were many others who were very bad indeed. El Teniente King was the best Americano he had ever seen. Luis was sorry that El Teniente had no riding job for him. These were some of the thoughts that passed through the mind of the Mexican youth as he rode herd on the stolen cattle
Up from the south rode Shoz-Dijiji. From the moment that he crossed the border into Arizona his spirits rose. The sight of familiar and beloved scenes, the scent of the cedars and the pines, the sunlight and the moonlight were like wine in his veins. The Black Bear was almost happy again.
Where there were no trails he went unseen. No longer were the old water holes guarded by the soldiers of the pindah- lickoyee. Peace lay upon the battle ground of three hundred years. He saw prospectors and cowboys occasionally, but they did not see Shoz-Dijiji. The war chief of the Be-don- ko-he knew that the safety of peace was for the white-eyed men only--he was still a renegade, an outlaw, a hunted beast, fair target for the rifle of the first white man who saw him.
He moved slowly, and often by night, drinking to the full the joys of homeland; but he moved toward a definite goal and with a well defined purpose. It had taken days and weeks and months of meditation and introspection to lay the foundation for the decision he had finally reached; it had necessitated trampling under foot a lifetime of race consciousness and pride in caste; it had required the sacrifice of every cherished ideal, but the incentive was more powerful than any of these things, perhaps the greatest single moral force for good or evil that exists to govern and shape the destinies of man--love.
Love was driving this Apache war chief to the object of his devotion and to the public avowal that he was no Apache but, in reality, a member of the race that he had always looked upon with the arrogant contempt of a savage chieftain.
In his return through Arizona he found his loved friend, Nejeunee, an obstacle to safe or rapid progress. A pinto pony, while perhaps camouflaged by Nature, is not, at best, an easy thing to conceal, nor can it follow the trackless steeps of rugged mountains as can a lone Apache warrior; but, none the less, Shoz-Dijiji would not abandon this, his last remaining friend, the sole and final tie that bound him to the beloved past; and so the two came at last to an upland country, hallowed by sacred memories--memories that were sweet and memories that were bitter.
Luke Jensen was riding the east range. What does a lone cowboy think about? There is usually an old bull that younger bulls have run out of the herd. He is always wandering off, and if he be of any value it is necessary to hunt him up and explain to him the error of his ways in profane and uncomplimentary language while endeavoring to persuade him to return. He occupies the thoughts of the lone cowboy to some extent.
Then there is the question of the expenditure of accumulated wages, if any have accumulated. There are roulette and faro and stud at the Hog Ranch, but if one has recently emerged from any of these one is virtuous and has renounced them all for life, along with wine and women.
A hand-made, silver mounted bit would look as well and arouse envy, as would sheep skin chaps, and a heavy, silver hat band. A new and more brilliant bandana is also in order. Then there are the perennial plans for breaking into the cattle business on one's own hook, based on starting modestly with a few feeders to which second thought may add a maverick or two that nobody would miss and from these all the way up to rustling an entire herd.
Thoughts of Apaches had formerly impinged persistently upon the minds of lone cowboys. Luke Jensen was mighty glad, as he rode the east range, that he didn't have to bother his head any more about renegades.
He was riding up a coulee flanked by low hills. Below the brow of one that lay ahead of him an Apache war chief watched his approach. Below and behind the warrior a pinto stallion lay stretched upon its side, obedient to the command of its master.
Shoz-Dijiji, endowed by Nature with keen eyes and a retentive memory, both of which had been elevated by constant lifelong exercise to approximate perfection, recognized Luke long before the cowboy came opposite his position--knew him even before he could discern his features.
"Hey, you!" called Shoz-Dijiji without exposing himself to the view of the youth.
Luke reined in and looked about. Mechanically his hand went to the butt of his six-shooter.
"No shoot!" said Shoz-Dijiji. "I am friend."
"How the hell do I know that?" demanded Jensen. "I can't see you, an' I aint takin' no chances."
"I got you covered with rifle," announced Shoz-Dijiji. "You better be friend and put away gun. I no shoot. I am Shoz- Dijiji."
"Oh!" exclaimed Jensen. The one thousand dollars reward instantly dominated his thoughts.
"You no shoot?" demanded the Indian. Luke returned his revolver to its holster. "Come on down," he said. "I remember you."
Shoz-Dijiji spoke to Nejeunee, who scrambled to his feet; and a moment later the pinto stallion and its rider were coming down the hillside.
"We thought you was dead," said Luke.
"No. Shoz-Dijiji been long time in Sonora."
"Still on the war path?" asked the cowboy.
"Geronimo make treaty with the Mexicans and with your General Miles," explained the Apache. "He promise we never fight again against the Mexicans or the Americans. Shoz- Dijiji keep the treaty Geronimo made. Shoz-Dijiji will not fight unless they make him. Even the coyote will fight for his life."
"What you come back here fer, Shoz-Dijiji?" asked Luke.
"I come to see Wichita Billings. Mebby so I get job here. What you think?"
Many thoughts crowded themselves rapidly through the mind of Luke Jensen in the instant before he replied and foremost among them was the conviction that this man could not be the murderer of Jefferson Billings. Had he been he would have known that suspicion would instantly attach to him from the fact that Wichita had seen him near the ranch the day her father was killed and that on that same day the pony he now rode had been stolen from the east pasture.
"Well, what do you think about it, Shoz-Dijiji?" parried Luke.
"I think mebby so she give me' job, but Shoz-Dijiji not so damn sure about her father. He no like Shoz-Dijiji."
"Don't you know that her ol' man's dead?" demanded Luke.
"Dead? No, Shoz-Dijiji not know that. Shoz-Dijiji been down in Sonora long time. How he die?"
"He was murdered jest outside the east pasture and -- scalped," said Luke.
"You mean by Apaches?"
"No one knows, but it looks damn suspicious."
"When thls happen?" demanded Shoz-Dijiji.
"We found him the mornin' after you took thet there pony out of the east pasture."
Shoz-Dijiji sat in silence for a moment, his inscrutable face masking whatever emotions were stirring within his breast.