“Yes, but he wouldn’t talk to me. He just fell back on that maddening ‘No sabe’ that they use with strangers.”
“Why do you suppose he did that?” asked Mrs. Cullis.
“I hurt him the last time I saw him,” replied Wichita.
“Hurt one of Geronimo’s renegades! Child, it can’t be done.”
“They’re human!” replied the girl. “I learned that in the days that I spent in Geronimo’s camp while Chief Loco was out with his hostiles. Among themselves they are entirely different people from those we are accustomed to see on the reservation. No one who has watched them with their children, seen them at their games, heard them praying to Dawn and Twilight, to the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars as they cast their sacred hoddentin to the winds would ever again question their possession of the finer instincts of sentiment and imagination.
“Because they do not wear their hearts upon their sleeves, because they are not blatant in the declaration of their finer emotions, does not mean that they feel no affection or that they are incapable of experiencing spiritual suffering.”
“Perhaps,” said Margaret Cullis j “but you, who have lived in Indian country all your life, who have seen the heartless cruelties they inflict upon their helpless victims, who know their treachery and their dishonesty, cannot but admit that whatever qualities of goodness they possess are far outweighed by those others which have made them hated and feared the length and breadth of the Southwest.”
“For every wrong that they have committed,” argued Wichita, “they can point out a similar crime perpetrated upon them by the whites. 0, Margaret, it is the old case again of the pot calling the kettle black. We have tortured them and wronged them even more than they have tortured and wronged us.
“We esteem personal comfort and life as our two most sacred possessions. When the Apaches torture and kill us we believe that they have committed against us the most hideous of conceivable crimes.
“On the other hand the Apaches do not esteem personal comfort and life as highly as do we and consequently, by their standards — and we may judge a people justly only by their own standards — we have not suffered as much as they, who esteem more highly than life or personal comfort the sanctity of their ancient rites and customs and the chastity of their women. From the time of the white man’s first contact with the Apaches he has ridiculed the one and defiled the other.
“I have talked with Shoz-Dijiji, and Geronimo, with Sons-ee-ah-ray, and many another Be-don-ko-he man and woman; they have laid bare their hearts to me, and never again can anyone convince me that we have not tortured the Apaches with as malignant cruelty as they have tortured us.”
“Why you are a regular little Apache yourself, Wichita,” cried Margaret Cullis. “I wonder what your father would say if he could hear you.”
“He has heard me. Don’t think for a minute that I am afraid to express my views to anyone.”
“Did he enjoy them and agree with you?”
“He did not. He did everything but tear his hair and take me out to the woodshed. You know Mason was killed about two months ago, and it had all the ear-marks of an Apache killing. Mason was one of Dad’s best friends. Now, every time he thinks or hears Apache he sees red.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Margaret Cullis.
“It’s silly,” snapped Wichita, “and I tell him so. It would be just as logical to hate all French-Canadians because Guiteau assassinated President Garfield.”
“Well, how in the world, feeling toward the Apaches as you do, could you have found it in your heart to so wound Shoz-Dijiji that he will not speak to you?”
“I did not mean to,” explained the girl. “It — just happened. We had been together for many days after the Chi-e-a-hen attacked the Pringe ranch and Shoz-Dijiji got me away from them. The country was full of hostiles, and so he took me to the safest place he could think of — the Be-don-ko-he camp. They kept me there until they were sure that all the hostiles had crossed the border into Mexico. He was lovely to me — a white man could have been no more considerate — but when he got me home again and was about to leave me he told me that he loved me.
“I don’t know what it was, Margaret — inherited instinct, perhaps — but the thought of it revolted me, and he must have seen it in my face. He went away, and I never saw him again — until today — three years.”
The older woman looked up quickly from her work. There had been a note in the girl’s voice as she spoke those last two words that aroused sudden apprehension in the breast of Margaret Cullis.
“Wichita,” she demanded, “do you love this — this Apache?”
“Margaret,” replied the girl, “you have been like a sister to me, or a mother. No one else could ask me that question. I have not even dared ask myself.” She paused. “No, I cannot love him!”
“It would be unthinkable that you would love an Indian, Wichita,” said the older woman. “It would cut you off forever from your own kind and would win you only the contempt of the Indians. A white girl had better be dead than married to an Indian.”
Wichita nodded. “Yes, I know,” she whispered, “and yet he is as fine as any man, white or red, that I have ever known.”
“Perhaps, but the fact remains that he is an Apache.”
“I wish to God that he were white!” exclaimed the girl.
A knock on the door put an end to their conversation, and Wichita arose from her chair and crossed the room to admit the caller. A tall, good looking subaltern stood smiling on the threshold as the door swung in.
“You’re prompt,” said Wichita.
“A good. soldier always is,” said Mrs. Cullis. “That is equivalent to a medal of honor, coming from the wife of my troop commander,” laughed King as he stepped into the room.
“Give me your cap,” said Wichita, “and bring that nice easy chair up here beside the table.”
“I was going to suggest that we take a walk,” said King, “that is if you ladies would care to. It’s a gorgeous night.”
“Suits me,” agreed Wichita. “How about you, Margaret?”
“I want to finish my sewing. You young folks run along and have your walk, and perhaps Captain Cullis will be here when you get back. If he is we’ll have a game of eucre.”
“I wish you’d come,” said Wichita.
“Yes, do!” begged King, but Mrs. Cullis only smiled and shook her head.
“Run along, now,” she cried gaily, “and don’t forget the game.”
“We’ll not be gone long,” King assured her. “I wish you’d come with us.”
“Sweet boy,” thought Margaret Cullis as the door closed behind them leaving her alone. “Sweet boy, but not very truthful.”
As Wichita and King stepped out into the crisp, cool air of an Arizona night the voice of the sentry at the guard house rang out clearly against the silence: “Number One, eight o’clock!” They paused to listen as the next sentry passed the call on: “Number Two, eight o’clock. All’s well!” Around the chain of sentries it went, fainter in the distance, growing again in volume to the final, “All’s well!” of Number One.
“I thought you said it was a gorgeous night,” remarked Wichita Billings. “There is no moon, it’s cloudy and dark as a pocket.”
“But I still insist that it is gorgeous,” said King, smiling. “All Arizona nights are.”
“I don’t like these black ones,” said Wichita; “I’ve lived in Indian country too long. Give me the moon every time.”
“They scarcely ever attack at night,” King reminded her.
“I know, but there may always be an exception to prove the rule.”
“Not much chance that they will attack the post,” said King.
“I know that, but the fact remains that a black night always suggests the possibility to me.”
“I’ll admit that the sentries do suggest a larger assurance of safety on a night like this,” said King. “We at least know that we shall have. a little advance information before an
y Apache is among us.”
Numbers Three and Four were mounted posts, and at the very instant that King was speaking a shadowy form crept between the two sentries as they rode slowly in opposite directions along their posts. It was Shoz-Dijiji.
Though the Apache had demonstrated conclusively that Wichita Billings’ intuitive aversion to dark nights might be fully warranted, yet in this particular instance no danger threatened the white inhabitants of the army post, as Shoz-Dijiji’s mission was hostile only in the sense that it was dedicated to espionage.
Geronimo had charged him with the duty of ascertaining the attitude of the white officers toward the departure of the War Chief from the reservation, and with this purpose in view the Black Bear had hit upon the bold scheme of entering the post and reporting Geronimo’s departure in person that he might have first hand knowledge of Nan-tan-des-la-par-en’s reaction.
He might have come in openly in the light of day without interference, but it pleased him to come as he did as a demonstration of the superiority of Apache cunning and of his contempt for the white man’s laws.
He moved silently in the shadows of buildings, making his way toward the adobe shack that was dignified by the title of Headquarters. Once he was compelled to stop for several minutes in the dense shadow at the end of a building as he saw two figures approaching slowly. Nearer and nearer they came. Shoz-Dijiji saw that one was an officer, a war chief of the pindah-lickoyee, and the other was a woman. They were talking earnestly. When they were quite close to Shoz-Dijiji. the white officer stopped and laid a hand upon the arm of his companion.
“Wait, Wichita,” he said. “Before we go in can’t you give me some hope for the future? I’m willing to wait. Don’t you think that some day you might care for me a little?”
The girl walked on, followed by the man. “I care for you a great deal, Ad,” Shoz-Dijiji heard her say in a low voice just before the two passed out of his hearing; “but I can never care for you in the way you wish.” That, Shoz-Dijiji did not hear.
“You love someone else?” he asked. In the darkness he did not see the hot flush that overspread her face as she replied. “I am afraid so,” she said.
“Afraid so! What do you mean?”
“It is something that I cannot tell you, Ad. It hurts me to talk about it.”
“Does he know that you love him?”
“No.”
“Is it anyone I know?”
“Please, Ad, I don’t like to talk about it.”
Lieutenant Samuel Adams King walked on in silence at the girl’s side until they reached Mrs. Cullis’ door. “I’m going to wait — and hope, Chita,” he said just before they entered the house.
Captain Cullis had not returned, and the three sat and chatted for a few minutes; but it was evident to Margaret Cullis that something had occurred to dash the spirits of her young guests, nor was she at a loss to guess the truth. Being very fond of them both; believing that they were eminently suited to one another, and, above all, being a natural born match maker, Margaret Cullis was determined to leave no stone unturned that might tend toward a happy consummation of her hopes.
“You know that Chita is leaving us in the morning?” she asked King, by way of inaugurating her campaign.
“Why, no,” he exclaimed, “she did not tell me.”
“I should have told you before you left,” said the girl. “I wouldn’t go without saying good-bye, you know.”
“I should hope not,” said King.
“She really should not take that long ride alone,” volunteered Mrs. Cullis.
“It is nothing,” exclaimed Wichita. “I’ve been riding alone ever since I can recall.”
“Of course she shouldn’t,” said King. “It’s not safe. I’ll get leave to ride home with you. May I?”
“I’d love to have you, but really it’s not necessary.”
“L think it is,” said King. “I’ll go over to headquarters now and arrange it. I think there’ll be no objections raised.”
“I’m leaving pretty early,” warned Wichita. “What time?”
“Five o’clock.”
“I’ll be here!”
4. GIAN-NAH-TAH RELENTS
I care for you a great deal, Ad!” Shoz-Dijiji heard these words and recognized the voice of the girl who had spurned his love. N ow he recognized her companion also.
Wounded pride, racial hatred, the green eyed monster, jealousy, clamored at the gates of his self-restraint, sought to tear down the barriers and loose the savage warrior upon the authors of his misery. His hand crept to the hunting knife at his hip, the only weapon that he carried; , but Shoz-Dijiji was master of his own will; and the two passed on, out of his sight, innocent of any faintest consciousness that they had paused within the shadow of the Apache Devil.
A half hour later a tall, straight figure loomed suddenly before the sentry at Headquarters. The cavalryman, dismounted, snapped his carbine to port as he challenged: “Halt! Who is there?”
“I have come to talk with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” said Shoz-Dijiji in Apache.
“Hell!” muttered the sentry, “if it ain’t a damned Siwash,” and shouted for the corporal of the guard. “Stay where you are, John,” he cautioned the Indian, “until the corporal comes, or I’ll have to make a good Indian of you.”
“No sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
“You’d better savvy,” warned the soldier.
The corporal of the guard appeared suddenly out of the darkness. “Wot the hell now?” he demanded. “Who the hell’s this ?”
“It’s a God damn Siwash.”
“How the hell did he get inside the lines?”
“How the hell should I know? Here he is, and he don’t savvy United States.”
The corporal addressed Shoz-Dijiji. “Wot the hell you want here, John ?” he demanded.
Again the Apache replied in his own tongue. “Try Mex on him,” suggested the sentry.
“Some of ’em savvy that lingo all right.”
In broken, badly broken, Spanish the corporal of the guard repeated his questions.
“No sabe,” lied Shoz-Dijiji again.
“Hadn’t you better shove him in the guard house?” suggested the sentry. “He aint got no business inside the post at night.”
“I think he wants to talk to the Old Man — he keeps sayin’ that fool Siwash name they got for Crook. You hold him here while I goes and reports to the O.D. And say, if he ain’t good don’t forget that it costs Uncle Sam less to bury a Injun than to feed him.”
It chanced that the Officer of the Day was one of the few white men in the southwest who understood even a little of the language of the Apaches, and when he returned with the corporal he asked Shoz-Dijiji what he wanted.
“I have a message for Nan-tan-des-la-par-en!!’ replied the Apache.
“You may give it to me!”! said the officer. “I will tell General Crook.”
“My message is for General Crook! not for you,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.
“General Crook will be angry if you bother him now with some matter that is not important. You had better tell me.”
“It is important,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.
“Come with me,” directed the officer, and led the way into the headquarters building.
“Please inform General Crook,” he said to the orderly in the outer office, “that Captain Crawford has an Apache here who says that he brings an important message for the General.”
A moment later Shoz-Dijiji and Captain Crawford stepped into General Crook’s presence. Captain Cullis was sitting at one end of the table behind which Crook sat, while Lieutenant King stood facing the commanding officer from whom he had just requested leave to escort Wichita Billings to her home.
“Just a moment King,” said Crook. “You needn’t leave.
“Well, Crawford,” turning to the Officer of the Day, “what does this man want?”
“He says that he has an important message for you, sir. He refuses to deliver it to anyone
else; neither and as he apparently speaks nor understands English I came with him to interpret, if you wish, sir.”
“Very good! Tell him that I say you are to interpret his message. Ask him who he is and what he wants.”
Crawford repeated Crook’s words to Shoz-Dijiji.
“Tell Nan-tan-des-la-par-en that I am Shoz-Dijiji, the son of Geronimo. I have come to tell him that my father has left the reservation.”
Shoz-Dijiji saw in the faces of the men about him the effect of his words. To announce that Geronimo had gone out again was like casting a bomb into a peace meeting.
“Ask him where Geronimo has gone and how many warriors are with him,” snapped Crook.
“Geronimo has not gone on the war trail,” replied Shoz-Dijiji after Crawford had put the question to him, waiting always for the interpretation of Crook’s words though he understood them perfectly in English. “There are no warriors with Geronimo other than his son. He has taken his wife with him and his small children. He wishes only to go away and live in peace. He cannot live in peace with the white-eyed men. He does not wish to fight the white-eyed soldiers any more.”
“Where has he gone?” asked Crook again.
“He has gone toward Sonora,” lied Shoz-Dijiji, that being the opposite of the direction taken by Geronimo; but Shoz-Dijiji was working with the cunning of an Apache. He knew well that Geronimo’s absence from the reservation might well come to the attention of the authorities on the morrow; and he hoped that by announcing it himself and explaining that it was not the result of warlike intentions they might pass it over and let the War Chief live where he wished, but if not then it would give Geronimo time to make good his escape if the troops were sent upon a wild goose chase toward Sonora, while it would also allow Shoz-Dijiji ample time to overhaul his father and report the facts. Furthermore, by bringing the message himself and by assuming ignorance of English, he was in a position where he might possibly learn the plans of the white-eyed men concerning Geronimo. All-in-all, Shoz-Dijiji felt that his strategy was not without merit. Crook sat in silence for a moment, tugging on his great beard. Presently he turned to Captain Cullis. “Hold yourself in readiness to march at daylight, Cullis, with all the available men of your troop. Proceed by the most direct route to Apache Pass and try to pick up the trail. Bring Geronimo back, alive if you can. If he resists, kill him. “Crawford, I shall have you relieved immediately. You also will march at dawn. Go directly south. You will each send out detachments to the east and west. Keep in touch with one another. Whatever else you do, bring back Geronimo!”
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 598
