He swung back toward Shoz-Dijiji. “Crawford, give this man some tobacco for bringing me this information, and see that he is passed through the sentries and sent back to his camp. Tell him that Geronimo had no business leaving the reservation and that he will have to come back, but do not let him suspect that we are sending troops after him.”
The corporal of the guard escorted Shoz-Dijiji through the line of sentries, and as they were about to part the Apache handed the soldier the sack of tobacco that Captain Crawford had given him.
“You’re not such a bad Indian, at that,” commented the corporal, “but,” he added, scratching his head, “I’d like to know how in hell you got into the post in the first place.”
“Me no sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
Mrs. Cullis arose early the following morning and went directly to Wichita’s room, where she found her guest already dressed in flannel shirt, buckskin skirt, and high heeled boots, ready for her long ride back to the Billings’ ranch.
“I thought I’d catch you before you got dressed,” said the older woman.
“Why?”
“You can’t go today. Geronimo has gone out again. ‘B’ Troop and Captain Crawford’s scouts have started after him already. Both Captain Cullis and Mister King have gone out with ‘B’ Troop; but even if there were anyone to go with you, it won’t be safe until they have Geronimo back on the reservation again.”
“How many went out with him?” asked the girl.
“Only his wife and children. The Indians say he has not gone on the war path, but I wouldn’t take any chances with the bloodthirsty old scoundrel.”
“I’m not afraid,!” said Wichita. “As long as it’s only Geronimo I’m in no danger even if I meet him, which I won’t. You know we are old friends.”
“Yes, I know all about that; but I know you can’t trust an Apache.”
“I trust them,” said Wichita. She stooped and buckled on her spurs.
“You don’t mean that you are going anyway!”
“Why of course I am.”
Margaret Cullis shook her head. “What am I to do?” she demanded helplessly.
“Give me a cup of coffee before I leave,” suggested Wichita.
The business at the Hog Ranch had been good that night. Two miners and a couple of cattlemen, all well staked, had dropped in early in the evening for a couple of drinks and a few rounds of stud. They were still there at daylight, but they were no longer well staked.
“Dirty” Cheetim and three or four of his cronies had annexed their bank rolls. The four guests were sleeping off the effects of their pleasant evening on the floor of the back room.
“Dirty” and his pals had come out on the front porch to inhale a breath of fresh air before retiring. An Indian, lithe, straight, expressionless of face, was approaching the building.
“Hello, John!” said “Dirty” Cheetim through a wide yawn. “What for you want?”
“Whiskey,” said the Apache. “Le’me see the’ color of your dust, John.”
A rider coming into view from the direction of the post attracted Cheetim’s attention. “Wait till we see who that is,” he said. “I don’t want none of those damn long hairs catchin’ me dishin’ red-eye to no Siwash.”
They all stood watching the approaching rider. “Why it’s a woman,” said one of the men.
“Durned if it ain’t,” admitted another. “Hell!” exclaimed Cheetim. “It’s Billings’ girl-the dirty -!”
“What you got agin’ her ?” asked one of the party.
“Got against her? Plenty! I offered to marry her, and she turned me down flat. Then her old man run me offen the ranch. It was lucky for him that they was a bunch of his cow-hands hangin’ around.”
The girl passed, her horse swinging along in an easy, running walk-the gait that eats up the miles. Down the dusty trail they passed while the five white men and the Apache stood on the front porch of the Hog Ranch and watched.
“Neat little heifer,” commented one of the former.
“You fellers want to clean up a little dust?” asked Cheetim.
“How?” asked the youngest of the party, a puncher who drank too much to be able to hold a job even in this country of hard drinking men.
“Help me c’ral that critter — she’d boom business in the Hog Ranch.”
“We’ve helped you put your iron on lots of mavericks; Dirty,” said the young man. “Whatever you says goes with me.”
“Bueno! We’ll just slap on our saddles and follow along easy like till she gets around Pimos Canyon. They’s a old shack up there that some dude built for huntin’, but it ain’t been used since the broncos went out under Juh in ‘81 — say, that just natch’rly scairt that dude plumb out o’ the country. I’ll keep her up there a little while in case anyone raises a stink, and after it blows over I’ll fetch her down to the Ranch. Now who’s this a-comin’ ?”
From the direction of the post a mounted trooper was approaching at a canter. He drew rein in front of the Hog Ranch.
“Hello, you dirty bums!” he greeted them, with a grin. “You ain’t worth it, but orders is orders, and mine is to notify the whites in this neck o’ the woods that Geronimo’s gone out again. I hope to Christ he gets you,” and the messenger spurred on along the trail.
Cheetim turned to the Apache. “Is that straight, John ?” he asked. “Has Geronimo gone out?”
The Indian nodded affirmatively.
“Now I reckon we got to hang onto our scalps with both hands for another couple months,” wailed the young puncher.
“Geronimo no go on war trail,” explained the Apache. “Him just go away reservation. Him no kill.”
“Well, if he ain’t on the war-path we might as well mosey along after the Billings heifer,” said Cheetim, with a sigh of relief. He turned to the Indian. “I ain’t got no time now!” he said. “You come round tomorrow — maybe so I fix you up then, eh?”
The Apache nodded. “Mebbe so, mebbe not,” he replied, enigmatically; but Cheetim, who had already started for the corral, failed to note any hidden meaning in the words of the Indian. Perhaps none had been intended. One seldom knows what may be in the mind of an Apache.
As the five men saddled and prepared to ride after Wichita Billings the Indian started back toward the reservation. He had not understood every word that the white men had spoken; but he had understood enough, coupled with his knowledge of the sort of men they were, to fully realize their purpose and the grave danger that threatened the white girl.
In the heart of Gian-nah-tah was no love for her. In the breast of Gian-nah-tah burned sullen resentment and anger against Shoz-Dijiji. When Cheetim’s purpose with the girl had first dawned upon him it had not occurred to him that he might interfere. The girl had spurned Shoz-Dijiji. Perhaps it would be better if she were out of the way. But he knew that Shoz-Dijiji loved her and that even though she did not love the war chief of the Be-don-ko-he he would protect her from injury if he could.
He recalled how Shoz-Dijiji had struck the whiskey from his hand the previous day; he felt the blows upon his face as Shoz-Dijiji slapped him; he burned at recollection of the indignities that had been: put upon him before the eyes of the white-eyed man; but he kept on in the direction of the Be-don-ko-he camp.
They say that an Apache is never moved by chivalry or loyalty-only by self-interest; but this day Gian-nah-tah gave the lie to the author of this calumny.
As Wichita Billings was about to pass the mouth of Pimos Canyon she heard the sound of galloping hoofs behind her. In effete society it is not considered proper for a young lady to turn and scrutinize chance wayfarers upon the same road; but the society of Arizona in the ‘80’s was young and virile-so young and so virile that it behooved one to investigate it before it arrived within shooting distance.
Impelled, therefore, by a deep regard for Nature’s first law Wichita turned in her saddle and examined the approaching horsemen. Instantly she saw that they were five and white. It occurred to her that pe
rhaps they had seen her pass and were coming to warn her that Geronimo was out, for she knew that word of it would have passed quickly throughout the country.
As the riders neared she thought that she recognized something vaguely familiar in the figure and carriage of one of them, for in a country where people go much upon horseback individual idiosyncrasies of seat and form are quickly and easily observable and often serve to identify a rider at considerable distances.
Cheetim rode with an awkward forward hunch and his right elbow higher than his left. It was by these that Wichita recognized him even before she saw his face; though she was naturally inclined to doubt her own judgment, since she had believed “Dirty” Cheetim dead for several years.
An instant later she discerned his whiskered face. While she did not know that these men were pursuing her, she was quite confident that there would be trouble the instant that Cheetim recognized her; and so she spurred on at a faster gait, intending to keep ahead of the five without actually seeming to be fleeing them.
But that was to be more easily planned than executed, for the instant that she increased her speed they spurred after her at a run, shouting to her to stop. She heard them call that Geronimo was out, but she was more afraid of Cheetim than she was of Geronimo.
So insistent were they upon overtaking her that presently her horse was extended at full speed, but as it is seldom that a horse that excels in one gait is proportionally swift at others it was soon apparent that she would be .overhauled.
Leaning forward along her horse’s neck, she touched him again with her spurs and spoke encouraging words in his back-laid ears. The incentive of spur and spoken word, the lesser wind resistance of her new position, had their effects with the result that for a short time she drew away from her pursuers; but presently the young cow-puncher, plying long rowels, wielding pliant, rawhide quirt that fell with stinging blows alternately upon either flank of his wiry mount, edged closer.
“Hold on, Miss!” he called to her. “You gotta come back — Geronimo’s out!”
“You go back and tell ‘Dirty’ Cheetim to lay off,” she shouted back over her shoulder. “If I’ve got to choose between him and Geronimo, I’ll take the Apache.”
“You better stop and talk to him,” he urged. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt you none.”
“You’re damn tootin’ cow-boy,” she yelled at him; “he sure ain’t if I know it.”
The young puncher urged his horse to greater speed. Wichita’s mount was weakening. The man drew closer. In a moment he would be able to reach out and seize her bridle rein. The two had far outdistanced the others trailing in the dust behind.
Wichita drew her six-shooter. “Be careful, cow-boy!” she warned. “I aint got nothin’ agin you, but I’ll shore bore you if you lay ary hand on this bridle.”
Easily Wichita lapsed into th~ vernacular she had spent three years trying to forget, as she always and unconsciously did under stress of excitement.
“Then I’ll run that cayuse o’ yourn ragged,” threatened the man. “He’s just about all in how.”
“Yours is!” snapped Wichita, levelling her six-shooter at the horse of her pursuer and pulling the trigger.
The man uttered an oath and tried to rein in to avoid the shot. Wichita’s hammer fell with a futile click. She pulled the trigger again and again with the same result. The man voiced a loud guffaw and closed up again. The girl turned her horse to one side to avoid him. Again he came on in the new direction; and when he was almost upon her she brought her mount to its haunches, wheeled suddenly and spurred across the trail to the rear of the man and rode on again at right angles to her former direction, but she had widened the distance between them.
Once more the chase began, but now the man had taken down his rope and was shaking out the noose. He drew closer. Standing in his stirrups, swinging the, great noose, he waited for the right instant. Wichita tried to turn away from him but she saw that he would win that way as easily, since she was turning back toward the other four who were already preparing to intercept her.
Her horse was heavier than the pony ridden by the young puncher and that fact gave Wichita a forlorn hope. Wheeling, she spurred straight toward the man with the mad intention of riding him down. If her own horse did not fall too, she might still have a chance.
The puncher sensed instantly the thing that was in her mind; and just before the impact he drove his spurs deep into his pony’s sides, and as Wichita’s horse passed behind him he dropped his noose deftly to the rear over his left shoulder, and an instant later had drawn it tight about the neck of the girl’s mount.
She reached forward and tried to throw off the rope, but the puncher backed away, keeping it taut; and then “Dirty” Cheetim and the three others closed in about her.
5. THE SNAKE LOOK
Gian-Nah-Tah entered the hogan of Shoz-Dijiji. The young war chief, awakening instantly, sprang to his feet when he saw who it was standing in the opening.
“Does Gian-nah-tah come to the hogan of Shoz-Dijiji as friend or enemy?” he asked.
“Listen, Shoz-Dijiji, and you will know,” replied Gian-nah-tah. “Yesterday my heart was bad. Perhaps the fire- water of the white-eyed man made it so, but it is not of that that Gian-nah-tah has come to speak with Shoz-Dijiji. It is of the girl, Wichita.”
“Shoz-Dijiji does not wish to speak of her,” replied the war chief.
“But he will listen while Gian-nah-tah speaks,” said the other, peremptorily. “The white-eyed skunk that sells poisoned water has ridden with four of his braves to capture the white-eyed girl that Shoz-Dijiji loves,” continued Gian-nah-tah. “They follow her to Pimos Canyon, and there they will keep her in the hogan that the white fool with the strange clothing built there six summers ago. Shoz-Dijiji knows the place?”
The Black Bear did not reply. Instead he seized the cartridge belt to which his six-shooter hung and buckled it about his slim hips, took his rifle, his hackamore, ran quickly out in search of his hobbled pony.
Gian-nah-tah hastened to his own hogan for weapons. Warriors, eating their breakfasts, noted the haste of the two and questioned them. Nervous, restless, apprehensive of the results that might follow Geronimo’s departure from the reservation, smarting under the injustice of the white-eyed men in taking their herds from them, many of the braves welcomed any diversion, especially one that might offer an outlet to their pent wrath against the enemy; and so it was that by the time Shoz-Dijiji had found and bridled Nejeunee he discovered that instead of riding alone to the rescue of the white girl he was one of a dozen savage warriors.
Wrapped in blankets they rode slowly, decorously, until they had passed beyond the ken of captious white eyes, six-shooters and rifles hidden beneath the folds of their blankets; then the blankets fell away, folded lengthways across the withers of their ponies, and a dozen warriors, naked but for G strings, quirted their ponies into swinging lope.
Knowing that the troops were out, the Indians followed no beaten road but rode south across the Gila and then turned southeast through the hills toward Pimos Canyon.
“Dirty” Cheetim, with a lead rope on Wichita’s horse, rode beside the girl.
“Thought you was too high-toned for ‘Dirty’ Cheetim, eh?” he sneered. “You was too damn good to be Mrs. Cheetim, eh? Well, you ain’t a-goin’ to be Mrs. Cheetim. You’re just a-goin’ to be one 0’ ‘Dirty’ Cheetim’s girls down at the Hog Ranch. Nobody don’t marry them.”
Wichita Billings made no reply. She rode in silence, her eyes straight to the front. Hicks, the young puncher who had roped the girl’s horse, rode a few paces to the rear. In his drink muddled brain doubts were forming as to the propriety of the venture into which Cheetim had led him. Perhaps he was more fool than knave; perhaps, sober, he might have balked at the undertaking. After all he was but half conscious of vaguely annoying questionings that might eventually have crystallized into regrets had time sufficed, but it did not.
They were winding up Pimos Canyon toward the
deserted shack. “Your old man kicked me out,” Cheetim was saying to the girl. “I reckon you’re thinking that he’ll get me for this, but he won’t. After you bin to the Ranch a spell you won’t be advertising to your old man, nor nobody else, where you be. They’s other girls there as good as you be, an’ they ain’t none of ’em sendin’ out invites to their folks to come an’ see ‘em. You-Hell ! Look! Injuns!”
Over the western rim ,of Pimos Canyon a dozen yelling Apaches were charging down the steep hillside.
“Geronimo!” screamed Cheetim and, dropping the lead rope, wheeled about and bolted down the canyon as fast as spur and quirt and horse flesh could carry him.
The four remaining men opened fire on the Apaches, and in the first exchange of shots two had their horses shot from under them. Hicks’ horse, grazed by a bullet, became unmanageable and started off down the canyon after Cheetim’s animal, pitching and squealing, while a third man, realizing the futility of resistance and unhampered by sentiments of chivalry, put spur and followed.
One of the dismounted men ran to the side of Wichita’s horse, seized her arm and dragged her from the saddle before she realized the thing that was in his mind; then, vaulting to the horse’s back, he started after his fellows while the girl ran to the shelter of a boulder behind which the sole remaining white man had taken up a position from which he might momentarily, at least, wage a hopeless defense against the enemy.
Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah, racing toward the girl, saw her dragged from her horse, saw her take refuge behind the boulder, and the latter, knowing that the girl was safe, raced after the white man who had stolen her horse and left her, as he thought, to the merciless attentions of a savage enemy.
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 599
