By morning Fort Apache was surrounded by yelling savages, pouring a rain of fire upon the breastworks that had been hastily thrown up by the troops. Scouting parties were abroad watching for the first sign of the reinforcements that might be expected to come to the rescue of the beleaguered post, and to destroy the civilians who attempted to escape.
Consumed by hatred of the whites, incited by the fiery exhortations of their chiefs and medicine men to the extermination of the foe, these scouting parties scourged the country surrounding Fort Apache with all the zeal of religious fanatics.
At Seven Mile Hill they fell upon three men escaping from the post and after a brisk battle killed them and burned their wagon; a few miles south another party lay in wait for two civilians and shot them from ambush; they killed the mail carrier from Black River station, and shot old Fibs, who had the government beef contract, as he sat in his adobe shack, and ran off all his cattle.
And while the warriors of Juh, chief of the Ned-ni, terrorized the country about Fort Apache his messengers rode to Geronimo and to Na-chi-ta urging the Be-don-ko-he and the Cho-kon-en to join him, and the beating of the es-a-da-ded broke the stillness of the Arizona nights as painted braves leaped and shouted in the frenzy of the war dance the length and breadth of Apacheland.
Up from Fort Thomas rode the first reinforcements for Fort Apache, spurred on by the rumor that Colonel Carr and his entire command had been massacred, while from many a hilltop the Ned-ni scouts watched them and took word to Juh. Gathering their ponies and the stolen herds whose numbers had greatly augmented their own the Ned-ni set out toward the southwest to join with Geronimo and the Be-don-ko-he.
Down toward the border, raiding, massacring, fighting off the pursuing troops, the savage horde moved with a rapidity that is possible only to Apaches in the uptorn, burning country across which they chose to lead the suffering troops. Na-chi-ta joined them with his Cho-kon-en, and there was Mangas and Naniy and Kut-le and many another famous warrior to bring terror and destruction to the pindah lickoyee, and with them went their women, their children and their herds.
Northward, searching for his people, went Shoz-Dijiji, dodging, doubling, hiding like a beast of prey upon which the hunters are closing, for in whatever direction he turned he saw soldiers or signs of soldiers. Never had Shoz-Dijiji seen so many soldiers and they all seemed to be marching in the same direction, toward Fort Apache. The young war chief wondered what this movement of troops portended. Had the reservation Indians arisen, were his people on the warpath, or were the pindah lickoyee planning a surprise attack in force?
Shoz-Dijiji could not know, he could only guess that something momentous was afoot, and that where the soldiers of the pindah lickoyee went there would be Apaches. So he kept to the direction the troops were taking, longing to meet one of his own kind, watching always for signals. Patient is the Apache, but the strain of prolonged apprehension was telling upon the nerves of Shoz-Dijiji. Had it been only a question as to the whereabouts or the fate of the Apache people Shoz-Dijiji would have been less seriously affected; but the whereabouts and the fate of Ish-kay-nay were involved and that was by far a more serious consideration.
It irked Shoz-Dijiji to think of returning empty-handed. He knew the raillery to which he would be subjected and which he must accept in silence. He had failed and so there was nothing to say, for in the pandect of the Apaches there is no justification for failure. It would still have been within the range of possibilities to have picked up some horses were it not for all these soldiers; and so to his other reasons for hating them there was added this other, the further frustration of his marriage plan.
It was, therefore, a rather bitter, bloodthirsty savage who came suddenly face to face with a young white girl where no white girl, young or old, should have been upon this September day in Arizona, with the Apaches burning, killing, ravishing across half a dozen counties. She sat beneath the scant shade of a small bush in a ravine well removed from any trail, and that was why it happened that Shoz-Dijiji was face to face with her before he was aware that there was another human being near.
At sight of him the girl sprang to her feet, drawing her Colt, an act that was duplicated with even greater celerity by the young brave, but neither fired—“Shoz-Dijiji!” exclaimed the girl, lowering the muzzle of her weapon. A sudden, friendly smile illuminated her face. Perhaps it was the smile that saved her from sudden death. Shoz-Dijiji was an Apache. His standards of right and wrong were not as ours, and further, he had only one set, and they applied to his friends—for his relations with the enemies of his people he had none. But there must have been something in that friendly smile that influenced him more surely than all the teachings of his elders, more potent even than all his natural inclinations.
Shoz-Dijiji returned his six-shooter to its holster and smiled back at her.
“Wichita Billings,” he said.
“What in the world are you doing here?” demanded the girl. “Don’t you know that there are soldiers everywhere hunting the Cheeracows? Oh, I forgot! If you could only sabe.”
“Here,” thought Shoz-Dijiji, “I may be able to learn what is happening between the soldiers and my people.” So, as often happens, the ignorant savage sabed when it was to his interest.
“Me savvy,” announced Shoz-Dijiji. “Shoz-Dijiji talk English good.”
“Why, you told me when I saw you before that you didn’t,” exclaimed the girl.
Shoz-Dijiji smiled. “Me savvy,” he repeated. “Tell me where all these soldiers go? Where are my people that you call Cheeracows?”
“They’ve gone out—they’re on the warpath—and they’re just naturally raisin’ hell.
“Didn’t you know, or, Shoz-Dijiji, are you with a war party?”
“No, Shoz-Dijiji alone. Been away. Come back. No find people. Shoz-Dijiji is looking for his people, that is all. You tell him. Where are they?”
“They been mostly around Fort Apache,” said the girl. “There was a fight at Cibicu Creek and they killed a lot of soldiers. Then they attacked the fort. Old Whoa was leading them.”
Shoz-Dijiji, watching the girl as she talked, was struck by her beauty. To him it seemed to have a wonderful quality that he had not noticed upon their previous meeting, even though he had then been impressed by her good looks. If he had not loved Ish-kay-nay with such fierce devotion perhaps he might have seen in Wichita Billings a mate well suited to a great war chief.
“Were many Indians killed at Cibicu Creek?” asked Shoz-Dijiji. “Were their women there with them?”
“I have not heard but just a little of the fight,” replied Wichita. “Captain Hentig and some of his men were killed and old Bobby-doklinny.”
Shoz-Dijiji knew whom she meant, just as he had known that she referred to Juh when she spoke of Whoa—these white-eyes were most ignorant, they could not pronounce the simplest names.
“Do you know if Geronimo went out?” he asked.
“He wasn’t with Whoa at Cibicu but we just heard today that the renegades are on their way toward the border and that Geronimo has joined them. It sure looks like a hard winter. I wish to God we’d never left Kansas. Believe me, the East is good enough for Wichita Billings! Say, Shoz-Dijiji, are you sure you aint a renegade?”
“Shoz-Dijiji friendly,” he assured her.
“Then you better come in with me and give yourself up or the soldiers will sure get you. They aint askin’ no questions when they see a Cheeracow—they just plug him. You come on in to the ranch with me, there’s a detachment of “E” Troop there now, and I’ll see that they don’t hurt you.”
Shoz-Dijiji extended a slow hand and laid it on the girl’s arm. His face grew very serious and stern as his dark eyes looked into hers. “Listen, white girl,” he said. “Shoz-Dijiji said he is friendly. Shoz-Dijiji does no speak lies. He is friendly—to you. Shoz-Dijiji no harm you. Do not be afraid. But Shoz-Dijiji not friend to the white soldiers. Not friend to the white people—only you.
“Shoz-Dijiji is war chief among the Be-don-ko-he. His place is with the warriors of his people. You say there are soldiers at the hacienda of your father. Go! Tell them that Shoz-Dijiji, war chief among the Be-donko-he, is here in the hills. Tell them to try and catch him.”
The girl shook her head. “No, Shoz-Dijiji, I will not go and tell them anything. You are my friend. I am your friend. You saved me once. I do not care whether you are a renegade or not. I will not tell them you are here, and if I can help you, I will.”
Shoz-Dijiji looked at her in silence for what seemed a long time. He was puzzled. There was some quality possessed by the pindah lickoyee and the Mexicans that it was difficult for him to understand, objectively; yet, all unrealizing, he had just been instinctively practicing it himself. What she said recalled the action of the Mexican woodchopper that time at Casas Grandes; but he sensed no similarity between their friendly gratitude and his forbearance toward this beautiful enemy girl, or knew that his action was partially based on gratitude for a friendly smile and frank trustfulness. He thought he did not harm her simply because he did not wish to. He did not know that he could not have harmed her, that there was a force within him stronger even than his savage training.
“You will help Shoz-Dijiji?” he asked.
“You can bet your boots I will,” she assured him. “But how?”
“All night, all day Shoz-Dijiji have no water. There were soldiers at every spring, at every water hole. Shoz-Dijiji wants water and a horse.”
“Hungry, too?”
“Apache always hungry,” laughed the brave. “You wait here,” she told him. “Where your horse?” he demanded.
She raised her palms to the level of her shoulders and shrugged. “The old son-of-a-gun pitched me clean off,” she said. “That’s why I was a-sittin’ up here restin’. I been walking close to an hour and I’m dog-tired; but it’s only a short jag to the house now. I may have to sneak out with a horse for you, so don’t get worried if I ain’t back before dark.” She started away.
“I go with you,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
“Oh, no! The soldiers might see you.”
“I go a little way—where I can watch you. Mebbyso bad men around; mebbyso hostiles. Shoz-Dijiji go little way and watch.”
Through the hills he went with her, walking ahead as a brave should, until they came within sight of the ranch house. Some cavalry mounts were tied to a corral fence; troopers were lolling in the shade of the bunk house swapping lies with the cowhands. An officer leaned in a back-tilted chair beside the doorway of the ranch house talking with Billings. Only Shoz-Dijiji’s eyes and forehead showed above the top of the last hill above the wagon road where it entered the little flat in which stood the main ranch buildings, and they were screened from view by a small bush.
“Go,” he said to the girl. “You will be safe now.”
“Where will you wait?” she asked. “Here?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated, her brow puckered in thought. “If I bring you a horse you will return at once to your tribe?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
“If you meet any lone whites on the way will you promise me that you will not kill them?”
“Why?”
“I cannot bring you a horse to use in murdering my own people,” she said.
He nodded. “Me savvy. Shoz-Dijiji no kill until he find his people. If they on war trail Shoz-Dijiji fight with them. Shoz-Dijiji a war chief. White warriors kill. Apache warriors kill. That is right.”
“But you must not kill white people at all.”
“All right—you go tell white warriors they must not kill Apaches. They stop, Shoz-Dijiji stop. Now you go get pony for Shoz-Dijiji. Big talk no good now—no can eat—no can ride. Go.”
The girl could not but smile as she turned away and rounding the summit of the hill dropped down toward the ranch house in full view of those gathered there. At sight of her they all arose and several started in her direction, her father among them.
“Where in all tarnation you been, Chita?” he demanded when they were close enough for speech. “I thought I told you to stay in town until this fracas blowed over.”
“Well, it has blowed over, hasn’t it?” she asked. “We heard yesterday that the hostiles was all headed for the border, So I thought I’d come home. I’m sure sick o’ them tin-horns in town.”
“I go a little way—where I can watch you. Mebbyso bad men around; mebbyso hostiles. Shoz-Dijiji go little way and watch.”
Through the hills he went with her, walking ahead as a brave should, until they came within sight of the ranch house. Some cavalry mounts were tied to a corral fence; troopers were lolling in the shade of the bunk house swapping lies with the cowhands. An officer leaned in a back-tilted chair beside the doorway of the ranch house talking with Billings. Only Shoz-Dijiji’s eyes and forehead showed above the top of the last hill above the wagon road where it entered the little flat in which stood the main ranch buildings, and they were screened from view by a small bush.
“Go,” he said to the girl. “You will be safe now.”
“Where will you wait?” she “Here?”
“Yes.” She hesitated, her brow puckered in thought. “If I bring you a horse you will return at once to your tribe?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
“If you meet any lone whites on the way will you promise me that you will not kill them?”
“Why?”
“I cannot bring you a horse to use in murdering my own people,” she said.
He nodded. “Me savvy. Shoz-Dijiji no kill until he find his people. If they on war trail Shoz-Dijiji fight with them. Shoz-Dijiji a war chief. White warriors kill. Apache warriors kill. That is right.”
“But you must not kill white people at all.”
“All right-you go tell white warriors they must not kill Apaches. They stop, Shoz-Dijiji stop. Now you go get pony for Shoz-Dijiji. Big talk no good now—no can eat—no can ride. Go.”
The girl could not but smile as she turned away and rounding the summit of the hill dropped down toward the ranch house in full view of those gathered there. At sight of her they all arose and several started in her direction, her father among them.
“Where in all tarnation you been, Chita?” he demanded when they were close enough for speech. “I thought I told you to stay in town until this fracas blowed over.”
“Well, it has blowed over, hasn’t it?” she asked. “We heard yesterday that the hostiles was all headed for the border, so I thought I’d come home. I’m sure sick o’ them tin-horns in town.”
“Where’s Buckskin? Why in all tarnation you hoofin’ it?”
“Pitched me off a mile or so back yender!” she explained. “I was takin’ a short cut through the hills.”
“You saw no sign of hostiles, I take it, Miss Billings?” suggested the officer, a young cavalry lieutenant.
“Nary hostile,” she replied. The young West Pointer thought what a shame it was that such a pretty girl should pronounce the “i” long; doubtless she said “masakree” too. But how pretty she was! He could not recall having seen such a beauty in a month of Sundays. He hoped the C.O. would keep his detachment at the Billings ranch for a long time.
He had heard Billings and some of the cowhands mention Chita and he had expected to see, if he saw her at all, a raw-boned slattern with large, red hands, and so he was not prepared for the dainty beauty that burst upon his astonished vision. God, what a mother she must have had, thought the lieutenant, appraising Billings; but he felt that he could have enjoyed her more had he been deaf, for he had not yet been of the West a sufficient length of time to accustom his ears to the naive pronunciation of the frontier, so different from his native Bostonese.
The young lieutenant to the contrary, not withstanding, it may not be truthfully said that Wichita Billings was dainty; she was beautiful, yes, but with a certain strength and robustness, a definite self-reliance, that does not perfectly harmonize with the truest conception of daintiness. She was entirely feminine and her hands and feet were small, but they were strong looking hands and she stood squarely upon her two feet in her little high-heeled boots. Her well-moulded jaw was a strong jaw and her laughing eyes were brave without boldness.
No, dainty was not the word; but then, perhaps, Lieutenant Samuel Adams King was influenced not by the Back Bay background of yesterday so much as he was by that nearer background composed of rough cavalrymen and pipe-smoking, tobacco-chewing women of the old frontier. By comparison with these the girl was as dainty as a violet in a cabbage patch, especially when she was pensive, as she often was, or when she was smiling, and she was smiling quite as often as she was pensive, in fact, at almost any time when she was not talking. Then the illusion was shattered.
However, strange as it may seem, Lieutenant King found himself drawing the girl into conversation even though every word, or at least every other word, jangled discordantly upon his cultured nerves. It seemed beyond the pale of remotest possibility that any human being could mispronounce so many words, at least so it seemed to Lieutenant King, and at the same time possess such tonal qualities of voice that it became a pleasure to listen to per murder the English language; and so, when they had reached the ranch house he managed to monopolize her.
Her father had wanted to send a couple of men out after her horse, but she had objected, saying that “the ol’ fool” would come in at feeding time, and if he didn’t it would be good riddance anyway; but while they were discussing the matter the horse suddenly appeared galloping down the very hill from which Wichita had come a few moments before.
“What in tarnation’s the matter with thet cayuse anyways?” demanded Billings.” Acts most like he’d seed a silver tip, or a ghost.”
The horse was running rapidly toward the ranch, occasionally casting a backward look toward the hilltop. Wichita Billings knew perfectly what Buckskin had seen.
“Reckon as how you fellers better ride up there,” said Billings to the two hands, “an’ see what all might be there.”
“They ain’t nothin’ there,” said Wichita. “Didn’t I jest come from there? The ol’ son-of-a-gun’s been actin’ thet away all day—he’s jest plumb loco.”
So that was the end of that, much to the girl’s relief, and Wichita resumed her talk with the officer; an experience which she enjoyed, for she was avid to learn, and she knew that the average man or woman of the frontier could teach her little along the lines toward which her ambition lay. On several occasions she had met cultured men—men who had stopped at her father’s Kansas farm, or at the ranch since they came to Arizona—and she had been vividly conscious of a difference between them and the sort of people to whose society she was accustomed.
From them she had derived her first appreciation of the existence of a thing called conversation and a knowledge of its beauty and its value and its rarity. She had been quick to realize her own lack of conversational ability and ambitious enough to dream of improvement; but dreaming was about as far as she could go. What few books and magazines and newspapers filtered to her remote home she devoured eagerly and they taught her many things, though usually overdrawn. She learned new words, the meanings of which she usually guessed shrewdly enough, for she possessed no dictionary, but there was nothing or no one to teach her how to pronounce either the new words or the old, so that she was never actively aware that she mispronounced them and only vaguely disturbed when she listened to the conversation of a person like Lieutenant King. In truth, when she gave the matter any thought, she was more inclined to regret his weird pronunciation of such common words as “Injun” and “hoss” than to question her own. It was the things he spoke of and the pleasant intonation of his cultured voice that delighted her. Lieutenant King was asking her about herself, which didn’t interest her at all, and how long she had lived in Arizona. “Goin’ on five year,” she replied, “an’ I reckon you jes’ come out with that last bunch o’ shave-tails at the post, didn’t you?”
He flushed, for he had not realized how apparent were his youth and the newness of his uniform. “Yes,” he said, “I graduated in June and I only joined my regiment a few weeks ago.”
“From the States o’ course?” she asked.
“Yes, and you?”
“I’m from back East, too,” she told him.
“Good! From what part?”
“Kansas.”
“Oh.”
“What part are you from?”
“Massachusetts.”
“Oh.”
That seemed a very remote country to Wichita Billings. In her mind it raised a picture of a pink area on a map, bounded on three sides by dotted lines and on the fourth by wavy lines. It had never connected itself in her consciousness with a place that people came from; it was a pink area on a map and nothing more. Now; “it commenced to take on the semblance of reality.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“About what?” he asked.
“Why Massachusetts, of course. I’ve never been there,” and until supper time she kept him to his pleasurable task of talking about home, of his people, of their ways, of the great things that the men of Massachusetts had accomplished in the history of these United States of America.
Never, thought Lieutenant King, had he had so altogether a wonderful audience, so perfect an afternoon; and Chita, drinking in every word, asking many questions, was thrilled and entertained as she had never been before, so much so that she almost forgot the savage Apache waiting there alone upon the sun-scorched hill. But she did not quite forget him. She knew that she could do nothing until after dark, for there was not a reasonable excuse she could offer for leaving the ranch, and had there been she was quite confident that Lieutenant King would have insisted upon going along. The idea made her smile as she tried to picture the surprise of the young officer should she conduct him to the hilltop into the presence of the painted savage waiting there.