Chapter VII: Part 7

She shook her head. “If I was going to marry a man and face a life that I was sure was going to be worse than the one I was leaving, I’d know that I loved him; and I wouldn’t hesitate a minute; but if I marry you it might just be because what you have to offer me looks like heaven compared to the life I’ve been leading since Dad died. I think too much of you and my self-respect to take the chance of waking up to the fact some day that I don’t love you. That would be Hell for us both, Ad; and you don’t deserve it—you’re too white.”

“I tell you that I’m perfectly willing to take the chance, Chita.”

“Yes, but I won’t let you. Wait a while. If I really love you I’ll find it out somehow, and you’ll know it—if you don’t I’ll tell you—but I’m not sure now.”

“Is there someone else, Chita?”

“No!” she cried, and her vehemence startled him.

“I’ll wait, then, because I have to wait,” he said, “and in the meantime if there is any way in which I can help you, let me do it.”

“Well,” she said, laughing, “you might teach the cows how to drill. I can’t think of anything else around a cow outfit, right off-hand, that you could do. Sometimes it seems to me like they didn’t have any cows back where you came from.”

King laughed. “They used to. All the streets in Boston were laid out by cows, they say.”

“Out here,” said Chita, “we drive our cows—we don’t follow them.”

“Perhaps that’s the difference between the East and the West,” said King. “Out here you blaze your own trails. I guess that’s where you get your self-confidence and initiative.”

“And it may account for some of our shortcomings, too,” she replied. “When you’re just following cows you have lots of time to think of other things and improve yourself, but when you’re driving them you haven’t time to think of anything except just cows. That’s the fix I’m in now.”

“When you have discovered that you might learn to love me you will have time for other things,” he reminded her.

“Time to improve myself?” she teased.

“Nothing could improve you in my eyes, Chita,” he said, honestly. “To me you are perfect.”

“If Margaret Cullis hadn’t taught me that it was vulgar I should say ‘Rats’ to that.”

“Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “And now you must run along. You know your orders never said anything about spending two hours at the Billings ranch this afternoon. What will your detachment think?”

“They’ll think I’m a fool if I don’t stay all afternoon and ride back to the post in the cool of the night.”

“And get court martialed when you get there. Boots and saddles for you, Lieutenant Samuel Adams King!”

“Yes, sir!” he cried, clicking his heels together and saluting. Then he seized her hand and kissed it.

“Don’t!” she whispered, snatching it away. “Here comes Luke.”

“I don’t care if the World’s coming.”

“That’s because you don’t know what it is to be joshed by a bunch of cow-punchers,” she told him. “Say, why when it comes to torture, Victorio and Geronimo and old Whoa could have gone to school to some of these red necks from the Pan Handle.”

“All right, I won’t embarrass you. Good-bye and good luck, and don’t forget the message I brought from Mrs. Cullis. She wants you to come and spend a week or so with her.”

“Tell her I thank her heaps and that I’ll come the first chance I get. Good-bye!”

She watched him walk away, tall, erect, soldierly; trim in his blue blouse, his yellow striped breeches, his cavalry boots, and campaign hat—a soldier, every inch of him and, though still a boy, a veteran already.

And she sighed—sighed because she did not love him, sighed because she was afraid that she would never love him. Lines of bitterness touched the corners of her mouth and her eyes as she thought of the beautiful and priceless thing that she had thrown away—wasted upon a murdering savage—and a flush of shame tinged her cheeks.

Her painful reveries were interrupted by the voice of Luke Jensen.

“I jest been ridin’ the east range, Miss,” he said.

“Yes? Everything all right?”

“I wouldn’t say thet it was an’ I wouldn’t say thet it wasn’t,” he replied.

“What’s wrong?”

“You recollect thet bunch thet always hung out near the head o’ the coulee where them cedars grows out o’ the rocks?”

“Yes, what about them?”

“They’s about half of ’em gone. If they was all gone I’d think they might have drifted to some other part o’ the range; but they was calves, yearlin’s, and some two an’ three year olds still follerin’ their mothers in thet bunch; an’ a bunch like thet don’t scatter fer no good reason.”

“No. What do you make of it, Luke?”

“If the renegades warnt all c’ralled I’d say Apaches.”

“‘Kansas’ reported another bunch broken up that ranges around the Little Mesa,” said Wichita, thoughtfully. “Do you reckon it’s rustlers, Luke?”

“I wouldn’t say it was an’ I wouldn’t say it wasn’t.”

“What does ‘Smooth’ say?”

“He allows they just natch’rally drifted.”

“Are you riding the east range every day, Luke?”

“Most days. Course it takes me nigh onto a week to cover it, an’ oncet in a while ‘Smooth’ sends me som’ers else. Yistiddy, he sent me plumb down to the south ranch—me an’ ‘Kansas.’”

“Well, keep your eyes open for that bunch, Luke—they might have drifted.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say they would of and I wouldn’t say they wouldn’t of.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Jack of Spades

=L=UIS MARIEL, profiting by the example of the Americanos, stood up to “Dirty” Cheetim’s bar and drank cheap whiskey.

“Wot you doin’, Kid?” asked Cheetim.

“Nothing,” replied Luis.

“Want a job, or hev you still got some dinero left?”

“I want a job,” replied Luis. “I am broke.”

“You got a hoss, ain’t you?”

“Si, Senor.”

“Come ’ere,” he motioned Luis to follow him into the back room.

There Luis saw a tall man with sandy hair sitting at a table, drinking.

“Here’s a good kid fer us,” said Cheetim to the sandy haired man. “He ain’t been up here long; an’ nobody don’t know him, an’ he don’t know nobody.”

“Does he savvy U. S.?” demanded the man.

“Si, Senor,” spoke up Luis. “I understand pretty good. I speak it pretty good, too.”

“Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“Si, Senor.”

“If you don’t, somebody’ll shut it for you,” said the man, drawing his forefinger across his throat meaningly. “You savvy?”

“What is this job?” demanded Luis.

“You ain’t got nothin’ to do but herd a little bunch o’ cattle an’ keep your trap closed. If anyone asks you any questions in United States you don’t savvy; and if they talk Greaser to you, why you don’t know nothin’ about the cattle except that a kind old gentleman hired you to ride herd on ’em.”

“Si, Senor.”

“You get thirty five a month an’ your grub—twenty five fer ridin’ herd an’ the rest fer not knowin’ nothin’. How about it?”

“Sure, Senor, I do it.”

“All right, you come along with me. We’ll ride out, an’ I’ll show you where the bunch is,” and the sandy haired man gulped down another drink and arose.

He led Luis north into the reservation, and at last they came to a bunch of about fifty head grazing contentedly on rather good pasture.

“They ain’t so hard to hold,” said the sandy haired man, “but they got a hell of a itch to drift east sometimes. They’s a c’ral up thet draw a ways. You puts ’em in there nights and lets ’em graze durin’ the day. You won’t hev to hold ’em long.” He took a playing card from his pocket—the jack of spades—and tore it in two. One half he handed to Luis. “When a feller comes with tother half o’ this card, Kid, you kin let him hev the cattle. Savvy?”

“Si, Senor.”

“Oncet in a while they may a couple fellers come up with some more critters fer you. You jest let ’em drive ’em in with your bunch. You don’t hev to say nothin’ nor ask no questions. Savvy?”

“Si, Senor.”

“All right. Let ’em graze til sundown; then c’ral ’em and come down to the Hog Ranch fer the night. You kin make down your bed back o’ the barn. The Chink’ll feed you. So long, Kid.”

“Adios, Senor.”

Luis Mariel, watching the tall, sandy haired man ride away, tucked his half of the jack of spades into the breast pocket of his shirt, rolled a cigarette, and then rode leisurely among the grazing cattle, inspecting his charges.

He noted the marks and brands, and discovering that several were represented concluded that Cheetim and the sandy haired man were collecting a bunch for sale or shipment. Impressed by the injunction to silence laid upon him, and being no fool, Luis opined that the cattle had come into their possession through no lawful processes.

But that they had been stolen was no affair of his. He had not stolen them. He was merely employed to herd them. It interested him to note that fully ninety per centum of the animals bore the Crazy B brand on the left hip, a slit in the right ear, and a half crop off the left, the remainder being marked by various other brands, some of which he recognized and some of which he did not.

The Crazy B brand he knew quite well as it was one of the foremost brands in that section of Arizona. He had tried to get work with that outfit when he had brought the pinto stallion up from the border for El Teniente King.

At that time he had talked with Senor Billings, who had since been killed by Apaches; but he had been unable to secure employment with him. Later he had learned that the Billings ranch never employed Mexicans, and while knowledge of this fact aroused no animosity within him neither did it impose upon him any sentiment of obligation to apprise the owners of the brand of his suspicion that someone was stealing their cattle.

Luis Mariel was far from being either a criminal or vicious young man. He would not have stolen cattle himself, but it was none of his business how his employers obtained the cattle that he was hired to herd for them. Since he had come up from Mexico he had found means of livelihood through many and various odd employments, sometimes as laborer, sometimes as chore boy, occasionally in riding for some small cow outfit, which was the thing of all others that he liked best to do. It was the thing that Luis Mariel loved best and did best.

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 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 ain’t 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 this 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.

“You mean they think Shoz-Dijiji kill Billings? Does Chita think that, too?”

“Look here, Shoz-Dijiji,” said Jensen, kindly, “you done me a good turn oncet thet I ain’t a-never goin’ to forgit. I don’t mind tellin’ you I ain’t never thought you killed the ol’ man, but everyone else thinks so.”

“Even Chita?” asked Shoz-Dijiji.

“I wouldn’t say she does and I wouldn’t say she doesn’t, but she ain’t never took off the thousand dollar reward she offered to any hombre what would bring you in dead.”

Not by the quiver of an eyelid did Shoz-Dijiji reveal the anguish of his tortured heart as he listened to the words that blasted forever the sole hope of happiness that had buoyed him through the long days and nights of his journey up through hostile Sonora and even more hostile Arizona.

“You get one thousand dollars, you kill me?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Why you no kill me, then?”

Jensen shrugged. “I reckon it must be for the same reason you didn’t kill me when you had the chancet, Shoz-Dijiji,” he replied. “There must be a streak of white in both of us.”

“Good-bye,” said Shoz-Dijiji, abruptly. “I go now.”

“Say, before you go would you mind tellin’ me fer sure thet it wasn’t you killed the ol’ man?” asked Luke.

Shoz-Dijiji looked the other squarely in the eyes. “If Wichita Billings offer one thousand dollar reward to have Shoz-Dijiji killed she must know Shoz-Dijiji kill her father. Good-bye. Shoz-Dijiji ride straight up coulee, slowly. Mebby so you want one thousand dollars, now you get it. Sabe?” He wheeled Nejeunee and walked the pony slowly away while Luke Jensen, slouching in his saddle, watched him until he had disappeared beyond a low ridge.

Not once did Jensen experience any urge to reach for the six-shooter at his hip or the rifle in its boot beneath his right leg.

“I could shore use a thousand dollars,” he mused as he turned his pony’s head back toward the Crazy B Ranch, “but I don’t want it thet bad.”

As he rode into the ranch yard later in the afternoon he saw Wichita Billings standing near the bunk house talking with “Kansas.” Luke was of a mind to avoid her, feeling, as he did, that he should report his meeting with Shoz-Dijiji and dreading to do so because of the fear that a posse would be organized to go out and hunt the Apache down the moment that it was learned that he was in the vicinity.

But when Wichita saw him she called to him, and there was nothing less that he could do than go to her. She had finished her conversation with “Kansas,” and the latter had gone into the bunk house when Luke reached her side.

“Walk up to the office with me, Luke,” said the girl. “I want to talk with you,” and he fell in beside her as she walked along. “I have just been talking with ‘Kansas,’” she continued, “and he tells me that a few head are missing off the north range. Did you miss any today or see anything unusual?”

Had he seen anything unusual! There was a poser. Luke scratched his head.

“I wouldn’t say that they was any more critters missin’,” he replied, “an’ I wouldn’t say as they wasn’t.” He looked down at the ground in evident embarrassment.

Wichita Billings, who knew these boys better than they knew themselves, eyed him suspiciously. They walked on in silence for a few moments.

“Look here, Luke,” said the girl, presently. “Someone is stealing my cattle. I don’t know who to trust. I’ve always looked to ‘Smooth’ and you and ‘Kansas’ and Matt as being the ones I sure could tie to. If you boys don’t shoot straight with me no one will.”

“Who said I warnt shootin’ straight with you, Miss?” demanded Luke.

“I say so,” replied Wichita. “You’re holding something out on me. Say, I can read you just like a mail order catalogue. If you don’t come clean you’re through—your pay check’s waiting for you right now.”

“I kin always git another job,” parried Luke, lamely.

“Sure you can; but that isn’t the question, Luke,” replied the girl, sadly.

“I know it ain’t, Miss,” and Luke dug a toe into the loose earth beneath the cottonwood tree. “I did see somethin’ onusual today,” he blurted suddenly.

“I thought so. What was it?”

“An Apache—Shoz-Dijiji.”

Wichita Billings’ eyes went wide. Involuntarily her hand went to her breast, and she caught her breath in a little gasp before she spoke.

“You shot him?” The words were a barely audible whisper. “You shot him for the reward?”

“I shore did not,” snapped Luke. “Look here, Miss, you kin have my job any time you want it, but you nor no one else kin make me double cross a hombre what saved my life—I don’t give a damn who he killed—I beg yore pardon, Miss—and anyway I hain’t never believed he did kill your paw.”

In his righteous indignation Luke Jensen had failed to note what appeared to be the relaxation of vast relief that claimed Wichita Billings the instant that he announced that he had not shot Shoz-Dijiji. Could it be that Wichita, too, had her doubts?

“Did you ask him about the killing?” demanded the girl.

“Yep.”

“What did he say? Did he deny it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say he did and I wouldn’t say he didn’t.”

“Just what did he say?”

“He said that ef you was offerin’ a thousand dollars fer him dead you must be plumb shore he done it.”

“How did he know about the reward?”

“I told him.”

“You told him?”

“Shore I did. I don’t think he done it. Ef I hadn’t told him he was a comin’ here an’ some of the fellers would have plugged him shore. You ain’t mad, are you?”

“You are very sure he didn’t kill Dad, aren’t you, Luke?”

“Yep, plumb certain.”

“But he didn’t deny it, did he?”

“No, an’ he didn’t admit it, neither.”

“There may be some doubt, Luke. I’m going to draw down that offer, because I can’t take the chance of being mistaken; but as long as I live I shall believe in my heart that Shoz-Dijiji killed my father. If you ever see him again, tell him that the reward has been called off; and tell him, too, that if ever I see him I’ll kill him, just like I think he killed my Dad; but I can’t ask anyone else to. Send ‘Smooth’ here when you go back to the bunk house.”

As Luke was walking away the girl called to him. “Wait a minute, Luke, there is something else,” she said. “I have just been thinking,” she continued, when the youth was near her again, “that the Indian you saw today might have had something to do with the cattle stealing. Had you thought of that?”

Luke scratched his head. “No, ma’am, I hedn’t thought of that; but now that you mention it I reckon as how it ain’t at all unlikely. I never seen one yet that wouldn’t steal.”

“I guess we’re on the right trail now, Luke,” said the girl. “Don’t say anything to anyone about seeing him. Just keep your eyes open, and let me know the minute you see anything out of the way.”

“All right, Miss, I’ll keep a right smart look out,” and Jensen turned and walked toward the bunk house.

As Wichita waited for her foreman her thoughts were overcast by clouds of sorrow and regret. The animosities that were directed upon Shoz-Dijiji were colored by the shame she felt for having permitted her heart to surrender itself to an Indian. That she had never openly admitted the love that she had once harbored for a savage did not reconcile her, nor did the fact that she had definitely and permanently uprooted the last vestige of this love and nurtured hatred in its stead completely clear her conscience.

It angered her that even while she vehemently voiced her belief that Shoz-Dijiji had killed her father she still had doubts that refused to die. She was bitter in the knowledge that though she had suggested that he was stealing her cattle, deep in her heart she could not bring herself to believe it of him.

Her somber reveries were interrupted by the approach of Kreff.

“There are a couple of things I wanted to speak to you about, ‘Smooth,’” said the girl.

“Fire away, Chita,” said the man, with easy familiarity.

“In the first place I want you to pass the word around that the reward for bringing in that Apache is off.”

“Why?” demanded the man.

“That’s my business,” replied the girl, shortly.

The words and her tone reminded Kreff of the dead Boss—she was her father all over—and he said no more.

“The other thing is this report about cattle stealing,” she continued.

“Who said there was any cattle stealin’ goin’ on?” he asked.

“Luke has missed a few head off the east range.”

“Oh, that kid’s loco,” said Kreff. “They’ve drifted, an’ he’s too plumb lazy to hunt ’em up.”

“‘Kansas’ has missed some, too, from up around the Little Mesa on the north range,” she insisted. “I don’t know so much about Luke, he hasn’t been with us so long; but ‘Kansas’ is an old hand—he’s not the kind to do much guessing.”

“I’ll look into it, Chita,” said Kreff, “an’ don’t you worry your little head no more about it.” There was something in his tone that made her glance up quickly, knitting her brows. His voice was low and soothing and protective. It didn’t sound like “Smooth” Kreff in spite of his nickname, which, she happened to know, was indicative of the frictionless technique with which he separated other men from their belongings in the application of the art of draw and stud.

“You hadn’t ought to hev nothin’ to worry you,” he continued. “This here business is a man’s job. It ain’t right an’ fittin’ thet a girl should hev to bother with sech things.”

“Well, that’s what I’ve got you and the other boys for, ‘Smooth.’”

“Yes, but hired hands ain’t the same. You ought to be married—to a good cow man,” he added.

“Meaning?” she inquired.

“Me.”

“Are you proposing to me, ‘Smooth’?”

“I shore am. What do you say? You an’ me could run this outfit together fine, an’ you wouldn’t never hev to worry no more about nothin’.”

“But I don’t love you, ‘Smooth.’”

“Oh, shucks, that ain’t nothin’. They’s a heap o’ women marry men they don’t love. They git to lovin’ ’em afterwards, though.”

“But you don’t love me.”

“I shore do, Chita. I’ve allus loved you.”

“Well, you’ve managed to hide it first rate,” she observed.

“They didn’t never seem no chance, ’til now,” he explained; “but you got a lot o’ horse sense, an’ I reckon you kin see as well as me thet it would be the sensible thing to do. You caint marry nothin’ but a cow man, an’ they ain’t no other cow man thet I knows of thet would be much of a improvement over me. You’ll larn to love me, all right. I ain’t so plumb ugly, an’ I won’t never beat you up.”

Wichita laughed. “You’re sure tootin’, ‘Smooth,’” she said. “There isn’t a man on earth that’s ever going to try to beat me up, more than once.”

Kreff grinned. “You don’t hev to tell me that, Chita,” he said. “I reckon that’s one o’ the reasons I’m so strong fer you—you shore would make one grand woman fer a man in this country.”

“Well, ‘Smooth,’ as a business proposition there is something in what you say that it won’t do any harm to think about, but as a proposal of marriage it hasn’t got any more bite to it than a white pine dog with a poplar tail.”

“But you’ll think it over, Chita?” he asked, drawing a sack of Durham and a package of brown papers from his shirt pocket.

“You dropped something, ‘Smooth,’” she said, gesturing toward the ground at his feet. “You pulled it out of your pocket with the makings.”

He looked down at a bit of paste board, at one half of a playing card that had been torn in two—one half of the jack of spades.

Chapter Seventeen

Cheetim Strikes

=I=T was night. The oil lamps were burning brightly in the barroom of the Hog Ranch. The games were being well patronized. The girls were circulating among the customers, registering thirst. It looked like a large night.

In the back room two men, seated at opposite sides of a table, were conversing in low tones. A bottle, two glasses, and a mutilated jack of spades lay between them. One of the men was Cheetim, the other was Kreff.

“How much longer does thet feller think we kin hold them critters without hevin’ every galoot in the Territory ridin’ onto ’em an’ blowin’ the whole business?” demanded Kreff.

“I been tellin’ him to see you,” said Cheetim.

Kreff pushed the jack of spades across the table to the other man. “You take this,” he said. “You see him oftener than I do. Don’t turn this over to him ’til you git the money, but tell him that ef he don’t get a hump on hisself we’ll drive the bunch north an’ sell ’em up there. They can’t stay around here much longer—the girl’s wise now thet somethin’s wrong. Two of the hands has told her they been missin’ stock lately.”

Cheetim sat in silence, thinking. Slowly he filled Kreff’s glass and poured another drink for himself.

“Here’s how!” he said and drank.

“How!” replied Kreff.

“I been thinkin’,” said Cheetim.

“Don’t strain yourself, ‘Dirty,’” Kreff admonished him.

“It’s this-a-way,” continued the other, ignoring Kreff’s pleasantry. “Ef it warnt for the girl we could clean up big on thet herd. This here Agent’ll buy anything an’ not ask no questions.”

“What do you want me to do,” inquired Kreff, “kill her?”

“I want you to help me get her. Ef I kin get her fer a few days she’ll be glad enough to marry me. Then I’ll give you half what I get out of the cattle.”

“Ride your own range, ‘Dirty,’” said Kreff, rising, “and keep off o’ mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ef either one of us gets her it’s me, that’s what I mean.” There was an ugly edge to his voice that Cheetim did not fail to note.

“Oh, hell,” he said, “I didn’t know you was sweet on her.”

“You know it now—keep off the grass.”

* * * * *

A pinto stallion, tied to a stunted cedar, dozed in the mid-day heat. His master, sprawled at the summit of a rocky knoll, looked down upon the other side at a bunch of cattle resting until it should be cooler, the while they pensively chewed their cuds. A youth lay upon his back beneath the shade of a tree. A saddled pony, with drooping head and ears, stood nearby lazily switching its tail in mute remonstrance against the flies. Bridle reins, dragging on the ground, suggested to the pony that it was tethered and were all-sufficient.

Somnolence, silence, heat—Arizona at high noon.

Shoz-Dijiji surveyed the scene. With a reward of a thousand dollars on his head it behooved him to survey all scenes in advance. The reward, however, was but a secondary stimulus. Training and environment had long since fixed upon him the habit of reconnaissance.

Immediately he had recognized Luis Mariel. If he were surprised he gave no evidence of it, for his expression did not change. His eyes wandered over the herd. They noted the various brands, ear-marks, wattles, jug-handles; and though Shoz-Dijiji could not have been termed a cattle man he read them all and knew the ranch and range of every animal in the bunch, for there was no slightest thing from one end of Apacheland to the other that an Apache let pass as of too slight importance to concern him.

He saw that most of the cattle belonged to Wichita Billings; but he knew that it was not a Crazy B cowboy that was herding them, for the Crazy B outfit employed no Mexicans.

Long before Luis Mariel was aware of the fact Shoz-Dijiji knew that several horsemen were approaching; but he did not change his position since, if they continued in the direction they were going, they would pass without seeing him.

Presently four men rode into view. He recognized them all. Two of them were Navajoes, one a half-breed and the fourth a white man—the Indian Agent.

Shoz-Dijiji did not like any of them, especially the Indian Agent. He fingered his rifle and wished that Geronimo had not made that treaty with General Miles in Skeleton Canyon.

Presently Luis heard the footfalls of the approaching horses and sat up. Seeing the men, he arose. They rode up to him, and the Agent spoke. Shoz-Dijiji saw him take a bit of paper from his pocket and show it to Luis. Luis took another similar bit of paper from his own pocket and compared it with the one that the Agent now handed him. Shoz-Dijiji could not quite make out what the bits of paper were—from a distance they looked like two halves of a playing card.

Luis mounted his pony and helped the men round up the cattle, but after they had started them in the direction of the Agency Luis waved his _adios_ and reined his pony southward toward the Hog Ranch.

Shoz-Dijiji remained motionless until all were well out of sight, then he wormed his way below the brow of the hill, rose and walked down to Nejeunee. He had spent the preceding night in the hogan of friends on the reservation. They had talked of many things, among them being the fact that the Agent was still buying stolen cattle at a low price and collecting a high price for them from the Government.

Shoz-Dijiji knew that he had seen stolen cattle delivered to the Agent, which would not, of itself, have given him any concern; but the fact that most of these cattle had evidently been stolen from Wichita Billings put an entirely different aspect on the matter.

The fact that she hated him, that she had offered a reward for him, dead, could not alter the fact that he loved her; and, loving her, he must find a way to inform her of what he had discovered. Naturally, the first means to that end which occurred to him was Luke Jensen. He would ride back to where Luke Jensen rode and find him.

It is a long way from where Cheetim and Kreff had hidden the stolen herd to the Billings east range, and when one is a fair target for every rifle and six-shooter in the world it behooves one to move warily; so Shoz-Dijiji lay up until night and then rode slowly toward the east.

* * * * *

Luis Mariel had ridden directly to the Hog Ranch and reported to Cheetim, handing him both halves of the jack of spades as evidence that the herd had been turned over to the proper party in accordance with Luis’ instructions.

“That’s jest what I been waitin’ fer,” said Cheetim. “Now I got some more work fer you, if you’re game. They’s fifty dollars extra in it fer you.”

“What is it?” asked Luis.

“It ain’t none o’ your business what it is,” replied Cheetim. “All you got to know is thet they may be some shootin’ in it, an’ all you got to do is do what I tell you. If you’re skeered I don’t want you.”

“I am not afraid, Senor,” replied Luis. The fifty dollars appeared a fortune.

“All right. You savvy the Crazy B Ranch?”

“Si, Senor.”

“I want you to take a note to ‘Smooth’ Kreff, the foreman o’ thet outfit.”

“Is that all?”

“No. After you deliver the note you hang around and see what happens. They’s a girl there. When I come I’ll want to know where she is and how many men there are left at the ranch. There’ll be four or five fellers with me. After that I’ll tell you what to do.”

“When does the shooting happen?” asked Luis.

“Oh, maybe they won’t be no shootin’,” replied Cheetim. “I was jest warnin’ you in case they was. I’ll write the letter now an’ then you hit the trail. Ef you ride hard you’ll make it before sun up. I want you there before the hands start out fer the day. Savvy?”

Laboriously, with the stub of a pencil that he constantly wet with his tongue, “Dirty” Cheetim wrote. It appeared to Luis that Senor Cheetim was not accustomed to writing—he seemed to be suffering from mental constipation—but at last the agony was over and Cheetim handed Luis a sheet of soiled paper folded many times into a small wad.

“If Kreff asks you about the cattle you say that when you went up this mornin’ the bars o’ the c’rral was down an’ the cattle gone, an’ don’t you tell him nothin’ different. If you do you won’t get no fifty dollars ’cause you won’t need ’em where I’ll send you.” Cheetim slapped the six-shooter at his hip.

“I understand,” said Luis. He did not like Senor Cheetim, but fifty dollars are fifty dollars.

The sun was but a few minutes high when Luis Mariel reined into the Billings ranch yard. From a slight eminence a mile or two away, beyond the east pasture fence, Shoz-Dijiji saw him come and wondered.

The Apache had taken his position just before dawn and at the first flush of the new day had fixed his field glasses upon the ranch yard. He wished to get in touch with Jensen as quickly as possible and saw in this plan the surest method of determining when and in what direction Luke rode that morning.

Luis went at once to the bunk house, where the men were already astir, and delivered the letter to Kreff, whom he at once recognized as the tall, sandy haired man who had taken him to the herd and given him the torn playing card and his instructions. Kreff recognized Luis, too, but he only frowned.

Almost as laboriously as Cheetim had written it, Kreff deciphered the note.

“Frend Kref:” he read. “Sum fellers stole the herd bring al yore
hands & help Me round them up they will think the fellers stol
them & That will let us out doan fetch the greser i think he wus
in on it dirty yours truely.”

“Hell!” ejaculated Kreff.

“What’s eatin’ you?” inquired “Kansas.”

“‘Dirty’ Cheetim says a bunch of rustlers is runnin’ off some of our stock. He seen ’em headin’ past his place. Luke! Rustle up that ‘cavvy,’ pronto. You fellers feed while Luke’s gone. We’re all hittin’ the trail after them lousy thieves.”

“I reckon ‘Dirty’ is jest sore ’cause he didn’t git to the bunch ahead o’ them other fellers,” drawled “Kansas.”

Luke tucked his shirt tails into his trousers, grabbed his Stetson, and bolted for the corral. When Kreff had finished dressing he went to the cook house and told the Chinese cook to hurry breakfast. Then he walked over to the ranch house and stopping under Wichita’s window called her name aloud.

A moment later, a Navajo blanket about her shoulders, the girl appeared at the window. “What is it, ‘Smooth?’” she asked.

“You was right about the rustling,” he said. “Cheetim jest sent a Greaser with a note sayin’ he’d seen some fellers runnin’ off a bunch of our stock. I’m takin’ all the men an’ ridin’ after ’em. They can’t git away.”

“Good!” cried the girl. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you better not. They’s almost sure to be shootin’.”

“I can shoot,” she replied.

“I know thet; but please don’t do it, Chita. We’d all be lookin’ after you an’ couldn’t do like we would if they wasn’t a woman along.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted. “Gosh! Why wasn’t I born a boy?”

“I’m shore glad you wasn’t.”

Shoz-Dijiji, seeing Luke riding early and alone straight in his direction, felt that once again, after long forgetfulness, Usen had remembered him. He knew that the youth would come only as far as the horses pastured in the east pasture, and so he rode down and came through the gate to meet the cowboy. The willows in the draw screened them from each other’s sight until Luke spurred up the steep bank of the wash and came face to face with the Apache.

“Hello, there!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What you doin’ here?”

“I want you take word to Wichita,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “The Indian Agent is buying cattle that are stolen from her. I saw it yesterday, on the reservation. You tell her?”

“We jest got word of the same bunch, I reckon,” replied Luke. “We’re all ridin’ out after ’em now. Which way was they headin’ when you saw them?”

“Toward the Agency.”

“Thanks a lot, Shoz-Dijiji,” said Luke. “I’ll tell her anyway when I see her about your sendin’ the word to her.”

“No,” said the Apache. “Do not tell her who sent the word.”

“All right. I got to be movin’. The boys is waitin’ fer these broncs. So long, Shoz-Dijiji!”

“Adios!” replied the Apache, and as Jensen herded the horses toward the corrals Shoz-Dijiji rode away, out through the pasture gate, onto the east range.

Something was troubling Shoz-Dijiji’s mind. He had seen Luis Mariel guarding the stolen herd and yet it was he who brought word to the ranch concerning these same cattle. What did it mean?

Through his glasses the Apache watched the departure of the Crazy B cow hands. Apparently all had left the ranch with the exception of Luis Mariel. Why was Luis remaining? He had seen Wichita come into the yard and talk with some of the men as they were mounting, and he had seen her wave them godspeed. She had spoken to Luis, too, and then gone into the house. Luis was hanging around the corrals.

Shoz-Dijiji shook his head. Luis was a good boy. He would not harm anyone. There was something else to think about and that was breakfast. Shoz-Dijiji rode a short distance to the east, dismounted and with bow and arrows set forth in search of his breakfast. In half an hour he had a cottontail and a quail. Returning to Nejeunee he sought a secluded spot and cooked his breakfast.

Ten minutes after Luis Mariel had departed from the Hog Ranch the previous evening Cheetim with four others had ridden out along the same trail; and when Kreff and the other men of the Crazy B rode away in the morning in search of the rustlers, from the hills south of the ranch these five had watched them depart.

“We got lots of time,” said Cheetim, “an’ we’ll wait until they are plenty far away before we ride down. You four’ll hev to git the girl. Ef she seen me comin’ she’d start shootin’ before we was inside the gate, but she don’t know none of you. I was damn sure to pick fellers she didn’t know. You ride in an’ ask fer grub an’ a job. The Greaser’ll be there to tell you ef they is any men left around an’ where the girl is. You won’t have no trouble. Jes’ grab her an’ don’t give her no chance to draw thet gun o’ hers, fer I’m here to state thet ol’ man Billings’ girl wouldn’t think no more o’ perforatin’ your ornery hides then she would of spittin’.”

The ride ahead of Kreff and his men was, the foremen knew, a long and hard one. There was some slight chance of borrowing a change of horses at a ranch near Cheetim’s place; but it was only a chance, and so Kreff conserved his horse flesh and did not push on too rapidly.

As he rode he had time to think things out a little more clearly than he had in the excitement and rush of preparation, and he wondered why it had been that Cheetim had not organized a party to go after the rustlers and save the cattle for themselves. He could easily have done it, as there were always several tough gun-men hanging around his place who would commit murder for a pint of whiskey. Yes, that did seem peculiar. And if he had mistrusted the Mexican, why had he intrusted the message to him? Kreff did not trust Cheetim to any greater extent than a cottontail would trust a rattler, and now that he had an opportunity to consider the whole matter carefully he grew suspicious.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had left Wichita alone on the ranch with only the Chinese cook, and that the Mexican had remained behind after they had left. The more he thought about it the more it worried him. He called Luke to his side.

“Kid,” he said, “we left thet Greaser there on the ranch. I don’t guess we should have. You ride back an’ look after things—an’ don’t let no grass grow under you while you’re doin’ it.”

Luke, though disappointed at the thought of missing the excitement of a brush with the rustlers, reined in, wheeled his pony, and spurred back toward the ranch.

Wichita, coming from the office door after breakfast, saw four strange men ride into the ranch yard. She saw the Mexican youth who had brought word of the stolen cattle ride up to them, but she could not hear what they said, nor was it apparent that the Mexican was acquainted with the newcomers.

The four rode toward her presently, and as they neared her one of them removed his hat and asked if he could see the boss.

“I’m the boss,” she replied.

“We’re lookin’ fer work,” said the man; and as he spoke he dismounted and walked close to her, the others reining near as though to hear what her answer would be.

When the man was quite close he suddenly seized her, whirled her about and held her hands behind her. At the same instant another of his fellows dismounted and stepped quickly to her. She struggled and fought to free herself; but she was helpless, and in another moment they had bound her wrists behind her.

As they were lifting her to one of the horses the Chinese ran from the cook house, calling to them to stop; but one of the men drew his six-shooter, and a single, menacing shot was enough to send the unarmed domestic back into his kitchen.

Cheetim, watching from the hills south of the ranch, saw all that transpired within the yard and was highly elated at the ease with which his nefarious plan was being carried out; but, alas, things were running far too smoothly.

What was that? He bent an attentive ear toward the west and recognized the cadenced pounding of the hoofs of a rapidly galloping horse—the little rift within the lute.

In the ranch yard the men had stopped to argue. Cheetim could see them but he could not understand the delay. He could only curse silently, dividing his attention between them and the road to the west, along which he could hear the approaching hoof beats.

“What’s the use of packin’ this girl double?” the man who had been assigned to carry Wichita demanded. “We got plenty time an’ they’s a hoss standin’ right down there in the c’ral.”

“‘Dirty’ said not to waste no time,” demurred another.

The mention of Cheetim’s descriptive nickname was the first intimation Wichita had received of the origin and purpose of the plan to abduct her. Now she understood—it was all clear, horribly clear. For years the man had hounded and annoyed her. Twice before he had tried to take her forcibly. It looked now as though he might succeed. Who was there to succor her? Her father dead and every man in her employ gone, for how long she could not guess. There was no one. She wondered why it was that at that moment the figure of an almost naked, bronze savage filled her thoughts to the exclusion of every other source of salvation, and that while she nursed her hatred of him she involuntarily almost prayed that some miracle might bring him to her.

The man who had suggested a separate horse for Wichita insisted. “It won’t take two minutes,” he said, “an’ if we are follered we kin make better time than if one of the hosses is packin’ double.”

“Hell, then,” exclaimed one of his fellows, “instead of chawin’ the fat let’s git a hoss. Here, you!” he addressed Luis. “Fetch that hoss. Throw a saddle onto him an’ a lead rope.”

As Luis hastened to obey, Cheetim, seeing the further delay, became frantic. The horseman was approaching rapidly along the road from the west, and the men in the ranch yard were wasting valuable time.

Out on the east range Shoz-Dijiji, having finished his breakfast, mounted Nejeunee and turned the pony’s head toward the east, toward the distant mountains where the Gila rises, toward the ancient stamping grounds of the Be-don-ko-he.

He had no plans for the future. He wanted only to get away. He had seen Wichita Billings through his field glasses, and the sight of her had but aggravated the old hurt. Sad and lonely, the war chief rode toward the deserted camp grounds of his vanished people, where now were only brooding memories.

Luke Jensen galloped into sight of the ranch. Cheetim, lying behind a boulder at the top of a hill, covered him with his rifle sights and fired. Luke heard the bullet scream past his ear. Forewarned of some danger, he knew not what, he was prepared. He took two flying shots at the puff of smoke at the hill top where his unknown assailant lay, dug the rowels into his pony’s sides, and raced for the ranch gate that he saw was standing open.

Cheetim fired once more; but again he missed, and then Luke was inside the yard. Coming toward him from the corrals he saw five men and Wichita, and he knew that something was radically wrong even before one of the men drew his gun and opened fire on him. Unable to return the man’s fire without endangering Wichita, Jensen spurred in the direction of an out-building that would give him shelter until he could get his rifle into action.