For several minutes the girl stood at the window gazing out into the gathering night; then she turned back into the room where Luis stood just within the doorway.
"The Apache Devil!" There was a shudder in Wichita's voice. Her eyes discovered Luis. "Oh," she said, as though she had forgotten his presence, "you are here?"
"Si, Senorita."
Again there was a long silence.
"The Apache Devil!" Wichita squared het shoulders and lifted her chin. "I do not care," she cried, defiantly.
"No, Senorita."
The girl looked fixedly at the Mexican youth for a moment as though his presence suggested a new thought that was formulating in her mind.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Luis, Senorita," he replied; "Luis Mariel."
"You said that you would help me, Luis, if you could. Do you remember?"
"I remember, Senorita."
"You can, Luis. Ride after the--the Apache Devil and tell him that I want him to come back."
"Gladly, Senorita."
"Go," she urged. "Hurry! Go now!"
Luis glanced behind him through the doorway into the other room and then back at Wichita.
"And leave you alone, at night, with all these dead men?" he exclaimed. "Santa Maria, Senorita! No, I cannot do that."
"I am not afraid, Luis," she said.
"S-s-st!" exclaimed Luis in a hoarse whisper. "What is that?"
They both listened.
"Someone is coming," said the girl. "Perhaps--perhaps it is he."
"There is more than one," said the youth. "I hear them talking now." He stepped quickly into the adjoining room and, stooping, took a six-shooter from the floor where it lay beside one of the dead men. Returning, he handed it to Wichita Billings. "Perhaps these are more of Senor Cheetim's friends," he suggested.
Together they stood waiting. The sounds of approaching horses ceased, and all was quiet. Wichita knew that whoever it was that came had reached a point where the shack was visible for the first time and were doubtless reconnoitering. Finally a voice broke the silence.-
"Chita!" it called aloud, ringing and echoing through the canyon.
"They are my friends," she said to Luis and ran through the outer room to the front doorway.
"Here, 'Smooth'!" she called. "It is all right. I am in the shack."Luis came and stood just behind her shoulder. It was not yet so dark but that features might be recognized at short distances. The two saw Kreff riding forward with Sam and Jake. Luis layed a hand on Wichita's arm. "They are Cheetim's friends," he said. "I know that first one well." He brushed by her, his revolver in his hand.
"No!" she cried, seizing his arm. "They are my own men. The first one is my foreman."
"Here's one of 'em, boys!" cried Kreff as he recognized Luis. "Here's the damned Greaser that brought me thet lyin' letter from 'Dirty.' Git out o' the way, Chita!" and leaping from his horse he ran forward.
"Stop!" cried Luis. His weapon was levelled at Kreff's stomach.
"This boy is all right!" exclaimed Wichita. "Put your guns away, all of you."
Slowly and with no great alacrity Kreff and Mariel returned their revolvers to their holsters. The other two men followed their example.
"What's happened here?" demanded Kreff. "Has anyone hurted you, Chita?"
"No, I'm all right," she replied. "I'll tell you all about it later. Get your horse, Luis, and take the message that I gave you. I'll be starting back for the ranch now. I'll be waiting there. Tell him that I shall be waiting there for him."
Kreff looked on, puzzled, as Wichita gave her instructions to Luis. He saw the youth mount and ride up the canyon side. Then he turned to the girl. "Where's he goin'?" he demanded. "Who you goin' to wait fer?"
"For Shoz-Dijiji," she replied. "He did not kill Dad--it was Cheetim. Come along, now; I want to go home."
Nineteen - THE LAST WAR TRAIL
THROUGH the descending dark an Apache rode along the war trail, following the tracks of an enemy. He saw that the man ahead if of him had been urging his mount at perilous speed down the rocky gorge, but the Apache did not hurry. He was a young man. Before him stretched a life time in which to bring the quarry, to bay. To follow recklessly would be to put himself at a disadvantage, to court disaster, defeat, death. Such was not the way of an Apache. Doggedly, stealthily he would stalk the foe. If it took a life time, if he must follow, him across a world, what matter? In the end he would get him.
What was that, just ahead? In the trail, looming strange through the dusk, lay something that did not harmonize with the surroundings. At first he could not be quite certain what it was, but that it did not belong there was apparent to his trained senses.
Cautiously he approached. It was a horse lying in the trail. It was alive. It tried to rise as he came nearer, but it stumbled and fell again--and it groaned. He saw that it was saddled and bridled. He waited in concealment, listening. There was no other sound. Creeping nearer he saw that the horse could not rise because one of its legs was broken. It suffered. Shoz-Dijiji drew his butcher knife and cut its throat, putting it out of its misery. Cheetim had ridden too fast down this rocky gorge. On foot now, leading Nejeunee, Shoz-Dijiji followed the faint spoor of the dismounted man. He found the place where it turned up the precipitous side of the gorge where no horse could go, and here Shoz-Dijiji abandoned Nejeunee and followed on alone.
All night he followed. At dawn he knew that he was close upon the man he sought. Small particles of earth were still crumbling back into the depression of a footprint where Cheetim had stepped but a few moments before. Did Shoz- Dijiji hasten forward? No. On the contrary he followed more cautiously, more slowly than before, for he gave the enemy credit for doing precisely what Shoz-Dijiji would have done had their positions been reversed--except that Shoz- Dijiji would have done it hours earlier.With infinite patience and care he crept up each slope and from the summit surveyed the terrain ahead before he proceeded. He knew that Cheetim was just ahead of him and that he would soon stop to rest, for the spoor told him that the man was almost exhausted. For a long time Shoz-Dijiji had guessed that the other knew he was being followed--before that he had only feared it. The end must be near.
Shoz-Dijiji crept slowly up a hillside. Just below the summit he stopped and took a red bandanna from his pouch. This he wrapped loosely about the stock of his rifle; and then, holding the piece by the muzzle, raised it slowly just above the hill top. Instantly there came the report of a rifle from beyond the hill; and Shoz-Dijiji; almost smiling, jerked the bandanna from sight.
Quickly he hastened to the right, keeping well below the line of vision of his adversary; and when he crept upward again it was behind a low bush, through the branches of which he could see without being seen.
A hundred yards away Cheetim lay behind a boulder upon another hill top. He was peering out from behind his shelter. Shoz-Dijiji took careful aim--not at the head of his enemy, which was in plain sight, but at his shoulder. Shoz-Dijiji had plans.
He pressed his trigger, and with the report Cheetim jumped convulsively and slumped forward. Slowly the Apache arose and keeping his man covered with his rifle walked toward him. He found the white man, just as he had expected, stunned by the shock of the wound but not dead.
Shoz-Dijiji removed Cheetim's weapons from his reach and sat down and waited. With the patience that is an Apache's he waited. Presently Cheetim opened his eyes and looked into the painted face of the Apache Devil. He shuddered and closed them again, but Shoz-Dijiji knew that the man was conscious.