"For every wrong that they have committed," argued Wichita, "they can point out a similar crime perpetrated upon them by the whites. 0, Margaret, it is the old case again of the pot calling the kettle black. We have tortured them and wronged them even more than they have tortured and wronged us.
"We esteem personal comfort and life as our two most sacred possessions. When the Apaches torture and kill us we believe that they have committed against us the most hideous of conceivable crimes.
"On the other hand the Apaches do not esteem personal comfort and life as highly as do we and consequently, by their standards--and we may judge a people justly only by their own standards--we have not suffered as much as they, who esteem more highly than life or personal comfort the sanctity of their ancient rites and customs and the chastity of their women. From the time of the white man's first contact with the Apaches he has ridiculed the one and defiled the other.
"I have talked with Shoz-Dijiji, and Geronimo, with Sons- ee-ah-ray, and many another Be-don-ko-he man and woman; they have laid bare their hearts to me, and never again can anyone convince me that we have not tortured the Apaches with as malignant cruelty as they have tortured us."
"Why you are a regular little Apache yourself, Wichita," cried Margaret Cullis. "I wonder what your father would say if he could hear you."
"He has heard me. Don't think for a minute that I am afraid to express my views to anyone."
"Did he enjoy them and agree with you?"
"He did not. He did everything but tear his hair and take me out to the woodshed. You know Mason was killed about two months ago, and it had all the ear-marks of an Apache killing. Mason was one of Dad's best friends. Now, every time he thinks or hears Apache he sees red."
"I don't blame him," said Margaret Cullis.
"It's silly," snapped Wichita, "and I tell him so. It would be just as logical to hate all French-Canadians because Guiteau assassinated President Garfield."
"Well, how in the world, feeling toward the Apaches as you do, could you have found it in your heart to so wound Shoz-Dijiji that he will not speak to you?"
"I did not mean to," explained the girl. "It--just happened. We had been together for many days after the Chi-e-a-hen attacked the Pringe ranch and Shoz-Dijiji got me away from them. The country was full of hostiles, and so he took me to the safest place he could think of--the Be- don-ko-he camp. They kept me there until they were sure that all the hostiles had crossed the border into Mexico. He was lovely to me--a white man could have been no more considerate--but when he got me home again and was about to leave me he told me that he loved me.
"I don't know what it was, Margaret--inherited instinct, perhaps--but the thought of it revolted me, and he must have seen it in my face. He went away, and I never saw him again--until today--three years."
The older woman looked up quickly from her work. There had been a note in the girl's voice as she spoke those last two words that aroused sudden apprehension in the breast of Margaret Cullis.
"Wichita," she demanded, "do you love this--this Apache?"
"Margaret," replied the girl, "you have been like a sister to me, or a mother. No one else could ask me that question. I have not even dared ask myself." She paused. "No, I cannot love him!"
"It would be unthinkable that you would love an Indian, Wichita," said the older woman. "It would cut you off forever from your own kind and would win you only the contempt of the Indians. A white girl had better be dead than married to an Indian."
Wichita nodded. "Yes, I know," she whispered, "and yet he is as fine as any man, white or red, that I have ever known."
"Perhaps, but the fact remains that he is an Apache."
"I wish to God that he were white!" exclaimed the girl.
A knock on the door put an end to their conversation, and Wichita arose from her chair and crossed the room to admit the caller. A tall, good looking subaltern stood smiling on the threshold as the door swung in.
"You're prompt," said Wichita.
"A good. soldier always is," said Mrs. Cullis. "That is equivalent to a medal of honor, coming from the wife of my troop commander," laughed King as he stepped into the room.
"Give me your cap," said Wichita, "and bring that nice easy chair up here beside the table."
"I was going to suggest that we take a walk," said King, "that is if you ladies would care to. It's a gorgeous night."
"Suits me," agreed Wichita. "How about you, Margaret?"
"I want to finish my sewing. You young folks run along and have your walk, and perhaps Captain Cullis will be here when you get back. If he is we'll have a game of euchre."
"I wish you'd come," said Wichita.
"Yes, do!" begged King, but Mrs. Cullis only smiled and shook her head.
"Run along, now," she cried gaily, "and don't forget the game."
"We'll not be gone long," King assured her. "I wish you'd come with us."
"Sweet boy," thought Margaret Cullis as the door closed behind them leaving her alone. "Sweet boy, but not very truthful."
As Wichita and King stepped out into the crisp, cool air of an Arizona night the voice of the sentry at the guard house rang out clearly against the silence: "Number One, eight o'clock!" They paused to listen as the next sentry passed the call on: "Number Two, eight o'clock. All's well!" Around the chain of sentries it went, fainter in the distance, growing again in volume to the final, "All's well!" of Number One.
"I thought you said it was a gorgeous night," remarked Wichita Billings. "There is no moon, it's cloudy and dark as a pocket."
"But I still insist that it is gorgeous," said King, smiling. "All Arizona nights are."
"I don't like these black ones," said Wichita; "I've lived in Indian country too long. Give me the moon every time."
"They scarcely ever attack at night," King reminded her.
"I know, but there may always be an exception to prove the rule."
"Not much chance that they will attack the post," said King.
"I know that, but the fact remains that a black night always suggests the possibility to me."
"I'll admit that the sentries do suggest a larger assurance of safety on a night like this," said King. "We at least know that we shall have. a little advance information before any Apache is among us."
Numbers Three and Four were mounted posts, and at the very instant that King was speaking a shadowy form crept between the two sentries as they rode slowly in opposite directions along their posts. It was Shoz-Dijiji.
Though the Apache had demonstrated conclusively that Wichita Billings' intuitive aversion to dark nights might be fully warranted, yet in this particular instance no danger threatened the white inhabitants of the army post, as Shoz-Dijiji's mission was hostile only in the sense that it was dedicated to espionage.
Geronimo had charged him with the duty of ascertaining the attitude of the white officers toward the departure of the War Chief from the reservation, and with this purpose in view the Black Bear had hit upon the bold scheme of entering the post and reporting Geronimo's' departure in person that he might have first hand knowledge of Nan-tan- des-la-par-en's reaction.
He might have come in openly in the light of day without interference, but it pleased him to come as he did as a demonstration of the superiority of Apache cunning and of his contempt for the white man's laws.
He moved silently in the shadows of buildings, making his way toward the adobe shack that was dignified by the title of Headquarters. Once he was compelled to stop for several minutes in the dense shadow at the end of a building as he saw two figures approaching slowly. Nearer and nearer they came. Shoz-Dijiji saw that one was an officer, a war chief of the pindah-lickoyee, and the other was a woman. They were talking earnestly. When they were quite close to Shoz- Dijiji. the white officer stopped and laid a hand upon the arm of his companion.