20 Western Novels You Should Read

Chapter 4

Chapter 2

SPOILS OF WARTHE camp of Be-don-ko-he and Ned-ni Apaches lay in the Sierra de

Sahuaripa not far from Casa Grande, but the activities of the

renegades led them far afield in both Sonora and Chihuahua during

the ensuing year.

Shoz-Dijiji, restless, unhappy, filled with bitterness against

all men who were not Apaches, often brooding over the wrongs and

justices inflicted upon his people, became a living scourge

throughout the countryside.

Sometimes alone, again with Gian-nah-tah and other young braves,

he raided shops and ranches and isolated cottages, or waylaid

travellers upon the road.

He affected a design in face painting that was distinctive and

personal; so that all who saw him knew him, even though they never

had seen him before. He laid a broad band of white from temple to

temple across his eyes—the remainder of his face, above and below

the band, was blue.

Entering a small village alone, he would step into the little

tienda and stand silently upon the threshold for a moment watching

the effect of his presence upon the shop keeper and his customers.

He derived pleasure from seeing the pallor of fear overspread their

faces and hearing their mumbled prayers; he loved the terror in

their voices as they voiced his name, "The Apache Devil!"

If they ran he let them go, but if they offered resistance he

shot them down; then he took what he wanted and left. He did not

kill women or children, nor did he ever mutilate the dead or

torture the living; but others did—Apaches, Indians of other

tribes, Mexicans—and The Apache Devil was held responsible for

every outrage that left no eye-witness living to refute the

charge.

In the year that they remained in Mexico the Apaches collected a

considerable herd of horses and cattle by similar means and

according to the same ethics that govern civilized troops in an

enemy's country. They considered themselves at war with all

mankind, nor was there any sufficient reason why they should feel

otherwise. For over three hundred years they had been at war with

the white men; for over three hundred years they had been

endeavoring to expel the invader from their domain. In the history

of the world no more courageous defense of a fatherland against

overwhelming odds is recorded, but the only accolade that history

will bestow upon them is that which ratifies the titles, thieves

and murderers, conferred upon them by those who ravished their land

for profit.

It was late summer. The growing herd of the Apaches was becoming

unwieldy. Scouts and raiding parties were almost daily reporting to

Geronimo the increasing activities of Mexican troops, proof to the

old War Chief that the Mexican government was inaugurating a

determined campaign against him, which he realized must assuredly

result in the eventual loss of their hard-earned flocks, since the

tactics of Apache warfare depend, for success, chiefly upon the

marvelous mobility of the savages. From the summit of a mountain in

the Sierra de Sahuaripa range rose a tall, thin column of smoke. It

scarcely wavered in the still air of early morning. Fed by trained

hands, its volume remained almost constant and without break. From

a distance it appeared a white pillar topped by a white cloud that

drifted, at last, lazily toward the north. Fifty, a hundred miles

away keen eyes might see it through the thin, clear air of Sonora.

Caballero and peon in little villages, in scattered huts, in many a

distant hacienda saw it and, cursing, looked to their weapons,

prepared the better to guard their flocks and their women, for it

told them that the Apaches were gathering; and when the Apaches

gathered, let honest folk beware!

Other eyes saw it, savage eyes, the eyes for which its message

was intended; and from plain and mountain painted warriors,

scouting, raiding, turned their ponies' heads toward the soft,

white beacon; and thus the scattered members of the Be-don-ko-he

and the Ned-ni joined forces in the Sierra de Sahuaripa and started

north with the spoils of war saœely ahead of the converging

troops.

"For more than a year,' Geronimo had said to them during the

council in which they had determined to leave Mexico, "we have been

absent from the country of the pindah- lickoyee. In all this time

we have not struck a blow against them. We have shown them that we

are not at war with them but with the Mexicans. Let us return with

our herds to our own country and settle down in peace. With what we

have won we can increase our cattle and our horses to such an

extent that we shall not have to go upon the war trail again for a

long time possibly never again. Thus we can live in peace beside

the pindah-lickoyee. Let us not strike again at them. If our young

men must go upon the war trail, there is always Mexico. The

Mexicans are our natural enemies. They were our enemies before the

pindah-lickoyee came; I do not forget Kas-ki-yeh, where my wife, my

mother, and my children were treacherously slain. Let not the young

warriors forget Kas-ki-yeh either! Many were the women and the

children and the warriors killed there that day while most of the

fighting braves were peaceably trading in the nearby village.

"Perhaps now that we have obtained the means to guard against

hunger we may live in peace in our own country with the white-eyed

men. I have made big medicine and prayed to Usen that this thing

may be. I am tired of fighting. I am tired of seeing my people

killed in the hopeless struggle against the white-eyes."

And so the two tribes came back to the reservation at San

Carlos, bringing their great herd with them, and there was feasting

and dancing and much tizwin was consumed.

The White Mountain Apaches, who had not gone out with Geronimo,

profited however, for they had furnished many of the rifles and

much of the ammunition that had aided in the success of the

renegades; and they received their reward in the division of the

spoils of war.

After the freedom and excitement of the war trail it was

difficult for the young braves to settle down to the monotony of

reservation life. Herding cattle and horses was far from a

thrilling occupation and offered little outlet for active, savage

spirits; and it could as well be done by boys as by men.

The result was that they spent much time in gambling and

drinking, which more often than not led to quarreling. Shoz-Dijiji

suffered in a way, perhaps, more than the majority, for his was

naturally a restless spirit which had not even the outlet afforded

by strong drink, since Shoz- Dijiji cared nothing for this form of

dissipation. Nausea and headaches did not appeal to him as

particularly desirable or profitable. He found a certain thrill in

gambling but most of all he enjoyed contests of skill and

endurance. He challenged other braves to wrestle, jump, or run. The

stakes were ornaments, ammunition, weapons, ponies, but as

Shoz-Dijiji always won it was not long before he was unable to find

an antagonist willing to risk a wager against him.

Perhaps his chief diversion was pony racing and many a round of

ammunition, many a necklace of glass beads, magical berries, and

roots, bits of the valued duklij came into his possession because

of the speed of Nejeunee and other swift ponies of his string.

Shoz-Dijiji, gauged by the standards of Apachedom, was wealthy.

He possessed a large herd, fine raiment, the best of weapons and

"jewelry" that was the envy of all. Many a scheming mother and

lovelorn maiden set a cap for him, but the Black Bear was proof

against all their wiles.

Sometimes his father, Geronimo, or his mother , Sons-ee-ah- ray,

reproached him, telling him that it was not fitting that a rich and

powerful war chief should be without women to wait upon him. They

told him that it was a reflection on them; but Shoz-Dijiji only

shrugged his shoulders and grunted, saying that he did not want to

be bothered with women and children. Only Shoz-Dijiji and

Gian-nah-tah knew the truth.

Just off the reservation was a place known locally as the Hog

Ranch, though the only swine that frequented it were human; and

while a single member of the family Suidae would have tended to

elevate its standing in the community it was innocent of even this

slight claim to decency.

Its proprietor was what is still known in the vernacular of the

Southwest as a tinhorn. "Dirty" Cheetim had tried prospecting and

horse stealing but either of these vocations were dependent for

success upon a more considerable proportion of courage and

endurance than existed in his mental and physical endowment.

His profits were derived through the exploitation of the

pulchritude of several blondined ladies from the States and about

an equal number of dusky senoritas from below the border, from

cheating drunken soldiers and cowboys at cards, from selling cheap,

adulterated whiskey to his white patrons openly and to Indians

surreptitiously. It was whispered that he had other sources of

revenue which Washington might have found interesting had it been

in any measure interested in the welfare of the lndians, but how

can one expect overworked Christian congressmen to neglect their

electorate in the interests of benighted savages who have no

votes?

However; it seemed strange to those who gave it any thought that

such a place as "Dirty" Cheetim's Hog Ranch should receive even the

passive countenance of the Indian Agent.

Tall and straight, silently on moccasined feet, an Apache brave

stepped through the doorway of the Hog Ranch. Pausing within he let

his quick, keen glance pass rapidly over the faces of the inmates.

The place was almost deserted at this hour of the day. Two

Mexicans, an American cowboy, and a soldier were playing stud at a

table in one corner of the room. Two other soldiers and two girls

were standing at the bar, behind which one of "Dirty" Cheetim's

assistants was officiating. One of the soldiers turned and looked

at the Indian.

"Hello! Black Bear!" he called. "Have a drink?"

Shoz-Dijiji looked steadily at the soldier for a moment before

replying.

"No sabe!" he said, presently, his eyes moving to a closed door

that led to a back room.

"He's a damn liar!" said the soldier. "I'11 bet he savvies

English as good as me."

"Gee!" exclaimed one of the girls; "he's sure a good lookin'

Siwash." She looked up into Shoz-Dijiji's face and smiled boldly as

he approached them on his way across the room toward the closed

door; but the face of the Indian remained expressionless,

inscrutable.

"They don't none of 'em look good to me," said the other

soldier. "This guy was out with Geronimo, and every time I lamp one

of their mugs I think maybe it's The Apache Devil. You can't never

tell."

The first soldier took hold of Shoz-Dijiji's arm as he was

passing and stopped him; then from the bar he picked up a glass

filled with whiskey and offered it to the Apache. , Shoz-Dijiji

grunted, shook his head and passed on. The girl laughed.

"I reckon he's got more sense than we have," she said; "he knows

enough not to drink 'Dirty's' rot-gut."

"You must be stuck on the Siwash, Goldie," accused the first

soldier.

"I might have a mash on a lot o' worse lookin' hombres than

him," she shot back, with a toss of her faded, golden curls.

Shoz-Dijiji heard and understood the entire conversation. He had

not for nothing spent the "the months of Geronimo's imprisonment at

San Carlos in the post school, but not even by the quiver of an

eye-lid did he acknowledge that he understood.

At the closed door, unembarrassed by the restrictions of an

etiquette that he would have ignored had he been cognizant of it,

he turned the knob and stepped into the room beyond without

knocking.

Two men were there- a white man and an Indian. They both looked

up as Shoz-Dijiji entered. This was the first time that Shoz-Dijiji

had been in "Dirty" Cheetim's Hog Ranch. It was the first time that

he had seen the proprietor or known who "Dirty" Cheetim was; but he

had met him before, and he recognized him immediately.