20 Western Novels You Should Read

Chapter 9

Chapter 6

THE WAR TRAILSHOZ-DIJIJI, riding cross-country, picked up the trail of

Geronimo where it lay revealed to Apache eyes like a printed

message across the open pages of Nature's book of hieroglyphs, and

in the evening of the second day he came to the camp of the War

Chief.

Gian-nah-tah and several of the warriors who had accompanied

Shoz-Dijiji in the pursuit of Cheetim and his unsavory company were

already with Geronimo, and during the next two days other warriors

and many women came silent footed into the camp of the

Be-don-ko-he.

The Apaches were nervous and irritable. They knew that troops

were out after them, and though the cunning of Shoz- Dijiji had

sent the first contingent upon a wild goose chase toward Sonora the

Indians were well aware that it could be but a matter of days

before their whereabouts might be discovered and other troops sent

to arrest them.

Among those that urged upon them the necessity of immediately

taking the war trail was Mangas, son of the great dead chief,

Mangas Colorado;but Geronimo held back. He did not wish to fight

the white men again, for he realized, pertraps better than any of

them, the futility of continued resistance; but there were two

forces opposing him that were to prove more potent than the

conservatism of mature deliberation. They were s**o-zhu-ni, the

wife of Mangas, and the tizwin she was brewing. It was in the early

evening of May 16, 1885 that Shoz- Dijiji rode into the camp of

Geronimo. The sacred hoddentin had been offered up with the prayers

to evening, and already the Be-don-ko-he had gathered about the

council fire. Tizwin was flowing freely as was evidenced by the

increasing volubility of the orators.

Mangas spoke forcefuUy and definitely for war, urging it upon

Na-chi-ta, son of old Cochise and chief of the Chihuicahui Apaches

and ranking chief of all those gathered in the camp of Geronimo;

but Na-chi-ta, good-natured, fonder of tizwin and pretty squaws

than he was of the war- trail and its hardships, argued, though

half-heartedly, for peace.

Chihuahua, his fine head bowed in thought, nodded his approval

of the moderate counsel of Na-chi-ta; and when it was his turn to

speak he reminded them of the waste of war, of the uselessness and

hopelessness of fighting against the soldiers of the white men; and

old Nanay sided with him; but Ulzanna, respected for his ferocity

and his intelligence, spoke for war, as did Kut-le, the bravest of

them all.

Stinging from the insults of the father of Wichita Billings,

Shoz-Dijiji was filled with bitterness against all whites; and when

Kut-le had spoken, the young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he

arose.

"Geronimo, my father," he said, "speaks with great wisdom and

out of years filled with experience, but perhaps he has forgotten

many things that have happened during the long years that the

Shis-Inday have been fighting to drive the enemy from the country

that Usen made for them. Shoz- Dijiji, the son of Geronimo, has not

forgotten the things that he has seen, nor those of which his

father has told him; they are burned into his memory.

"Geronimo is right when he says that peace is better than war

for those who may no longer hope to win, and I too would speak

against the war-trail if the pindah-lickoyee would leave us in

peace to live our own lives as Usen taught us to live them. But

they will not. They wish us to live in their way which is not a

good way for Apaches to live. If we do not wish to they send

soldiers and arrest us. Thus we are prisoners and slaves.

Shoz-Dijiji cannot be happy either as a prisoner or as a slave, and

so he prefers the war-trail and death to these things.

Na-chi-ta speaks against the war-trail because there will be no

tizwin there but, instead, many hardships. Shoz- Dijiji knew well

the great Cochise, father of Na-chi-ta. Cochise would be angry and

ashamed if he could have heard his son speak at the council fire

tonight.

"Chihuahua speaks against war. Chihuahua thinks only of the

little farm that the pindah-lickoyee are permitting him to use and

forgets all the wide expanse of country that the pindah-lickoyee

have stolen from him. Chihuahua is a brave warrior. I do not think

that Chihuahua will long be happy working like a slave for the

Indian Agent who will rob him of the sweat of his brow as he robs

us all.

Nanay is old and lives in memories of past war, trails when he

fought with glory at the side of Victorio and Loco; his day is

done, his life has been lived. Why should we young men, who Have

our own lives to live, be content to live upon the memories of old

men. We want memories of our own and freedom, if only for a short

time, to enjoy them as our fathers did before us.

"Ulzanna and Kut-le are brave men. They do honor to the proud

race from which we all spring. They know that it would be better to

die in freedom upon the war-trail against the hated pindah-lickoyee

than to live like cattle, herded upon a reservation by the

white-eyes.

"They think of the great warriors, of the women, of the little

children who have been murdered by the lies and treachery of the

pindah-lickoyee. They recall the ridicule that is heaped upon all

those things which we hold most sacred. They do not forget the

insults that every white- eyed man hurls at the Shis-Inday upon

every occasion except when the Shis-Inday are on the war trail.

Then they respect us.

"Shall we wait here until they come and arrest and kill our

chiefs, as Nan-tan-des-la-par-en has ordered them to do, or shall

we take to the war trail and teach them once more to respect us? I,

Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, speak for the war

trail. I have spoken."

An old man arose. "Let us wait," he said. "Perhaps the soldiers

of the pindah-lickoyee will not come. Perhaps they will let us live

in peace if we do not go upon the war trail. Let us wait." The

tizwin had not as yet spoken its final word, and there were more

who spoke against the war trail than for it, and before the council

was concluded many had spoken. Among the last was s**o-zhu-ni

Pretty Mouth- the wife of Mangas, for the voice of woman was not

unknown about the council fires of the Apaches. And why should it

be? Did not they share all the hardships of the war trail with

their lords and masters? Did they not often fight, and as fiercely

and terribly as the men? Were they not as often the targets for the

rifles of the pindah- lickoyee? Who, then, had better right to

speak at the councils of the Apaches than the wives and mothers of

their warriors.

Sago-zhu-ni spoke briefly, but to the point. "Are you men, old

women, or children?" she cried fiercely. "If you are old women and

children, you will stay here and wait to receive your punishment;

but if you are warriors, you will take, the war trail, and then

Nan-tan-des-la-par-en must catch you before he can punish you.

May-be-so, you go to Sonora, he no catch you. .I have spoken."

Now Na-chi-ta, encouraged by tizwin and goaded by the reproaches

of Shoz-Dijiji, spoke for war. Geronimo, his savage brain inflamed

by the fumes of the drink, applauded s**o-zhu-ni and demanded the

blood of every pindah- lickoyee.

With fiery eloquence he ranged back through the history of the

Shis-Inday for more than three hundred years and reminded them of

every wrong that white men had committed against them in all that

time. He spoke for more than an hour, and while he spoke

Sago-zhu-ni saw that no warrior suffered from lack of tizwin. Of

all who spoke vehemently for the war trail Shoz-Dijiji alone spoke

out of a clear mind, or at least a mind unclouded by the fumes of

drink, though it was dark with bitter hatred and prejudice.

When Geronimo sat down they voted unanimously for the war trail;

and the next morning they broke camp and headed south- thirty-four

warriors, eight boys, and ninety-one women. Hair was slicked down

with tallow, swart faces streaked with war paint, weapons looked

to. Hoddentin was sprinkled on many a tzi-daltai of lightning riven

pine or cedar or fir as copper warriors prayed to these amulets for

protection against the bullets of the pindah-lickoyee, for success

upon the war trail.

Shoz-Dijiji, with Gian-nah-tah and two other warriors, rode in

advance of the main party, scouting far afield, scanning the

distances from every eminence. No creature stirred in the broad

landscape before them that was not marked by those eagle eyes, no

faintest spoor beneath their feet was passed unnoted.

The young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he was again the Apache

Devil. His face was painted blue but for the broad band of white

across his eyes from temple to temple; around his head was wound a

vivid yellow bandana upon the front of which was fastened a silver

disc in the center of which was mounted a single turquoise; small

rings of silver, from each of which depended another of these

valued gems, swung from the lobes of his ears; other bits of this

prized duklij were strung in the yard-long necklace of glass beads

and magical berries and roots that fell across the front of his

brown, print shirt, which, with his heavy buckskin war moccasins

and his G string, completed his apparel.

About his waist and across one shoulder were belts filled with

ammunition for the revolver at his hip and the rifle lying across

the withers of Nejeunee, and at his left side hung a pair of

powerful field glasses that he had taken in battle from a cavalry

officer several years before. From below the skirts of his shirt to

the tops of his moccasins the Apache Devil's bronzed legs were

naked, as he seldom if ever wore the cotton drawers affected by

many of his fellows. The bracelets of silver and brass that adorned

his muscular arms were hidden by the sleeves of his shirt, a shirt

that he probably soon would discard, being ever impatient of the

confining sensation that clothing imparted.

Down into the mountains of southwestern New Mexico the Apaches

marched, following trails known only to themselves, passing

silently through danger zones by night, and established themselves

among caves and canyons inaccessible to mounted troops.

Striking swiftly, raiding parties descended upon many an

isolated ranch house both in Arizona and New Mexico, leaving behind

horrid evidence of their ferocity as they rode away upon stolen

horses from the blazing funeral pyres that had once been homes.

Scouts kept Geronimo informed of the location of the troops in

the field against him; and the shrewd old war chief successfully

avoided encounters with any considerable body of enemy forces, but

scouting parties and supply trains often felt the full force of the

strategy and courage of this master general of guerilla warfare and

his able lieutenants.

It was during these days that the blue and white face of the

Apache Devil became as well known and as feared as it was in Sonora

and Chihuahua, for, though relentless in his war against the men of

the pindah-lickoyee, Shoz-Dijiji killed neither women nor children,

with the result that there were often survivors to describe the

boldness and ferocity of his attacks.

Scouting far north for information relative to the movement of

troops, Shoz-Dijiji one day came upon an Indian scout in the employ

of the enemy; and having recognized him as an old friend he hailed

him.

"Where are the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee?" demanded

Shoz-Dijiji.

"They cannot catch you," replied the scout, grinning, "and so

they are sending Apaches after you. Behind me are a hundred White

Mountain and Cho-kon-en braves. They are led by one white-eyed

officer, Captain Crawford. Tell Geronimo that he had better come

in, for he cannot escape the Shis- Inday as he has escaped the

pin-dah-lickoyee."

"Why do you and the others go upon the war trail against your

own people?" demanded Shoz-Dijiji. "Why do you fight as brothers at

the side of the enemy?"

"We take the war trail against you because you are fools and we

are not," replied the scout. "We have learned that it is useless to

fight against the pindah-lickoyee. We do not love them more than

you; and if we could kill them all we would, but we cannot kill

them all — they are as many as the weeds that grow among our corn

and beans and pumpkins — for though we cut them down they come

again in greater numbers than before, flourishing best in soil that

is wet with blood.

"When you go upon the war trail against the white-eyed men it

only makes more trouble for us. Geronimo is a great trouble maker.

Therefore we fight against him that we may live in peace."

"Either your mouth is full of lies or your heart has turned to

water," said Shoz-Dijiji. "No Apache wants peace at the price of

slavery, unless he has become a coward and is afraid of the

pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji has the guts of a man. He would rather

die on the war trail than be a reservatlon Indian. You have not

even the guts of a coyote, which snarls and snaps at the hand of

his captor and risks death to regain his freedom."

"Be a coyote then," sneered the scout, "and I will put your pelt

on the floor of my hogan."

"Here it is, reservation Indian," replied the Black Bear. "Take

It."

Both men had dismounted when they met and were standing close

and face to face. The scout reached quickly for his six-shooter,

but the Apache Devil was even quicker. His left hand shot out and

seized the other's wrist, and with his right he drew from its

scabbard the great butcher knife that hung at his hip.

The scout warded the first blow and grasped Shoz-Dijiji's arm;

and at the same instant tore his right arm free, but as he did so

the renegade snatched the other's g*n from its holster and tossed

it aside, while the scout, profiting by the momentary freedom of

his right hand, drew his own knife, and the two closed in a clinch,

each striving to drive his blade home in the body of his

adversary.

At the time that their altercation had reached the point of

physical encounter each of the men had dropped his hackamore rope

with the result that Shoz-Dijiji's horse, recently stolen from a

raided ranch, took advantage of this God-given opportunity to make

a break for freedom and home, while the scout's pony, lured by the

call of consanguinity, trotted off with the deserter.

Each of the combatants now held the knife-arm of the other and

the struggle had resolved itself into one of strength and

endurance, since he who could hold his grip the longer stood the

greater chance for victory, the other the almost certain assurance

of death.

They struggled to and fro, pushing one another here and there

about the sandy dust of a parched canyon bottom. The painted face

of the Apache Devil remained almost expressionless, so well

schooled in inscrutability were his features, nor did that of the

scout indicate that he was engaged in a duel to the death.

Two miles to the north a detachment of twenty White Mountain

Apaches from Crawford's Indian Scouts were following leisurely

along the trail of their comrade. In twenty minutes, perhaps, they

would come within sight of the scene of the duel.

It is possible that the scout engaged with Shoz-Dijiji held this

hope in mind, for when it became obvious to him that he was no

match in physical strength for his adversary he dropped his own

knife and grasped the knife arm of his foe in both hands.

It was a foolish move, for no sooner did the Apache Devil regain

the freedom of his left hand than he transferred his weapon to it

and before his unfortunate antagonist realized his danger

Shoz-Dijiji plunged the blade between his ribs, deep into his

heart.

Stooping over the body of his dead foe Shoz-Dijiji tore the red

band that proclaimed the government scout from his brow and with a

deft movement of his knife removed a patch of scalp. Then he

appropriated the ammunition and weapons of his late adversary and

turned to look for the two ponies. Now, for the first time, he

realized that they were gone and that he was afoot far from the

camp of Geronimo, probably the sole possessor of the information

that a hundred scouts were moving upon the stronghold of the War

Chief.

A white man might doubtless have been deeply chagrined had he

found himself in a similar position, but to the Apache it meant

only a little physical exertion to which he was already inured by a

lifetime of training. The country through which he might pass on

foot by the most direct route to Geronimo's camp was practically

impassable to horses but might be covered by an Apache in less time

than it would have required to make the necessary detours on

horseback. However, Shoz-Dijiji would have preferred the easier

method of transportation, and so he regretted that he had ridden

the new pony instead of Nejeunee, who would not have run away from

him.

Knowing that other scouts might be near at hand, Shoz- Dijiji

placed an ear to the ground and was rewarded by information that

sent him quickly toward the south. Clambering up the side of the

canyon, he adjusted the red band of the dead scout about his own

head as he climbed, for he knew that eyes fully as keen as his own

were doubtless scanning the horizon through powerful field glasses

at no great distance and that if they glimpsed the red band they

would not hasten in pursuit.

He grinned as he envisaged the anger of the scouts when they

came upon the dead body of their scalped comrade, and the vision

lightened the dreary hours as he trotted southward beneath the

pitiless sun of New Mexico.

Late in the afternoon Shoz-Dijiji approached a main trail that

led west to Fort Bowie and which he must cross, but with the

caution of the Apache he reconnoitered first.

From the top of a low hill the trail was in sight for a mile or

two in each direction and to this vantage point the Black Bear

crept. Only his eyes and the top of his head were raised above the

summit of the hill, and these were screened by a small bush that he

had torn from the ground and which he held just in front of him as

he wormed his way to the hilltop.

Below him the trail led through a defile in which lay scattered

huge fragments of rock among which the feed grew thick and rank,

suggesting water close beneath the surface; but it was not these

things that caught the eyes and interest of the Apache Devil, who

was already as familiar with them as he was with countless other

square miles of New Mexico, Arizona, Chihuahua, and Sonora, or with

the wrinkles upon the face of his mother, Sons-ee-ah-rav.

That which galvanized his instant attention and interest was a

cavalryman sitting upon a small rock fragment while his horse, at

the end of a long riata, cropped the green feed. Shoz-Dijiji

guessed that here was a military messenger riding to or from Fort

Bowie. Here, too, was a horse, and Shoz-Dijiji was perfectly

willing to ride the rest of the way to the camp of Geronimo.

A shot would dispose of the white-eyed soldier, but it would,

doubtless, also frighten the horse and send him galloping far out

of the reach of Apache hands; but Shoz- Dijiji was resourceful.

He quickly cached the rifle of the scout, for the possession

oftworiflesmight raise doubts that two six-shooters would not; he

adjusted the red scout band and with a bandana carefully wiped from

his face the telltale war paint of the Apache Devil. Then he arose

and walked slowly down the hillside toward the soldier, who sat

with his back toward him. So silently he moved that he was within

four or five feet of the man when he halted and spoke.

The soldier wheeled about as he sprang to his feet and drew his

pistol, but the sight of the smiling face of the Indian, the

extended hand and the red band of the government scout removed his

fears instantly.

"Nejeunee, nejeunee," Shoz-Dijiji assured him, using the Apache

word meaning friend, and stepping forward grasped the soldier's

hand.

Smiling pleasantly, Shoz-Dijiji looked at the horse and then at

the riata approvingly.

"You belong Crawford's outfit?" inquired the soldier.

"Me no sabe," said Shoz-Dijiji. He picked up the riata and

examined it. "Mucho bueno!" he exclaimed.

"You bet," agreed the cavalryman. "Damn fine rope."

The Apache examined the riata minutely, passing it through his

hands, and at the same time walking toward the horse slowly. The

riata, a braided hair "macarthy," was indeed a fine specimen, some

sixty feet in length, of which the soldier was pardonably proud, a

fact which threw him off his guard in the face of the Indian's

clever simulation of interest and approval.

When Shoz-Dijiji reached the end of the rope which was about the

horse's neck he patted the animal admiringly and turned to the

soldier, smiling enthusiastically. "Mucho bueno," he said, nodding

toward the horse.

"You bet," said the trooper. "Damn fine horse."

With his back toward the white man, Shoz-Dijiji drew his knife

and quickly severed the rope, holding the two ends concealed in his

left hand. "Mucho bueno," he repeated, turning again toward the

soldier, and then, suddenly and with seeming excitement, he pointed

up the hill back of the trooper. "Apache on dahl!" he shouted -"The

Apaches are coming!"

Quite naturally, under the circumstances, the soldier turned

away to look in the direction from which the savage enemy was

supposed to be swooping upon him, and as he did so the Apache Devil

vaulted into the saddle and was away. The great boulders strewing

the floor of the canyon afforded him an instant screen and though

the soldier was soon firing at him with his pistol he offered but a

momentary and fleeting target before he was out of range, carrying

away with him the cavalryman's carbine, which swung in its boot

beneath the off stirrup of the trooper's McClellan.

Shoz-Dijiji was greatly elated. He knew that he might have

knifed the unsuspecting pindah-lickoyee had he preferred to; but a

victory of wits and cunning gave him an even greater thrill of

satisfaction, for Apache to the core though he was, the Black Bear

killed not for the love of it but from a sense of duty to his

people and loyalty to the same cause that inspired such men as

Washington and Lincoln — freedom.