He does not read the newspapers, but the great book of nature is open to his perusal, and has been drained of much knowledge which his pale-faced brother would be glad to acquire. Every track in the trail, mark in the grass, scratch on the bark of a tree, explains itself to the “untutored” Apache. He can tell to an hour, almost, when the man or animal making them passed by, and, like a hound, will keep on the scent until he catches up with the object of his pursuit. In the presence of strangers the Apache soldier is sedate and taciturn. Seated around his little apology for a camp-fire, in the communion of his fellows, he becomes vivacious and conversational. He is obedient to authority, but will not brook the restraints which, under our notions of discipline, change men into machines. He makes an excellent sentinel, and not a single instance can be adduced of property having been stolen from or by an Apache on guard. He has the peculiarity, noticed among so many savage tribes in various parts of the world, of not caring to give his true name to a stranger; if asked for it, he will either give a wrong one or remain mute and let a comrade answer for him. This rule does not apply where he has been dubbed with a sobriquet by the white soldiers. In such case he will respond promptly, and tell the inquirer that he is “Stumpy,” “Tom Thumb,” “Bill,” “Humpy Sam,” or “One-Eyed Reilly,” as the case may be. But there is no such exception in regard to the dead. Their names are never mentioned, even by the wailing friends who loudly chant their virtues. [Illustration: APACHE AMBUSCADE.] Approaching the enemy his vigilance is a curious thing to witness. He avoids appearing suddenly upon the crest of a hill, knowing that his figure projected against the sky can at such time be discerned from a great distance. He will carefully bind around his brow a sheaf of grass, or some other foliage, and thus disguised crawl like a snake to the summit and carefully peer about, taking in with his keen black eyes the details of the country to the front with a rapidity, and thoroughness the American or European can never acquire. In battle he is again the antithesis of the Caucasian. The Apache has no false ideas about courage; he would prefer to skulk like the coyote for hours, and then kill his enemy, or capture his herd, rather than, by injudicious exposure, receive a wound, fatal or otherwise. But he is no coward; on the contrary, he is entitled to rank among the bravest. The precautions taken for his safety prove that he is an exceptionally skillful soldier. His first duty under fire is to jump for a rock, bush, or hole, from which no enemy can drive him except with loss of life or blood.