His lonely heart yearned not only for human companionship but for the grim country that was home to him. Something was happening to Shoz-Dijiji. He thought that he was sick and that he was going to die. He was homesick. “I could go back and die in my own mountains,” he thought. The idea made him almost happy. He stroked Nejeunee’s soft muzzle and his sleek, arched neck. “How would you like to go home, Nejeunee?” asked Shoz-Dijiji. Nejeunee, after the manner of stallions, nipped the bronze shoulder of his master; but whether it was to signify approbation of the suggestion or was merely in the nature of a caress, only Nejeunee knew. Lieutenant Samuel Adams King sat beneath one of the cottonwood trees that stands in front of the ranch house of the Crazy B Ranch, his chair tilted back against the bole of the tree. Near him sat Wichita Billings, her fingers busily engaged in the work that was commanding their attention. She might have been embroidering her initials upon a pillow slip or fashioning some dainty bit of lingerie, but she was not. She was cleaning a six-shooter. “It sure seems tame around these parts now,” she remarked. “Do you know I almost miss being scared out of seven years’ growth every once in a while since the ‘bronchos’ were rounded up and shipped to Florida.” “I suppose you are cleaning that pistol, then, just as a sentimental reminder of the happy days that are gone,” laughed King. “Not entirely,” she replied. “There are still plenty of bad hombres left—all the bad ones weren’t Indians, not by a jug full.” “I suppose not,” agreed King. “As a matter of fact I doubt if the Apaches were responsible for half the killings that have been laid at their door; and, do you know, Chita, I can’t bring myself to believe even yet that it was an Apache that killed your father. We got it pretty straight from some of the renegades themselves that at the time they were all with Geronimo in the mountains near Hot Springs, except those that were still in Sonora, and Shoz-Dijiji.” “Well, that narrows it down pretty close to one man, doesn’t it?” demanded the girl, bitterly. “Yes, Chita,” replied King, “but I can’t believe that he did it. He spared my life twice merely because I was your friend. If he could do that, how could he have killed your father?” “I know, Ad. I’ve argued it out a hundred times,” said the girl, wearily; “but—that thousand dollars reward still stands.” “The chances are that it will stand forever, then,” said King. “Shoz-Dijiji didn’t come in with the other renegades; and, of course, you can’t get anything out of them; but it is better than an even bet that he was killed in Sonora during one of the last engagements. I know several bucks were killed; but they usually got them away and buried them, and they never like to talk about their dead.” “I hope to God that he is dead,” said the girl.