Now only Shoz-Dijiji remained. In the north rose a great dust cloud that drew constantly nearer. The infantry was coming! Shoz-Dijiji fired and scuttled to a new position nearer Apache Pass. The troopers peppered away at the spot from which the smoke of his shot had arisen, as they had all the long hot afternoon. Shoz-Dijiji fired again and moved on. The infantry was met by a messenger from the cavalry. All afternoon they had heard the firing and had hastened forward. Hot, dusty, tired, they were in bad humor. Spitting dust from swollen tongues, they cursed all Indians in general and Apaches in particular as they deployed and started up the hillside to flank the embattled reds. This time, by God, they would get old Geronimo and all his dirty, sneaking Siwashes! Simultaneously the dismounted troopers charged straight into the face of the enemy. Fat chance the doughboys had of beating _them_ to it! It was a race now to see which would reach the renegades first—cavalry or infantry. The cavalry; having the advantage of propinquity, arrived first, and they got something, too—when the infantry arrived, they got the laugh. There was not an Indian in sight! From a hill top a mile to the south of them a lone warrior watched them, estimating the numbers of the infantry, the size of the wagon train. Satisfied, he turned and trotted along the trail made by his fellows as they moved southward. Down into Sonora the long trail was leading, down to a camp in the Sierra de Sahuaripa mountains. Geronimo had gone out again! Chapter Two Spoils of War =T=HE 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 injustices 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!”