Luke Jensen was riding the east range. What does a lone cowboy think about? There is usually an old bull that younger bulls have run out of the herd. He is always wandering off, and if he be of any value it is necessary to hunt him up and explain to him the error of his ways in profane and uncomplimentary language while endeavoring to persuade him to return. He occupies the thoughts of the lone cowboy to some extent. Then there is the question of the expenditure of accumulated wages, if any have accumulated. There are roulette and faro and stud at the Hog Ranch, but if one has recently emerged from any of these one is virtuous and has renounced them all for life, along with wine and women. A hand made, silver mounted bit would look well and arouse envy, as would sheep skin chaps and a heavy, silver hat band. A new and more brilliant bandana is also in order. Then there are the perennial plans for breaking into the cattle business on one’s own hook, based on starting modestly with a few feeders to which second thought may add a maverick or two that nobody would miss and from these all the way up to rustling an entire herd. Thoughts of Apaches had formerly impinged persistently upon the minds of lone cowboys. Luke Jensen was mighty glad, as he rode the east range, that he didn’t have to bother his head any more about renegades. He was riding up a coulee flanked by low hills. Below the brow of one that lay ahead of him an Apache war chief watched his approach. Below and behind the warrior a pinto stallion lay stretched upon its side, obedient to the command of its master. Shoz-Dijiji, endowed by Nature with keen eyes and a retentive memory, both of which had been elevated by constant lifelong exercise to approximate perfection, recognized Luke long before the cowboy came opposite his position—knew him even before he could discern his features. “Hey, you!” called Shoz-Dijiji without exposing himself to the view of the youth. Luke reined in and looked about. Mechanically his hand went to the butt of his six-shooter. “No shoot!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “I am friend.” “How the hell do I know that?” demanded Jensen. “I can’t see you, an’ I ain’t takin’ no chances.” “I got you covered with rifle,” announced Shoz-Dijiji. “You better be friend and put away gun. I no shoot. I am Shoz-Dijiji.” “Oh!” exclaimed Jensen. The one thousand dollars reward instantly dominated his thoughts. “You no shoot?” demanded the Indian. Luke returned his revolver to its holster. “Come on down,” he said. “I remember you.” Shoz-Dijiji spoke to Nejeunee, who scrambled to his feet; and a moment later the pinto stallion and its rider were coming down the hillside. “We thought you was dead,” said Luke. “No. Shoz-Dijiji been long time in Sonora.” “Still on the war path?” asked the cowboy.