“Geronimo make treaty with the Mexicans and with your General Miles,” explained the Apache. “He promise we never fight again against the Mexicans or the Americans. Shoz-Dijiji keep the treaty Geronimo made. Shoz-Dijiji will not fight unless they make him. Even the coyote will fight for his life.” “What you come back here fer, Shoz-Dijiji?” asked Luke. “I come to see Wichita Billings. Mebby so I get job here. What you think?” Many thoughts crowded themselves rapidly through the mind of Luke Jensen in the instant before he replied and foremost among them was the conviction that this man could not be the murderer of Jefferson Billings. Had he been he would have known that suspicion would instantly attach to him from the fact that Wichita had seen him near the ranch the day her father was killed and that on that same day the pony he now rode had been stolen from the east pasture. “Well, what do you think about it, Shoz-Dijiji?” parried Luke. “I think mebby so she give me job, but Shoz-Dijiji not so damn sure about her father. He no like Shoz-Dijiji.” “Don’t you know that her ol’ man’s dead?” demanded Luke. “Dead? No, Shoz-Dijiji not know that. Shoz-Dijiji been down in Sonora long time. How he die?” “He was murdered jest outside the east pasture and—scalped,” said Luke. “You mean by Apaches?” “No one knows, but it looks damn suspicious.” “When this happen?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “We found him the mornin’ after you took thet there pony out of the east pasture.” Shoz-Dijiji sat in silence for a moment, his inscrutable face masking whatever emotions were stirring within his breast. “You mean they think Shoz-Dijiji kill Billings? Does Chita think that, too?” “Look here, Shoz-Dijiji,” said Jensen, kindly, “you done me a good turn oncet thet I ain’t a-never goin’ to forgit. I don’t mind tellin’ you I ain’t never thought you killed the ol’ man, but everyone else thinks so.” “Even Chita?” asked Shoz-Dijiji. “I wouldn’t say she does and I wouldn’t say she doesn’t, but she ain’t never took off the thousand dollar reward she offered to any hombre what would bring you in dead.” Not by the quiver of an eyelid did Shoz-Dijiji reveal the anguish of his tortured heart as he listened to the words that blasted forever the sole hope of happiness that had buoyed him through the long days and nights of his journey up through hostile Sonora and even more hostile Arizona. “You get one thousand dollars, you kill me?” he asked. “Yep.” “Why you no kill me, then?” Jensen shrugged. “I reckon it must be for the same reason you didn’t kill me when you had the chancet, Shoz-Dijiji,” he replied. “There must be a streak of white in both of us.” “Good-bye,” said Shoz-Dijiji, abruptly. “I go now.” “Say, before you go would you mind tellin’ me fer sure thet it wasn’t you killed the ol’ man?” asked Luke.