The Apache called to Luis who came running to the door. “You,” he said, pointing at the youth. “You know the Apache Devil. You know what he do to his enemies. You take this girl home. If she don’t get home safe the Apache Devil settle with you. Sabe?” He crossed the room to the window. “Where are you going?” cried Wichita. “To kill my last pindah-lickoyee,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, as he vaulted across the sill. “Wait! Wait, Shoz-Dijiji,” the girl called after him; but Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, war chief of all the Apaches, had gone. The little pinto stallion was scrambling up the steep canyon side as Luis Mariel cut the bonds that held Wichita Billings. The girl ran to the window. Far above she saw war pony and warrior silhouetted against the darkening sky; and then Shoz-Dijiji, last of the war chiefs, and Nejeunee, last of his wild friends, dropped below the crest and disappeared. For several minutes the girl stood at the window gazing out into the gathering night; then she turned back into the room where Luis stood just within the doorway. “The Apache Devil!” There was a shudder in Wichita’s voice. Her eyes discovered Luis. “Oh,” she said, as though she had forgotten his presence, “you are here?” “Si, Senorita.” Again there was a long silence. “The Apache Devil!” Wichita squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I do not care,” she cried, defiantly. “No, Senorita.” The girl looked fixedly at the Mexican youth for a moment as though his presence suggested a new thought that was formulating in her mind. “What is your name?” she asked. “Luis, Senorita,” he replied; “Luis Mariel.” “You said that you would help me, Luis, if you could. Do you remember?” “I remember, Senorita.” “You can, Luis. Ride after the—the Apache Devil and tell him that I want him to come back.” “Gladly, Senorita.” “Go,” she urged. “Hurry! Go now!” Luis glanced behind him through the doorway into the other room and then back at Wichita. “And leave you alone, at night, with all these dead men?” he exclaimed. “Santa Maria, Senorita! No, I cannot do that.” “I am not afraid, Luis,” she said. “S-s-st!” exclaimed Luis in a hoarse whisper. “What is that?” They both listened. “Someone is coming,” said the girl. “Perhaps—perhaps it is he.” “There is more than one,” said the youth. “I hear them talking now.” He stepped quickly into the adjoining room and, stooping, took a six-shooter from the floor where it lay beside one of the dead men. Returning, he handed it to Wichita Billings. “Perhaps these are more of Senor Cheetim’s friends,” he suggested. Together they stood waiting. The sounds of approaching horses ceased, and all was quiet. Wichita knew that whoever it was that came had reached a point where the shack was visible for the first time and were doubtless reconnoitering. Finally a voice broke the silence. “Chita!” it called aloud, ringing and echoing through the canyon.