Suddenly the Apache’s attention was attracted by a sound coming from the south, a rhythmical sound that announced the approach of a loping horse. Two of the three men drew quickly behind a great bowlder, the third behind another upon the opposite side of the road. Silence once more enveloped the seemingly deserted canyon. The Apache waited, watching. The loping horse drew nearer. It entered the lower end of the canyon and presently came within range of Shoz-Dijiji’s vision. Its rider was a girl—a white girl. As she came abreast of the three whites they rode directly into the trail and barred her passage, and as she sought to wheel her horse one of them reached out and seized her bridle rein. The girl reached for a six-shooter that hung at her hip, but another of the three had slipped from his saddle and run to her side. Now he grasped her wrist, tore the weapon from its holster, and dragged the girl to the ground. It was all done very quickly. Shoz-Dijiji watched. His hatred of the men mounted. He heard the conversation that passed between the men and the girl and understood it—understood that the men were going to take the girl away by force. He saw one of them—the one that he was facing now in the back room of the Hog Ranch—jerk the girl roughly and order her to remount her horse. Then the barrel of a rifle slid quietly from beneath the edge of a grey bowlder at the top of the canyon’s wall, there was a loud report that resounded thunderously, and the man whose hand lay upon Wichita Billings dropped in his tracks. From that moment to this Shoz-Dijiji had thought “Dirty” Cheetim dead, yet here he was in the flesh, looking him straight in the eye and smiling. Shoz-Dijiji knew that Cheetim would not be smiling if he had recognized Shoz-Dijiji. “How, John!” exclaimed the white man. “Mebby so you want red-eye, eh?” In no slightest degree did Shoz-Dijiji register by any changed expression the surprise he felt at seeing this man alive, nor the hatred that he felt for him, nor the terrific urge he experienced to kill him. He looked at him just once, briefly, and then ignored him as he did his greeting and his question. Instead he turned to the Apache standing behind Cheetim. It was Gian-nah-tah. In one hand he held a glass of whiskey, in the other a bottle. Shoz-Dijiji looked straight into the eyes of his friend for a moment, and those of Gian-nah-tah wavered and dropped beneath the steady, accusing gaze of the Black Bear; then the latter spoke in the language of the Shis-Inday. “Gian-nah-tah, you are a fool!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “Of all the things that the white-eyed men have to offer the Apache only their weapons and their ammunition are of any value to us—all else is vile. And you, Gian-nah-tah, choose the vilest. You are a fool!