Gian-nah-tah Relents =“I= CARE for you a great deal, Ad!” Shoz-Dijiji heard these words and recognized the voice of the girl who had spurned his love. Now he recognized her companion also. Wounded pride, racial hatred, the green eyed monster, jealousy, clamored at the gates of his self-restraint, sought to tear down the barriers and loose the savage warrior upon the authors of his misery. His hand crept to the hunting knife at his hip, the only weapon that he carried; but Shoz-Dijiji was master of his own will; and the two passed on, out of his sight, innocent of any faintest consciousness that they had paused within the shadow of the Apache Devil. A half hour later a tall, straight figure loomed suddenly before the sentry at Headquarters. The cavalryman, dismounted, snapped his carbine to _port_ as he challenged: “Halt! Who is there?” “I have come to talk with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” said Shoz-Dijiji in Apache. “Hell!” muttered the sentry; “if it ain’t a damned Siwash,” and shouted for the corporal of the guard. “Stay where you are, John,” he cautioned the Indian, “until the corporal comes, or I’ll have to make a good Indian of you.” “No sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “You’d better savvy,” warned the soldier. The corporal of the guard appeared suddenly out of the darkness. “Wot the hell now?” he demanded. “Who the hell’s this?” “It’s a God damn Siwash.” “How the hell did he get inside the lines?” “How the hell should I know? Here he is, and he don’t savvy United States.” The corporal addressed Shoz-Dijiji. “Wot the hell you want here, John?” he demanded. Again the Apache replied in his own tongue. “Try Mex on him,” suggested the sentry. “Some of ’em savvy that lingo all right.” In broken, badly broken Spanish, the corporal of the guard repeated his questions. “No sabe,” lied Shoz-Dijiji again. “Hadn’t you better shove him in the guard house?” suggested the sentry. “He ain’t got no business inside the post at night.” “I think he wants to talk to the Old Man—he keeps sayin’ that fool Siwash name they got for Crook. You hold him here while I goes and reports to the O.D. And say, if he ain’t good don’t forget that it costs Uncle Sam less to bury a Injun than to feed him.” It chanced that the Officer of the Day was one of the few white men in the southwest who understood even a little of the language of the Apaches, and when he returned with the corporal he asked Shoz-Dijiji what he wanted. “I have a message for Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” replied the Apache. “You may give it to me,” said the officer. “I will tell General Crook.” “My message is for General Crook, not for you,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “General Crook will be angry if you bother him now with some matter that is not important. You had better tell me.” “It is important,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “Come with me,” directed the officer, and led the way into the headquarters building.