“Dirty” and his pals had come out on the front porch to inhale a breath of fresh air before retiring. An Indian, lithe, straight, expressionless of face, was approaching the building. “Hello, John!” said “Dirty” Cheetim through a wide yawn. “What for you want?” “Whiskey,” said the Apache. “Le’me see the color of your dust, John.” A rider coming into view from the direction of the post attracted Cheetim’s attention. “Wait till we see who that is,” he said. “I don’t want none of those damn long hairs catchin’ me dishin’ red-eye to no Siwash.” They all stood watching the approaching rider. “Why it’s a woman,” said one of the men. “Durned if it ain’t,” admitted another. “Hell!” exclaimed Cheetim. “It’s Billings’ girl—the dirty——!” “What you got agin’ her?” asked one of the party. “Got against her? Plenty! I offered to marry her, and she turned me down flat. Then her old man run me offen the ranch. It was lucky for him that they was a bunch of his cow-hands hangin’ around.” The girl passed, her horse swinging along in an easy, running walk—the gait that eats up the miles. Down the dusty trail they passed while the five white men and the Apache stood on the front porch of the Hog Ranch and watched. “Neat little heifer,” commented one of the former. “You fellers want to clean up a little dust?” asked Cheetim. “How?” asked the youngest of the party, a puncher who drank too much to be able to hold a job even in this country of hard drinking men. “Help me c’ral that critter—she’d boom business in the Hog Ranch.” “We’ve helped you put your iron on lots of mavericks, ‘Dirty,’” said the young man. “Whatever you says goes with me.” “Bueno! We’ll just slap on our saddles and follow along easy like till she gets around Pimos Canyon. They’s a old shack up there that some dude built for huntin’, but it ain’t ben used since the bronchos went out under Juh in ’81—say, that just natch’rly scairt that dude plumb out o’ the country. I’ll keep her up there a little while in case anyone raises a stink, and after it blows over I’ll fetch her down to the Ranch. Now who’s this a-comin’?” From the direction of the post a mounted trooper was approaching at a canter. He drew rein in front of the Hog Ranch. “Hello, you dirty bums!” he greeted them, with a grin. “You ain’t worth it, but orders is orders, and mine is to notify the whites in this neck o’ the woods that Geronimo’s gone out again. I hope to Christ he gets you,” and the messenger spurred on along the trail. Cheetim turned to the Apache. “Is that straight, John?” he asked. “Has Geronimo gone out?” The Indian nodded affirmatively. “Now I reckon we got to hang onto our scalps with both hands for another couple months,” wailed the young puncher. “Geronimo no go on war trail,” explained the Apache. “Him just go away reservation. Him no kill.”