“How can I ever thank you, Shoz-Dijiji?” she said. “You are the most wonderful friend that a girl could have.” The war chief of the Be-don-ko-he looked her straight in the eyes and grunted. “Me no sabe,” he said, and wheeled his pinto down toward the main trail, beckoning her to follow. Wichita Billings looked at the man at her side in astonishment. She opened her lips to speak again but thought better of it and remained silent. They passed the two habitues of the Hog Ranch trudging disgustedly through the dust. The Apache did not even deign to look at them. They came to the main trail, and here Shoz-Dijiji turned southeast in the direction of the Billings ranch. San Carlos lay to the northwest. Wichita drew rein. “You may go back to the reservation,” she said. “I shall be safe now the rest of the way home.” Shoz-Dijiji looked at her. “Come!” he said, and rode on toward the southeast. Wichita did not move. “I shall not let you ride with me,” she said. “I appreciate what you have done for me, but I cannot permit myself to be put under further obligations to you.” “Come!” said Shoz-Dijiji, peremptorily. Wichita felt a slow flush mounting her cheek, and it embarrassed and angered her. “I’ll sit here forever,” she said, “before I’ll let you ride home with me.” Shoz-Dijiji reined Nejeunee about and rode back to her side. He took hold of her bridle rein and started leading her horse in the direction he wished it to go. For an instant Wichita Billings was furious. Very seldom in her life had she been crossed. Being an only child in a motherless home she had had her own way more often than not. People had a habit of doing the things that Wichita Billings wanted done. In a way she was spoiled; and, too, she had a bit of a temper. Shoz-Dijiji had humiliated her and now he was attempting to coerce her. Her eyes flashed fire as she swung her heavy quirt above her head and brought it down across the man’s naked shoulders. “Let go of my bridle, you—” but there she stopped, horrified at what she had done. “Oh, Shoz-Dijiji! How could I?” she cried, and burst into tears. The Apache gave no sign that he had felt the stinging blow, but the ugly welt that rose across his back testified to the force with which the lash had fallen. As though realizing that she had capitulated the Apache dropped her bridle rein; and Wichita rode on docilely at his side, dabbing at her eyes and nose with her handkerchief and struggling to smother an occasional sob. Thus in silence they rode as mile after mile of the dusty trail unrolled behind them. Often the girl glanced at the rugged, granitic profile of the savage warrior at her side and wondered what was passing through the brain behind that inscrutable mask. Sometimes she looked at the welt across his shoulders and caught her breath to stifle a new sob.