“We take the war-trail against you because you are fools and we are not,” replied the scout. “We have learned that it is useless to fight against the pindah-lickoyee. We do not love them more than you; and if we could kill them all we would, but we cannot kill them all—they are as many as the weeds that grow among our corn and beans and pumpkins—for though we cut them down they come again in greater numbers than before, flourishing best in soil that is wet with blood. “When you go upon the war-trail against the white-eyed men it only makes more trouble for us. Geronimo is a great trouble maker. Therefore we fight against him that we may live in peace.” “Either your mouth is full of lies or your heart has turned to water,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “No Apache wants peace at the price of slavery, unless he has become a coward and is afraid of the pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji has the guts of a man. He would rather die on the war-trail than be a reservation Indian. You have not even the guts of a coyote, which snarls and snaps at the hand of his captor and risks death to regain his freedom.” “Be a coyote then,” sneered the scout, “and I will put your pelt on the floor of my hogan.” “Here it is, reservation Indian,” replied the Black Bear. “Take it.” Both men had dismounted when they met and were standing close and face to face. The scout reached quickly for his six-shooter, but the Apache Devil was even quicker. His left hand shot out and seized the other’s wrist, and with his right he drew from its scabbard the great butcher knife that hung at his hip. The scout warded the first blow and grasped Shoz-Dijiji’s arm; and at the same instant tore his right arm free, but as he did so the renegade snatched the other’s gun from its holster and tossed it aside, while the scout, profiting by the momentary freedom of his right hand, drew his own knife, and the two closed in a clinch, each striving to drive his blade home in the body of his adversary. At the time that their altercation had reached the point of physical encounter each of the men had dropped his hackamore rope with the result that Shoz-Dijiji’s horse, recently stolen from a raided ranch, took advantage of this God-given opportunity to make a break for freedom and home, while the scout’s pony, lured by the call of consanguinity, trotted off with the deserter. Each of the combatants now held the knife arm of the other and the struggle had resolved itself into one of strength and endurance, since he who could hold his grip the longer stood the greater chance for victory, the other the almost certain assurance of death. They struggled to and fro, pushing one another here and there about the sandy dust of a parched canyon bottom. The painted face of the Apache Devil remained almost expressionless, so well schooled in inscrutability were his features, nor did that of the scout indicate that he was engaged in a duel to the death.