For a month the renegades rested and recuperated in the high sierras, and then one day a scout brought word to Geronimo that he had sighted three troops of United States Cavalry as they were going into camp a day’s march to the north. Geronimo shook his head. “They are always talking of peace,” he said, “and always making war upon us. They will not leave us alone.” He turned to Shoz-Dijiji. “Go to the camp of the pindah-lickoyee and try to talk with some of their scouts. Take Gian-nah-tah with you. Do not trust too much in the honor of the scouts, but learn all that you can without telling them anything.” Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah arose. “That is all?” asked the young war chief of the Be-don-ko-he. “That is all,” replied Geronimo. The soft rustle of their war moccasins faded into silence. The night swallowed them. Geronimo sat with bowed head, his eyes upon the ground. A girl looked after them and sighed. Then she cast hoddentin in the direction they had gone and whispered prayers for the safety of one of them. Also she prayed that some day she would be the mother of warriors and that Gian-nah-tah would be their father. In four hours the two warriors covered the distance that it would take a troop of cavalry all of the following day to cover; but they travelled where no horse might travel, over trails that no cavalryman knew. They trod in places where only mountain sheep and Apaches had trod before. Quiet lay upon the camp of ——th Cavalry. Three weary sentries, softly cursing because they must walk their posts to save their horses, circled the lonely bivouac. At a little distance lay the camp of the Apache scouts. The dismal voice of an owl broke the silence. It came from the summit of a low bluff south of the camp. At intervals it was repeated twice. One of the sentries was a rookie. “Gosh,” he soliloquized, “but that’s a lonesome sound!” Once more came the eerie cry—this time, apparently, from the camp of the scouts. Number One sentry was a veteran. He stepped quickly from his post to the side of his top sergeant, who lay wrapped in a sweaty saddle blanket with his head on a McClellan. “H-s-st! McGuire!” he whispered. “Wot the ’ell?” demanded the sergeant, sitting up. “Hos-tiles! I just heard ’em signalling to our Siwashes—three owl calls and an answer.” The sergeant came to his feet, strapping his belt about his hips. He picked up his carbine. “Git back on your post an’ keep your ears unbuttoned,” he directed. “I’ll mosey out that way a bit an’ listen. Maybe it _was_ a owl.” Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah crept silently down the face of the bluff and approached the camp of the scouts. There was no moon, and light clouds obscured the stars. It was very dark. A figure loomed suddenly before them. “Who are you?” it demanded in a whisper that could not have been heard ten feet away. “We are Be-don-ko-he,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “We bring a message from Geronimo.” “What is it?”