Above the edge of a nearby arroyo unblinking eyes watched them. The eyes appraised the four cow ponies and sized up the grazing herd. They were stern eyes, narrowed by much exposure to the pitiless sunlight of the southwest. They were set in a band of white that crossed a blue face from temple to temple. They scrutinized Luis Mariel and recognized him, but their expression did not change. The Apache saw before him horses that he and his friends needed; he saw food on the hoof, and Usen knew that they needed food; he saw the enemies of his people, any one of whom would shoot him down on sight, had they the opportunity. But it was he who had the opportunity! He levelled his rifle and fired. A vaquero cried out and fell from his saddle. The others looked about, drawing their pistols. Shoz-Dijiji fired again and another vaquero fell. Now the two remaining had located the smoke of his rifle and returned his fire. Shoz-Dijiji dropped below the edge of the arroyo and ran quickly to a new position. When his eyes again peered above the edge of his defense he saw the two galloping toward his former position. He appreciated their bravery and realized their foolhardiness as he dropped his rifle quickly on one of them and pressed the trigger; then he quickly tied a white rag to the muzzle of his smoking rifle and waved it above the edge of the arroyo, though he was careful not to expose any more of his person than was necessary. Luis Mariel looked in astonishment. What could it mean? A voice called him by name. “Who are you?” demanded Luis, whose better judgment prompted him to put spurs to his horse and leave the victors in possession of the field. “I am a friend,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “We shall not harm you if you will throw down your pistol. If you do not we can shoot you before you can get away.” Luis appreciated the truth of this statement. Further, he thought that his enemies must number several men; also—he did not know that he who addressed him was not a Mexican, for the Spanish was quite as good as Luis’ own. So he threw down his pistol, being assured by this time that they had been attacked by bandits who wished only to steal the herd. Perhaps they would invite him to join the band, and when was there ever a red-blooded youth who did not at some time in his career aspire to be a brigand or a pirate? A painted face appeared above the arroyo’s edge. “Mother of God!” cried Luis, “protect me.” The Apache sprang quickly to level ground and came toward the youth. “The Apache Devil!” exclaimed Luis. “Yes,” said Shoz-Dijiji, stooping and picking up Luis’ pistol. “I shall not harm you, if you will do as I tell you.” “Won’t the others kill me?” asked the youth. “There are no others,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “But you said ‘we,’” explained Luis. “I am alone.” “What do you want me to do?” “Round up those three horses and then help me drive this herd to my camp.” “You will not harm me, nor let your friends harm me?”