Disconcerted by the first great mass of water that fell upon them, the cattle stopped. The leaders turned back upon the herd. Shoz-Dijiji, in the rear, urged the stragglers forward until, presently, the herd was milling in a muddy circle; but with the coming of the steady torrent and beneath the heavy quirt of the Apache they gradually strung out again in the direction they had been travelling, the storm at their backs. Shoz-Dijiji, seeing that he was handling the herd alone, looked about him for his companion; but the blinding torrent hid everything but the nearer cattle, and Shoz-Dijiji did not know that Luis was driving his unwilling pony into the teeth of the storm in an effort to escape. An hour later the storm was over. A full moon shone out of a clear sky. Directly ahead of him Shoz-Dijiji saw something that was frightening the leaders of the herd, causing them to stop and then turn aside. A moment later the Apache recognized the cause of the distraction. It was a man on foot. At first Shoz-Dijiji thought that it was Luis, but when he had ridden nearer he discovered that the man was a soldier. Shoz-Dijiji drew a revolver from the holster at his hip. He would ride close enough to make sure of his aim before firing. He was not afraid that the other would fire first, since the soldier, before he fired, would wish to make sure that Shoz-Dijiji was an enemy. In this Shoz-Dijiji had a great advantage. Being an Apache he knew that all men were his enemies. He could make no mistake on that score. The soldier hailed him in rather lame Spanish, but there was something in the voice that sounded familiar to the Apache Devil who never forgot anything. So he rode yet closer. And then, in perfectly understandable English, he said: “Put up your hands, King, or I’ll kill you.” Lieutenant King put his hands above his head. As yet he had not recognized the other as an Indian. The English, the use of his own name, mystified him. “Who the hell are you?” he inquired. “Turn your back,” commanded Shoz-Dijiji. King did as he was bid, and the Apache rode up and disarmed him. “All right,” said Shoz-Dijiji, and King lowered his arms and turned about. “Shoz-Dijiji!” exclaimed King. “Shoz-Dijiji, war chief of the Be-don-ko-he Apaches,” replied the Apache Devil. “And you’re on the war path. That doesn’t look so good for me, does it, Shoz-Dijiji?” “Shoz-Dijiji not on war trail now. Shoz-Dijiji good Indian now. Go in cattle business.” In the moonlight King saw the grim half smile that accompanied the words of the Indian, but he made no reply. Apache humor was something that he did not pretend to understand. All he knew about it was that upon occasion it might be hideous. “Mebbe so you like go in cattle business with Shoz-Dijiji?” suggested the Apache. “I guess that whatever you say goes,” replied the officer. “All right. Take this horse.” The Indian indicated the led horse at his side. “Now you help drive _our_ cattle. Sabe?”