“You’ve bought some cattle, Shoz-Dijiji,” exclaimed King; “but I can’t understand you. You are not like any other Indian I ever heard of. Why have you done this?” “Two men drive cattle easier than one,” replied the Apache. “Yes, I know that; but why are you giving me a chance to escape when you know that I’ll go right back to chasing you and fighting you again? Is it because of Wichita Billings?” “Shoz-Dijiji no sabe English,” grunted the Indian. “Now you go!” and he pointed back down the canyon along the trail they had just come over. King wheeled his horse around. “Good-bye, Shoz-Dijiji,” he said. “Perhaps some day I can repay you.” “Wait!” said the Indian and handed the white man his pistol. Then he sat his horse watching until a turn in the canyon took the other from his sight. Far away Luis Mariel rode with “B” Troop of the ——th. He had not led the soldiers upon the trail of his friend, the Apache Devil. [Illustration: Again Gian-nah-tah flourished the red blanket.] Chapter Twelve “Shoz-Dijiji Knows!” =L=UIS MARIEL had attached himself to “B” Troop. He rode with it, made himself generally useful around camp; and, in return, they fed him. Incidentally he picked up a smattering of English that was much more effective than the original brand formerly purveyed by Mr. Webster, and learned to ask for either bacon or potatoes through the medium of set phrases that contained at least ten obscene or blasphemous words and did not mention either bacon or potatoes by their right names. He also discovered that one may call an American _anything_, provided that one smiles. Much to his surprise he discovered that he liked the Gringoes, and because he was young and bright and good-natured, the soldiers liked Luis. He had been with them four or five days when Lieutenant Samuel Adams King, half starved and rather the worse for wear, rode into camp upon an equally starved pony that Luis immediately recognized as having formerly belonged to one of his fellow vaqueros who had been killed by the Apache Devil. Being a privileged character Luis was present when King reported to his troop commander; and when, through the medium of much profanity, a great deal of Spanish, and a few words of remote English origin he had indicated that he knew something about the pony King was riding, an interpreter was summoned and Luis told his story to Captain Cullis and the officers accompanying him. “Well, King,” commented Cullis, “you have achieved all the distinction of a museum piece. You should have a place in the Smithsonian Institution.” “How so, sir?” “As the only white man who ever fell into the hands of the Apache Devil and lived to tell about it. I can’t account for it. Can you?” For a moment King hesitated before he replied, and then: “No, sir,” he said, “I cannot.”