“I have something to say to you,” she commenced in a level voice. “My father lies in here, murdered. He was shot in the back. He never had a chance. As far as we know no one saw him killed, but I guess we all know who did it. There doesn’t seem to be any chance for a doubt—it was the Be-don-ko-he war chief, Shoz-Dijiji, Black Bear. “If it takes all the rest of my life and every acre and every critter that I own, I’m going to get the man that killed my father; and I’m starting now by offering a thousand dollars to the man who brings in Shoz-Dijiji—_dead!_” When she had ceased speaking she turned and walked back into the house, closing the door after her. The men, moving slowly toward the bunk house, talked together in low tones, discussing the girl’s offer. Inside the house, Wichita Billings threw herself face down upon a sofa and burst into tears. * * * * * Shoz-Dijiji slid from the back of the pinto war pony, Nejeunee, in the camp of Geronimo and stood before the great war chief of the Apaches. “Seven times, my son,” said the old chief, “have I cast hoddentin to the four winds at evening since you rode away; seven times have I cast hoddentin to the four winds at dawn; twice seven times have I prayed to the spirits whose especial duty it is to watch over you to bring you back in safety. My prayers have been answered. What word do you bring?” “Shoz-Dijiji went to the reservation at San Carlos,” replied the young man. “None of our friends or relatives who went out upon the war-trail with us is there. I heard many stories, but I do not speak of anything that I did not see with my own eyes or hear with my own ears. “There are many soldiers scouting everywhere. There are so many that I think all the soldiers that were sent to Mexico after us must have been called back to hunt for us here. “The reservation Indians say that now that Miles is after us we shall all be killed. They advise us to lay down our arms and surrender. I think that very soon the soldiers will find our camp here.” “You are a war chief, my son,” said Geronimo. “Already you are very wise. At the councils even the old men listen to you with respect. What would you advise?” “We are very few,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, thoughtfully. “We cannot take the war-trail successfully against the pindah-lickoyee in this country where we are. Sooner or later they will kill us or capture us. This is no longer a good country for the Apache. It is our country that Usen made for us, but we cannot be happy in it any longer because of the pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji does not wish to live here any more. Let us go to Mexico. Perhaps the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee will not again follow us into Mexico. There we may live as we would wish to live and not as the pindah-lickoyee want us to live.”