This was the way the Chiricahua Apaches thought. But of course there were two sides to the quarrel. Joe Felmer and Pete Kitchen and other pioneers had claimed that old Mangas Coloradas had been a regular bandit who never intended to stay at peace. He had tortured and killed men and women and children, and was determined to drive all the Americans out of the country. Once he had been captured by miners and tied up and whipped, which had made him worse. He had lived to be seventy years old, and although even Pete Kitchen did not wholly approve of the manner with which he had been disposed of, it was a great relief to have him out of the way. Maybe he might have been educated to stay at peace, and maybe not. But now that the Chiricahuas hated the Americans and Mexicans both, Jimmie saw little chance of escape. Maria the Mexican boy had settled down to be an Apache. All his folks had been killed, and he said that he might as well live with the Apaches. He had plenty to eat and little to do; and he thought that he would marry an Apache girl, when he was old enough, and stay Apache. The Red-head boy who lived with the White Mountain Apaches came in once or twice, to visit, while out hunting or just scouting around. He could not speak English. His father had been Irish and his mother Mexican, and Spanish had been the only language used in his home. Since the Apaches had captured him eight or nine years ago he had learned Apache, too. “Are you going to stay Apache, Red-head?” asked Jimmie. “Yes,” answered Red-head, in Apache. “I’ll stay with the White Mountains, but I don’t like the Chiricahua. It is no use for them to fight the Americans. Besides, they killed my father and mother. Are you going to be a Chiricahua, Boy-who-sleeps?” Jimmie shook his head. “No. I am American. I don’t want to be anything but American. I’m a white boy.” “That is good,” approved Red-head. He was a snappy, energetic boy, built low to the ground, and with his red hair and freckled face and one bright blue eye looked very nervy. “I like the Americans. Some day I’ll be a scout with the American soldiers. The White Mountain Apaches are good Apaches. Chief Pedro is wise. He knows that it is no use to fight the Americans. It is better to live at peace with them, and raise corn, and hunt, and be given food and clothes. That is easier than fighting and starving and losing warriors. The Americans are too many, and are well armed. The Chiricahua have bad hearts and will all be killed. You ought to leave them.” “I can’t,” replied Jimmie. “I don’t know where to go.” “Well,” said Red-head, winking with his one shrewd blue eye, “wait and maybe I’ll help you. But don’t tell anybody about my talk with you.” III THE RED-HEAD TURNS UP