A few Chiricahuas had been killed, but among the first to fall, of the Americans, was the young horse chief who had given the Chiricahuas so much trouble. They had taken his clothes and other trophies, and had easily escaped to the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico. Cochise was going to stay there for a time, until the soldiers quit trying to trail him. Then he would come north. The old squaws in the rancheria immediately lay flat upon their stomachs and screeched and wailed, mourning the warriors who had fallen. This was Apache custom. But the camp on the whole was happy and Jimmie was the only truly sad member. He was not an Apache; he was an American, even though he did not look much like a white boy, now, save for his eyes and hair. The camp was moved, to guard against a surprise from the soldiers of the American forts. After another half a moon the war party came in and were given a great welcome. They had eaten most of the captured cavalry horses, but they brought some of the other plunder. Taza was wearing the flannel shirt of the young officer. He was very proud of it. It was a blue shirt, with the straps of a first lieutenant sewed upon the shoulders. Jimmie recognized these, because he knew army uniforms. The shirt was passed about. Inside the neck had been stitched a little tag, bearing the letters “H. B. C.” printed on it. Oh! This was Lieutenant Cushing’s shirt, then! His initials were H. B. C., for Howard B. Cushing; and he was a first lieutenant, and he had commanded lots of detachments out of Camp Grant, against the Apaches. He was a terrific fighter, too, and one of the very best officers on a trail. Jimmie remembered him well. All southern Arizona knew of Lieutenant Howard B. Cushing of the Third Cavalry. He had served through the Civil War; one of his brothers had been killed at Gettysburg and another, as a lieutenant in the navy, had blown up the Confederate iron-clad Albemarle by poking it with a bomb attached to a long pole. This Lieutenant Cushing of the Third Cavalry was just as brave. The Apaches had had good reason to fear him. No wonder they rejoiced, now that they had ambushed him and wiped him out. Nah-che saw Jimmie gulp in his throat. Nah-che had keen eyes. “You know him?” asked Nah-che. “Friend,” answered Jimmie, turning away. “He was a brave captain,” volunteered Nah-che. “He fought hard. But in war brave men die.” Jimmie longed for the Red-head to take him away; or for soldiers or scouts to attack the camp and rescue him. The killing of Lieutenant Cushing encouraged the Chiricahuas. Cochise had talks with Chiefs Loco and Chihuahua, and with Chief Nana who was with a Warm Spring band and helping the Chiricahuas. Parties were being sent out constantly; some of the captains took their families, Maria was traded to Chief Nana, and soon the main Chiricahua camp was much smaller. One day Nah-che, who had been away with Geronimo, came hurrying in with orders for the camp to be moved again.