Red-head set out at a trot and rapid walk, but Jimmie kept right in his wake. Jimmie’s legs were as strong as those of Red-head; his training in the Apache games stood by him. On and on and on they hastened, without a word, through the night, amidst timber, and across open flats, and down cactus hills and up again. Red-head seemed to know what he was about, but Jimmie of course was completely lost. Not until the dusk had thinned and the eastern sky was pink did Red-head halt, at a spring which had made the ground mushy in a little hollow among rocks and cedars. “Drink, eat, rest,” he said. He grinned with his freckled face, his long red hair was damp with sweat. “You did well, Boy-who-sleeps. One more travel and they cannot catch us. Wait.” He fitted an arrow to his bow-string and stepped aside, hunting. Jimmie flung himself down, drank, and lay flat, resting. The sky was pink as far as over-head, he might glimpse Red-head moving silently among the cedars; saw him shoot an arrow; and presently Red-head returned with two rabbits. They started a fire by twirling a pointed stick set upon a flat piece of wood until the dust smoked; then they blew upon the dust and some bark tinder until there was a glow. Then they cooked the rabbits over dry cedar that made no smoke. First by the stars and later by the pink east Jimmie knew that they had been traveling toward the north. Now Red-head explained. Some of his talk was Apache and some was Spanish-Mexican. He used whichever language came the easier. “We will not go straight to Camp Apache in the country where the White Mountains are,” he said. “It is better that we go round-about. If the Chiricahua see that we are going to Camp Apache that might make trouble. They would say that the White Mountains stole you, and some time they might capture _me_. Now if they try to follow us, we will fool them. “I will tell you about the soldiers. There is a new American comandante. He has come to Tucson, to fight the bad Indians. He is leading out a great lot of horse soldiers and white scouts and tame-Indian scouts――Navahos and Papagos and Yaquis and Apaches, too――and wagons and pack-mules. He has been at Camp Bowie, and he is marching north to Camp Apache, but he may not stay. The White Mountains have heard this from runners. The runners say that he is a wonderful comandante, who knows everything but asks many questions. Shall we try to find him, Boy-who-sleeps? I think that now is a good chance, while the Chiricahua are hiding.” “I don’t want to live with the Chiricahuas,” asserted Jimmie. “I hate them. They kill my friends. I’m not an Indian. I’m white.” “I don’t know whether I’m American or Mexican or Indian,” grinned Red-head. “I can be anything. What is your American name, Boy-who-sleeps? I will call you by it. We will quit being Apache.” “James MacGregor Dunn, but everybody called me Jimmie.”