“This boy is Jimmie Dunn, sir,” reported the lieutenant. “He was taken by the Chiricahuas about a year ago, while herding sheep on the Kitchen ranch south of Tucson. He says that he has run away from them, and,” added the lieutenant, with a quizzical laugh, “he doesn’t want to go back.” Jimmie stood at attention, while General Crook eyed him. This, then, was the new “comandante” of whom Micky had spoken. He was a straight, square-shouldered, active-looking man, as strong on his feet as any Apache. Yes, he was of a tall, muscular build like Geronimo. He was of light complexion, with sandy hair and thin sandy moustache, and high forehead, and from between two very keen, gray-blue eyes a large sharp nose jutted down to a firm mouth set over a longish, firm chin. He needed shaving. The hands upon his shot-gun were brown and sinewy. Now he queried abruptly, military fashion but not gruff; merely as though he required a short direct answer. “What band of Chiricahua?” “Cochise’s band.” “Where are they now?” “I don’t know, sir. They’re traveling around.” “Where were they when you left them?” “They were in the north part of the Chiricahua Mountains, I think. They were moving to a new camp, because of the soldiers.” “Hah! Was Cochise there?” “No, sir. He was out and so was Geronimo. It was just the old men and the squaws. Most of the chiefs were in Mexico, on raids.” “Who is Geronimo?” “He’s Go-yath-lay, the war chief.” “How long ago did you run away?” “Five days, I think.” “How did you happen to get up here? Did the Tonto have you?” “No, sir. I was trying to go to Camp Apache.” “You answer like a soldier, boy. Are you a soldier’s son?” “No, sir. My mother and father were killed by the Apaches, but I lived with Joe Felmer. He’s post blacksmith for Camp Grant.” “Lieutenant Ross and Moore and I have seen him there often, general,” put in Lieutenant Bourke. “He calls Joe Felmer uncle, but they’re not relations, as I understand.” “No, sir; we’re not,” said Jimmie. “Joe is mighty good to me, though.” “Did the Chiricahua treat you well?” asked the general. “Yes, sir; but I don’t like them.” “Why not?” And General Crook slightly smiled. When he smiled his face was kind and fatherly. “Because they wanted to make me an Apache, so I’d help them kill Americans and Mexicans and steal cattle. They torture people. And they killed Lieutenant Cushing, too!” “How do you know that?” sharply queried the general. “They did, didn’t they, sir? I saw his shirt. Taza was wearing it.” “Hum!” mused the general. “Could you guide us to the Cochise camp, do you think?” “N-no, sir,” faltered Jimmie. “You see, they have their own names for places, and sometimes I was in Mexico and sometimes I was in Arizona, and I got all mixed up.” “I see,” admitted the general. “You say you were trying to reach Camp Apache. Don’t you know that this is a long way west of Camp Apache? How did you happen to be off here?”