“Yes, sir; I know it,” replied Jimmie. “The Chiricahua might think I was starting for Camp Apache, so I tried to fool them. Then I saw the Tonto trail, and then I saw the soldiers’ trail, and I was hurrying to catch you as soon as the Tonto did, when the Tonto jumped out of the basin, and I couldn’t do anything but hide and watch. I knew the soldiers would whip ’em, though. Did――did anybody get killed?” “No,” said the general grimly. “That will do,” he continued. “We’ve been at Camp Apache, and can’t take you back there; but we may be able to send you down to Camp Grant. Turn him over to Mr. Moore, if you please, lieutenant, and see that he’s outfitted more like a white boy and less like an Indian.” “Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Bourke saluted; Jimmie rigidly saluted. “Come with me, Jimmie.” And they looked up Tom Moore. There were two troops of cavalry and twenty pack-mules. Tom Moore was busy, just now, attending to the pack-train; and having been left with him Jimmie might gaze about and listen. None of the soldiers had even been wounded, but those Tontos certainly had shot hard. The general and party were examining a pine-trunk into which a Tonto arrow had buried itself clear to the feathers! In several other tree trunks there were arrows that could not be pulled out. As far as might be discovered, no Tontos had been wounded, except the one shot by the general. It had been a sharp skirmish, nevertheless. Micky Free had disappeared. Not a trace of him was noted. Jimmie loyally said not a word about him, and did not see him again for some months. “All right,” presently spoke Tom Moore. “Now, boy, you can ride behind me, on my hoss, and I’ll fix you out after we get to camp. Haven’t time here.” For the sun was setting in a range of mountains across the big basin; the basin itself was growing dark, while the high plateau was still bathed in the last rays; and the general had given the order to march and make a camping-place. With Jimmie behind his saddle, Tom rode in the advance party. This was composed of the general, and Lieutenant Bourke his aide, Captain Brent and Lieutenant Ross and Guide Archie MacIntosh. Mr. MacIntosh was a new man from the Hudson’s Bay country of the Far North――a fine scout but not yet acquainted with this part of Arizona. In fact, even Tom Moore had never been through here. So Tom was acting as pack-master and assistant guide, both. At camp that evening Jimmie was awarded an old flannel shirt and pair of cotton trousers. The shirt belonged to Lieutenant Ross; the trousers belonged to “Chileno John,” one of the packers. The suit didn’t fit very well, but Jimmie now felt more like a white boy again.