Cunning, unscrupulous, Juh seized upon his opportunity. “He will not return,” he said. “Shoz-Dijiji is dead.” The old man looked pleased. “In Sonora he was killed by the Mexicans. There we were told that a young warrior had been killed while attempting to drive off a bunch of horses. We did not know who he was until we found his pony. It was lame. We brought it with us. Talk with the girl. If she will feed and water my pony, come to me. Juh will give the father of Ish-kay-nay fifteen ponies.” “The other was to have given me fifty,” said the old man. Juh laughed. “That was talk,” he said. “How could he give you fifty ponies when he had but three? I have fifteen ponies; that is better than fifty that do not exist.” “You have more than fifteen ponies,” the old man reminded him. “Yes, I have many more, and I am a great chief. Juh can do many things for the father of Ish-kay-nay.” “Twenty-five ponies,” suggested the other, preferring twenty-five ponies to the chance that Juh would forget the less concrete suggestion of future obligation. “Fifteen ponies and five mules,” said Juh. “Twenty-five ponies. The girl is a good daughter. My heart will be heavy with sorrow when she is gone.” “Twenty ponies and five mules,” snapped Juh with finality, turning upon his heel. “And a rifle,” added the father of Ish-kay-nay. “And a rifle,” acquiesced the chief of the Ned-ni. “And ammunition,” exclaimed the old man, hurriedly; but the deal was made on the basis of twenty ponies, five mules and a rifle. Ish-kay-nay, sitting beneath the shade of a tree, was sewing pretty beads upon a bit of buckskin, using an awl and deer sinew. She hummed contentedly to herself as she planned for the future—the long, happy future with Shoz-Dijiji. She would make many pretty things for them both and for their tepee. Later she would make other pretty things, tiny things, for future war chiefs. Her father found her thus. “Shoz-Dijiji will not return,” he said. She looked up at him quickly, sensing a new note in a statement that she had already heard many times since her lover had departed. Heretofore the statement had implied only hope, now it was redolent of sweet relief. “Why?” she asked. “He is dead.” The heart of Ish-kay-nay went cold and numb within her, but the expression upon her face underwent no change. “Who says so?” she demanded. “Juh.” “Either Juh lies, or he has himself slain Shoz-Dijiji,” said the girl. “Juh does not lie, nor has he slain Shoz-Dijiji.” Then he told her all that Juh had told him. “I am an old man,” he continued. “I have not long to live. Before I die I would see my daughter, whom I love, safe with a great warrior. Juh is a great warrior. He will treat you well. He has many women and you will not have to work hard. If he ties his pony before our tepee Ish-kay-nay will lead it to water and feed it?” “I do not believe that Shoz-Dijiji is dead,” she said. “If you did, would you go to Juh?”