He had been without water for two days, he was hopelessly lost, and now that the end had come he was not sure but that after all it was something of a relief. That which caused him the greatest apprehension was his knowledge of the possible manner of his death at the hands of one of these human fiends. His very soul shuddered and shrank from the torture that he knew might be in store for him. Shoz-Dijiji looking down at him recalled his promise to the white girl. He turned to continue his journey, knowing that death must surely overtake the white, and then he stopped. The young man, hearing him move away, had opened his eyes again. He saw the Apache rein in his pony, hesitate, and then wheel back toward him. Again he dismounted at his side, stooped down and felt of his legs—lifting them, flexing them. He put an arm beneath the youth’s shoulders and lifted him to his feet. To the great surprise of the white man he found that he could stand, that his body was not broken in any place. The Indian helped him to walk to his pony and lifted him into the saddle. Then he offered him his canteen, for he had seen that the youth’s was empty and, too, he had seen in his drawn face, in his swollen lips, the signs of thirst. The boy seized the canteen greedily and placed it to his lips. Shoz-Dijiji permitted him a brief swallow and then took the water from him. Now all fear had left the white man. “You friendly Indian, eh John?” he asked. “Me Chihuicahui!” said Shoz-Dijiji fiercely, proudly, tapping his great chest, knowing that the whites knew the fighting, warlike tribes by that name. “Holy Moses!” breathed the youth. “You a Cheeracow?” “You lost?” demanded the Black Bear. “I shore am,” replied the other. “Come!” commanded the Apache. He urged his pony up the canyon and the steep zigzag trail to the summit. When the white had reached his side the Indian asked, “You savvy Billings ranch?” “Yes,” replied the youth. Shoz-Dijiji pointed eastward and a little north to where a dim, blue butte was barely visible behind its veil of haze. “Billings ranch there,” he said. “Mebbyso one march.” He took the other’s empty canteen and poured the remaining water from his own into it. He emptied the cartridges from the chambers of the white’s revolver and rifle into his palm and handed the empty weapons back to their owner; then he wheeled his pony and cantered away. Shoz-Dijiji was taking no chances on the honor of a white man—he knew them too well. For a long time the young man sat looking after his benefactor, his face reflecting the bewilderment that filled his thoughts. “Well, ding bust my ornery hide!” he remarked, presently, and turned his horse toward the dim, blue butte beyond the horizon. So, did Shoz-Dijiji the Be-don-ko-he fulfill his promise to the white girl who had befriended him.