“I am afraid,” she said. “Afraid of what?” “Afraid of Geronimo.” He looked at her in surprise. “You will be safe with him,” he said. “Geronimo is my father.” She looked up at him aghast. God have mercy upon her—alone with the son of Geronimo! “Come!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “Pretty soon they come back. No find us here. Mebbyso they follow. We go now they no catch. We stay, they catch. Come!” He had mounted Nejeunee and was waiting for her. Tall and straight he sat his war pony. The war band about his brow confined his black hair; across his face, from ear to ear, spread a wide band of vermilion; a single necklace of silver and turquoise encircled his neck and lay upon his deep chest; beaded war moccasins encased his feet and legs. From the painted face two steady eyes regarded her intently, searchingly, conveying the impression that they saw beneath the surface, deep into the secret recesses of her mind. They were not savage eyes now, not the eyes that she had seen flash upon Tats-ah-das-ay-go, but, rather, steadfast, friendly eyes that were, at the same time, commanding eyes. They waited, but there was no inquiry in them as to whether she would obey; that, they took for granted. Still the girl hesitated. What was she to do? As deeply rooted within her as is man’s natural repugnance for snakes was her fear and distrust of all Apaches, yet Shoz-Dijiji seemed different. Three times he had had her in his power and had offered her no harm; twice he had saved her from harm at the hands of others, this last time at the cost of the lives of four of his fellows, subjecting himself to what future dangers she could only too well conjecture, aware as she was of the Indian’s penchant for vengeance. Had it been a matter only of trusting herself to him alone, perhaps she would not have hesitated; but there were the other members of his tribe—the squaws. She had heard stories of the cruelties of the squaws toward white women—and Geronimo! She recalled every hideous atrocity that had ever been laid at the door of this terrible old man, and she shrank from the thought of permitting herself to be taken to his hidden den and delivered into his cruel and bloody hands. Shoz-Dijiji had ridden close to her side. “You come!” he said, and reaching down he swept her up into his arms and headed Nejeunee into the hills. Thus was the decision made for her. He held her so easily, as though she had been a little child. He was so strong, and his voice so commanding, without harshness, that she felt almost reassured even with the coincident realization that she was being carried off by force. “I know why you afraid,” said Shoz-Dijiji presently. “You hear bad stories about Apaches. You hear much talk, bad talk; but always from mouth of enemies of Apache. You wait. You see how Apache treat friend. You no be afraid. You savvy?”