Even from where he lay he saw that she was very good to look at. As she came abreast of the three whites they rode directly into the road and barred her passage, and as she sought to wheel her horse one of them reached out and seized her bridle rein. The girl reached for a six-shooter that hung at her hip, a cold, blue Colt; but another of the three had slipped from his saddle and run to her side. Now he grasped her wrist, tore the weapon from its holster and dragged the girl to the ground. It was all done very quickly. Shoz-Dijiji watched. His hatred for the men mounted. He could hear the words that were spoken below and he understood them. He heard the girl call one of the men by name, demanding that they release her. He felt the contempt in her tone and a like sentiment for them in his own breast aroused within him, unconsciously, a sense of comradeship with the girl. “Your old man kicked me out,” growled the man she had addressed. “You told him to. I wasn’t good enough for you, eh? You’ll find I am. You’re goin’ with me, but you ain’t a-goin’ as Mrs. Cheetim—you’re goin’ as Dirty Cheetim’s woman. Sabe?” The girl seemed very cool. Shoz-Dijiji could not but admire her. The ethics of the proceedings did not interest him; but suddenly he became aware of the fact that his interest was keenly aroused and that his inclinations were strongly upon the side of the girl. He did not know why. He did not attempt to analyze his feelings. He only knew that it pleased him to interfere. He heard the girl’s reply. Her voice was steady, level, low. It had a quality that touched hidden chords within the breast of the Apache, arousing pleasant reactions. “You are a fool, Cheetim,” she said. “You know my old man. He will kill you if he has to follow you to Hell to get you, and you know it.” “They’ll be two of us in Hell then,” replied Cheetim. “Come on—git back on that cayuse.” He jerked her roughly. The barrel of a rifle slid quietly from beneath the edge of a gray boulder at the top of the canyon’s wall; there was a loud report that rebounded thunderously from wall to wall. Cheetim dropped in his tracks. “Apaches!” screamed one of the remaining men and scrambled into his saddle, closely followed by his companion. The girl’s horse wheeled and ran toward the south. Another shot and one of the fleeing men toppled from his saddle. The girl looked up to see a painted, all but naked warrior leaping down the steep canyon side toward her. She reached for her Colt, forgetting that it was gone. Then he was beside her. She stood there bravely, facing him. “Nejeunee,” announced Shoz-Dijiji, which means friend or friendly; but the girl did not understand. He held out his hand; this she understood. She took it, smiling. “You sabe English?” she asked. “No savvy,” lied Shoz-Dijiji. He picked up the Colt, where it lay beside the dead Cheetim, and handed it to her. “What your name?” demanded the girl. “No savvy,” said Shoz-Dijiji.