“Sí–Apache!” agreed the Indian. “I come over here–hunt sheep. What for you settum trap?”
“Settum trap–ketch you,” answered Wunpost succinctly. “You bad Injun–maybeso I kill you. Who hired you to come over here and kill me?”
Again the sullen silence, the stubborn turn of the head, the suffering compression of the lips; and Wunpost went back to his camp. The Indian was an Apache, he had known it from the start by his tewas and the cut of his hair; for no Indian in California wears high-topped buckskin moccasins with a little canoe-prow on the toe. That was a mountain-Apache device, that little disc of rawhide, to protect the wearer’s toes from rocks and cactus, and someone had imported this buck. Of course, it was Lynch but it was different to make him say so–but Wunpost knew how an Apache would go about it. He would light a little fire under his fellow-man and see if that wouldn’t help. However there are ways which answer just as well, and Wunpost packed and mounted and rode down past the trap. Or at least he tried to, but his mules were so frightened that it took all his strength to haze them 206 past. As for Good Luck, he flew at the Indian in a fury of barking and was nearly struck dead by a rock. The Apache was fighting mad, until Wunpost came back and tamed him; and then Wunpost spoke straight out.
“Here, you!” he said, “you savvy coyote? You want him come eat you up? Well, talk then, you dastard; or I’ll go off and leave you. Come through now–who brought you over here?”
The Apache looked up at him from under his banged hair and his evil eyes roved fearfully about.
“Big fat man,” he lied and Wunpost smiled grimly–he would tell this later to Eells.
“Nope,” he said and shook his head warningly at which the Indian seemed to meditate his plight.
“Big tall man,” he amended and Wunpost nodded.
“Sure,” he said. “What name you callum?”
“Callum Lynchie,” admitted the Apache with a sickly grin, “she come San Carlos–busca scout.”