“I am a friend,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “We shall not harm you if you will throw down your pistol. If you do not we can shoot you before you can get away.”
Luis appreciated the truth of this statement. Further, he thought that his enemies must number several men; also—he did not know that he who addressed him was not a Mexican, for the Spanish was quite as good as Luis’ own. So he threw down his pistol, being assured by this time that they had been attacked by bandits who wished only to steal the herd. Perhaps they would invite him to join the band, and when was there ever a red-blooded youth who did not at some time in his career aspire to be a brigand or a pirate?
A painted face appeared above the arroyo’s edge. “Mother of God!” cried Luis, “protect me.”
The Apache sprang quickly to level ground and came toward the youth.
“The Apache Devil!” exclaimed Luis.
“Yes,” said Shoz-Dijiji, stooping and picking up Luis’ pistol. “I shall not harm you, if you will do as I tell you.”
“Won’t the others kill me?” asked the youth.
“There are no others,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.
“But you said ‘we,’ ” explained Luis.
“I am alone.”