Each reined in instantly and, for a moment, sat eyeing the other in silence. Shoz-Dijiji was the first to speak.
“You are alone?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
“Why you ride alone when the Apaches are on the war-trail?” he asked, sternly.
“The Apaches are my friends. They will not harm me.”
“Some of the Be-don-ko-he Apaches are your friends, white girl; but there are others on the war-trail who are not your friends,” replied Shoz-Dijiji. “There are Cho-kon-en and Ned-ni with Geronimo.”
“Shoz-Dijiji and Geronimo would not let them harm me.”
“Shoz-Dijiji and Geronimo are not like the God of the white-eyed men—they cannot be here, there, and everywhere at the same time.”
Wichita Billings smiled. “But perhaps He guides them to the right place at the right time,” she suggested. “Are you not here now, Shoz-Dijiji, instead of a Cho-kon-en or a Ned-ni?”
“You have strong medicine, white girl; but so did the great izze-nantan, Nakay-do-klunni. He made strong medicine that turned away the bullets of the white-eyed soldiers, but at Cibicu Creek they killed him. The best medicine is to stay out of danger.”