“Shoz-Dijiji,” she exclaimed, “where is your pinto war pony?”
The Apache shrugged. “Who knows?”
“What became of him? Is he dead, or did you lose him in battle?”
“We were starving,” said the Apache. “We had eaten all the ponies except Nejeunee. It was in Sonora. Your soldiers were pressing us on one side, the Mexicans upon the other. At night I led Nejeunee close to the picket line of the white-eyed soldiers. I have not seen him since.”
“You were very fond of Nejeunee, Shoz-Dijiji.”
“In Apache Nejeunee means friend,” said the man. “One by one all of my friends are being taken from me. Nejeunee was just one more. Usen has forgotten Shoz-Dijiji.”
“Perhaps not,” replied Wichita. “What would you say if I told you that Nejeunee is alive and that I know where he is?”
“I should say that after all Usen has at last been good to me in giving me you as a friend. Tell me where he is.”
“He’s on our ranch—in the back pasture.”
“On your ranch? How did Nejeunee get there?”