“It sure seems tame around these parts now,” she remarked. “Do you know I almost miss being scared out of seven years’ growth every once in a while since the ‘bronchos’ were rounded up and shipped to Florida.”
“I suppose you are cleaning that pistol, then, just as a sentimental reminder of the happy days that are gone,” laughed King.
“Not entirely,” she replied. “There are still plenty of bad hombres left—all the bad ones weren’t Indians, not by a jug full.”
“I suppose not,” agreed King. “As a matter of fact I doubt if the Apaches were responsible for half the killings that have been laid at their door; and, do you know, Chita, I can’t bring myself to believe even yet that it was an Apache that killed your father. We got it pretty straight from some of the renegades themselves that at the time they were all with Geronimo in the mountains near Hot Springs, except those that were still in Sonora, and Shoz-Dijiji.”
“Well, that narrows it down pretty close to one man, doesn’t it?” demanded the girl, bitterly.
“Yes, Chita,” replied King, “but I can’t believe that he did it. He spared my life twice merely because I was your friend. If he could do that, how could he have killed your father?”
“I know, Ad. I’ve argued it out a hundred times,” said the girl, wearily; “but—that thousand dollars reward still stands.”
“The chances are that it will stand forever, then,” said King. “Shoz-Dijiji didn’t come in with the other renegades; and, of course, you can’t get anything out of them; but it is better than an even bet that he was killed in Sonora during one of the last engagements. I know several bucks were killed; but they usually got them away and buried them, and they never like to talk about their dead.”
“I hope to God that he is dead,” said the girl.
King shook his head. He knew how bitterly she must feel—more bitterly, perhaps, because the man she suspected was one to whom she had given her friendship and her aid when he was bearing arms against her country.