Just off the reservation was a place known locally as the Hog Ranch, though the only swine that frequented it were human; and while a single member of the family Suidæ would have tended to elevate its standing in the community it was innocent of even this slight claim to decency.
Its proprietor was what is still known in the vernacular of the Southwest as a tinhorn. “Dirty” Cheetim had tried prospecting and horse stealing, but either of these vocations were dependent for success upon a more considerable proportion of courage and endurance than existed in his mental and physical endowment.
His profits were derived through the exploitation of the pulchritude of several blondined ladies from the States and about an equal number of dusky senoritas from below the border, from cheating drunken soldiers and cowboys at cards, from selling cheap, adulterated whiskey to his white patrons openly and to Indians surreptitiously. It was whispered that he had other sources of revenue which Washington might have found interesting had it been in any measure interested in the welfare of the Indians, but how can one expect overworked Christian congressmen to neglect their electorate in the interests of benighted savages who have no votes?
However, it seemed strange to those who gave it any thought that such a place as “Dirty” Cheetim’s Hog Ranch should receive even the passive countenance of the Indian Agent.
Tall and straight, silently on moccasined feet, an Apache brave stepped through the doorway of the Hog Ranch. Pausing within he let his quick, keen glance pass rapidly over the faces of the inmates. The place was almost deserted at this hour of the day. Two Mexicans, an American cowboy, and a soldier were playing stud at a table in one corner of the room. Two other soldiers and two girls were standing at the bar, behind which one of “Dirty” Cheetim’s assistants was officiating. One of the soldiers turned and looked at the Indian.
“Hello, Black Bear!” he called. “Have a drink?”
Shoz-Dijiji looked steadily at the soldier for a moment before replying.
“No sabe,” he said, presently, his eyes moving to a closed door that led to a back room.
“He’s a damn liar,” said the soldier. “I’ll bet he savvies English as good as me.”
“Gee!” exclaimed one of the girls; “he’s sure a good lookin’ Siwash.” She looked up into Shoz-Dijiji’s face and smiled boldly as he approached them on his way across the room toward the closed door; but the face of the Indian remained expressionless, inscrutable.