The little pinto stallion was scrambling up the steep canyon side as Luis Mariel cut the bonds that held Wichita Billings. The girl ran to the window.
Far above she saw war pony and warrior silhouetted against the darkening sky; and then Shoz-Dijiji, last of the war chiefs, and Nejeunee, last of his wild friends, dropped below the crest and disappeared.
For several minutes the girl stood at the window gazing out into the gathering night; then she turned back into the room where Luis stood just within the doorway.
“The Apache Devil!” There was a shudder in Wichita’s voice. Her eyes discovered Luis. “Oh,” she said, as though she had forgotten his presence, “you are here?”
“Si, Senorita.”
Again there was a long silence.
“The Apache Devil!” Wichita squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I do not care,” she cried, defiantly.
“No, Senorita.”
The girl looked fixedly at the Mexican youth for a moment as though his presence suggested a new thought that was formulating in her mind.
“What is your name?” she asked.