A half hour later a tall, straight figure loomed suddenly before the sentry at Headquarters. The cavalryman, dismounted, snapped his carbine to port as he challenged: “Halt! Who is there?”
“I have come to talk with Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” said Shoz-Dijiji in Apache.
“Hell!” muttered the sentry; “if it ain’t a damned Siwash,” and shouted for the corporal of the guard. “Stay where you are, John,” he cautioned the Indian, “until the corporal comes, or I’ll have to make a good Indian of you.”
“No sabe,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
“You’d better savvy,” warned the soldier.
The corporal of the guard appeared suddenly out of the darkness. “Wot the hell now?” he demanded. “Who the hell’s this?”
“It’s a God damn Siwash.”
“How the hell did he get inside the lines?”
“How the hell should I know? Here he is, and he don’t savvy United States.”
The corporal addressed Shoz-Dijiji. “Wot the hell you want here, John?” he demanded.