Again the Apache replied in his own tongue.
“Try Mex on him,” suggested the sentry. “Some of ’em savvy that lingo all right.”
In broken, badly broken Spanish, the corporal of the guard repeated his questions.
“No sabe,” lied Shoz-Dijiji again.
“Hadn’t you better shove him in the guard house?” suggested the sentry. “He ain’t got no business inside the post at night.”
“I think he wants to talk to the Old Man—he keeps sayin’ that fool Siwash name they got for Crook. You hold him here while I goes and reports to the O.D. And say, if he ain’t good don’t forget that it costs Uncle Sam less to bury a Injun than to feed him.”
It chanced that the Officer of the Day was one of the few white men in the southwest who understood even a little of the language of the Apaches, and when he returned with the corporal he asked Shoz-Dijiji what he wanted.
“I have a message for Nan-tan-des-la-par-en,” replied the Apache.
“You may give it to me,” said the officer. “I will tell General Crook.”
“My message is for General Crook, not for you,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.