“I’m not afraid,” said Wichita. “As long as it’s only Geronimo I’m in no danger even if I meet him, which I won’t. You know we are old friends.”
“Yes, I know all about that; but I know you can’t trust an Apache.”
“I trust them,” said Wichita. She stooped and buckled on her spurs.
“You don’t mean that you are going anyway!”
“Why of course I am.”
Margaret Cullis shook her head. “What am I to do?” she demanded helplessly.
“Give me a cup of coffee before I leave,” suggested Wichita.
The business at the Hog Ranch had been good that night. Two miners and a couple of cattlemen, all well staked, had dropped in early in the evening for a couple of drinks and a few rounds of stud. They were still there at daylight, but they were no longer well staked. “Dirty” Cheetim and three or four of his cronies had annexed their bank rolls. The four guests were sleeping off the effects of their pleasant evening on the floor of the back room.
“Dirty” and his pals had come out on the front porch to inhale a breath of fresh air before retiring. An Indian, lithe, straight, expressionless of face, was approaching the building.
“Hello, John!” said “Dirty” Cheetim through a wide yawn. “What for you want?”