It was during these days that the blue and white face of the Apache Devil became as well known and as feared as it was in Sonora and Chihuahua, for, though relentless in his war against the men of the pindah-lickoyee, Shoz-Dijiji killed neither women nor children, with the result that there were often survivors to describe the boldness and ferocity of his attacks.
Scouting far north for information relative to the movement of troops, Shoz-Dijiji one day came upon an Indian scout in the employ of the enemy; and having recognized him as an old friend he hailed him.
“Where are the soldiers of the pindah-lickoyee?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji.
“They cannot catch you,” replied the scout, grinning, “and so they are sending Apaches after you. Behind me are a hundred White Mountain and Cho-kon-en braves. They are led by one white-eyed officer, Captain Crawford. Tell Geronimo that he had better come in, for he cannot escape the Shis-Inday as he has escaped the pindah-lickoyee.”
“Why do you and the others go upon the war-trail against your own people?” demanded Shoz-Dijiji. “Why do you fight as brothers at the side of the enemy?”
“We take the war-trail against you because you are fools and we are not,” replied the scout. “We have learned that it is useless to fight against the pindah-lickoyee. We do not love them more than you; and if we could kill them all we would, but we cannot kill them all—they are as many as the weeds that grow among our corn and beans and pumpkins—for though we cut them down they come again in greater numbers than before, flourishing best in soil that is wet with blood.
“When you go upon the war-trail against the white-eyed men it only makes more trouble for us. Geronimo is a great trouble maker. Therefore we fight against him that we may live in peace.”
“Either your mouth is full of lies or your heart has turned to water,” said Shoz-Dijiji. “No Apache wants peace at the price of slavery, unless he has become a coward and is afraid of the pindah-lickoyee. Shoz-Dijiji has the guts of a man. He would rather die on the war-trail than be a reservation Indian. You have not even the guts of a coyote, which snarls and snaps at the hand of his captor and risks death to regain his freedom.”
“Be a coyote then,” sneered the scout, “and I will put your pelt on the floor of my hogan.”
“Here it is, reservation Indian,” replied the Black Bear. “Take it.”