The American woman, the wife of the freighter, had been given a tent to herself. She was sleeping soundly, secure in the knowledge of absolute safety, for the first time in many weeks. As she had dozed off to sleep the night before she had hoped that her husband was as comfortable as she; but, knowing him as she had, her mind had been assailed by doubts. He had been killed by Apaches a week previously.
She was awakened by a gentle shaking. When she opened her eyes she saw nothing as it was dark in the tent; but she felt a hand upon her arm, and when she started to speak a palm was slapped across her mouth.
“Make noise, gettum killed,” whispered a deep voice. “Shut up, no gettum killed.”
The hand was removed. “What do you want?” whispered the woman. “I’ll keep shet up.”
“Where is the wife of Geronimo?” pursued the questioner.
“I dunno,” replied the woman, sullenly. “Who are you—one o’ them Injun Scouts? Why don’t you go ask some other Injun? I dunno.”
“May-be-so you find out pronto. Me Apache Devil. She my mother. You tellum damn pronto or Apache Devil cut your damn fool throat. Sabe?”
The woman felt the edge of a knife against the flesh at her throat. “She’s in the next tent,” she whispered hastily.
“You lie me come back and kill,” he said, then he bound her hands and feet and tied a gag in her mouth, using strips torn from her own clothing for these purposes.
In the next tent they found Sons-ee-ah-ray, and a few minutes later five bushes crossed the post that four had previously crossed.