Chapter Nine
Red Fools and White Scoundrels
IN the camp of the Apaches, which lay at a little distance from that of the troops, there was an atmosphere of nervousness and suspicion.
“I do not like the way in which Nan-tan-des-la-par-en spoke to me,” said Geronimo. “I know that he did not speak the truth when he said that he had not ordered the soldiers to catch me and to kill me if I resisted. Perhaps he is not telling me the truth now.”
“They have lied to us always before,” said Na-chi-ta. “Now, if we go back with them to Fort Bowie, how do we know that they will not put us in prison. We are chiefs. If they wish to frighten our people they may kill us. The white-eyed men are crying for the blood of Geronimo.”
“If they kill Geronimo they will kill Na-chi-ta also,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
“I have thought of that,” replied Na-chi-ta.
“They will not kill us,” said Chihuahua. “They will be content to know that we are no longer on the war trail. We have taught them a lesson this time. Now, maybe, they will let us alone.”
“Chihuahua thinks only of the little farm the white-eyes let him work—like a woman,” scoffed Shoz-Dijiji. “I hate them. I shall not go back to live upon a reservation. I shall not go back to be laughed at by white-eyed men, to hear them call me a damn Siwash, to listen while they make fun of my gods and insult my mother and my sisters.”
“Shoz-Dijiji will go upon the war-trail alone and do battle with all the soldiers of two great nations?” sneered Chihuahua.