CHAPTER XVI
TO SPIRIT LAND
IT was quite dark when Wichita Billings led an unsaddled pony out of the pasture and toward the hill where she had left Shoz-Dijiji. She had difficulty in escaping the notice of the sentry that had been posted near the corral, but she succeeded, though she was still fearful that some keen-eared Indian veteran might yet hear the soft footfalls of the unshod animal. A short distance from the corral she mounted the pony and continued on her way, over her shoulder a canteen of water and in one hand a bag of food.
In her heart she knew that she was doing a dangerous and a foolish thing, but gratitude urged her as well as the knowledge that she had given her word. By day it had seemed less difficult to trust that big, handsome brave; but by night it was easy to recall that he was, after all, a cruel, crafty “Cheeracow.” She loosened the Colt in its holster, holding the halter rope and bag of food in one hand, determined to be prepared should the worst eventuate; and then, quite suddenly, out of the darkness ahead, a hundred yards from the base of the hill toward which she was riding, loomed the figure of a man.
“Who’s that?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“Shoz-Dijiji,” came the soft reply.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were going to wait on top of the hill.”
“No good you ride far alone at night. Shoz-Dijiji come down to meet you.”
So, after all, her fears had been groundless!
“You frightened me,” she said.
The Apache laughed. She handed him the canteen and the food and the end of the halter rope.