“What makes you think so?”
“I know. They come back with many braves. They want kill Shoz-Dijiji. They want you.”
“When they are out of sight I can ride for the post,” she suggested; but she wondered if he would let her, after all.
“No,” he replied. “Apaches everywhere.” He waved his hand broadly from west to east and back again. “Apaches on the war trail. You no reach post. Shoz-Dijiji no reach post, mebby. Shoz-Dijiji take you to his own people—to the Be-don-ko-he. You be safe there with Sons-ee-ah-ray and Geronimo.”
To Shoz-Dijiji no promise could have seemed more reassuring, no name so fraught with assurance of protection than that of the kind old man who had always defended him, the powerful chief whose very name was a bulwark of safety for any friend. To Wichita Billings the suggestion awakened naught but fear and the name only horror. Geronimo! The fiend, the red devil, murderer, torturer, scourge of two nations! She trembled at the mere thought of him.
“No!” she cried. “Let me go back to the post—to my own people.”
“You would never reach them. Tomorrow we can be with the Be-don-ko-he. They are not upon the war trail. When the fighting is over I will take you back to your people.”
“I am afraid,” she said.
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of Geronimo.”