Three warriors came, each leading one of Cochise’s best ponies, and two stalwart braves raised the dead chieftan and lifted him astride that one which had been his favorite, in front of Chief Loco, who held the corpse in an upright position.
They bore his arms before him as they started for the grave, the procession led by four great chiefs, Geronimo, Victorio, Nanáy and Juh, with the balance of his people trailing behind the two ponies that were led directly in rear of the dead chief.
Juh, glancing back, saw a lad fall into the procession directly behind the last pony and a fierce scowl made more terrible his ugly, painted face. He halted the funeral cortege and the other chiefs turned and looked at him questioningly.
“Only those of the blood of the Shis-Inday may follow a great chief to his last resting place,” he announced. The others grunted acknowledgment of the truth of that statement. “Shoz-Dijiji, the son of a white-eyed man, follows the war ponies of Cochise,” said Juh, angrily. “Send him away!”
The inscrutable blue eyes of Geronimo regarded the chief of the Ned-ni, but he did not speak. His hand moved to the hilt of his knife, that was all.
“Cochise himself proclaimed the boy an Apache,” said Nanáy. “That is enough.”
“Let the boy come to the grave of his friend,” said Victorio. “Cochise loved him. He is, too, as good an Apache as you or I. Did he not warn the tribes and save them from the Mexicans. With my own eyes I, Victorio, saw him slay and scalp. Let him come!”
“Let him come!” said Nanáy.
“He is coming,” announced Geronimo as he resumed the march toward the grave.
With a scowl Juh fell in behind the chief of the Be-don-ko-he and the procession took up again its winding way along the trail toward the burial place, the mourners chanting in wailing tones the deeds of valor of the dead chief as they bore him into the mountain fastness.