Among the other townspeople was a man on crutches, who was accompanied by his wife and several small children. Shoz-Dijiji recognized him immediately as the woodchopper whose life he had saved, but he made no effort to attract the man’s attention. What good would it do? Shoz-Dijiji neither sought nor expected favors from the enemy. Gratitude was a quality which he sensed but vaguely, and in his mind it always was confused with self-interest. He could not see how the Mexican might profit by befriending him—therefore there was little likelihood of his doing so.
The woodchopper surveyed the Indians casually. There was nothing remarkable about them except that they were prisoners. It was not often that the Mexicans had Apache prisoners. Presently his eyes alighted upon Shoz-Dijiji. Instant recognition was apparent in them. He nudged his wife and pointed, speaking excitedly.
“There is the Indian who saved my life,” he exclaimed, and pressing close to the bars of the corral he sought to attract the attention of the tall brave, standing with folded arms, looking contemptuously at the crowd without.
“Good day, my friend!” called the woodchopper.
Shoz-Dijiji nodded and one of his rare smiles answered the smiling greeting of the Mexican.
“What you doing here?” demanded the latter. “You are a friendly Indian. They have made a mistake. You should tell them. I will tell them.”
“No savvy,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
An officer, who had heard the statements of the woodchopper, approached him.
“You know this man?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the woodchopper, and then he told the officer his story. “Let him go, captain,” he begged, “for he is a very good Indian. He could have killed and robbed me and no one would have known; but instead he fed and brought me home. I do not believe that he is an Apache.”