Instead of replying, the Apache devoted a minute or two to regaining mastery of himself. He managed to fix his black eyes on the white man, with something of his old defiant expression, when meeting the gaze of an enemy. By the exercise of his iron will, he succeeded in keeping his poise, but he could not drive out the fumes of the horrible tiswin from his brain. They loosened his tongue and gave an odd twist to his ideas.
“’Pache got boy,” said he; “Mendez see ’im.”
“I know that as well as you, for I too saw him in their hands. Is that all the news you bring me?”
“Mendez can’t git ’im.”
“Why not? Have they put him to death?”
The Apache shook his head, without speaking.
“I thought Mendez was a great warrior,” said Freeman, hoping to taunt him into an effort that he seemed reluctant or unable to make; “they told me he could do anything; that he could get my child for me; that he would earn the reward I will give him——”
“Mendez want no reward—he take no money!” interrupted the Apache, fiercely thumping his breast.
“Then has he become a squaw? Is he no longer the great warrior that he used to be? Has he become old and weak?”
“Mendez not old—Mendez not weak! He great warrior!”