“Where do you live now, Cheemie?” asked Micky, as the council broke up. “There is no old Camp Grant, and there will be no Apaches to watch, at the mouth of the Arivaipa.”
That was true. Old Camp Grant had been abandoned, and a new Camp Grant established by the general, in a better country about fifty miles southeast, half-way to Camp Bowie. The Arivaipas and Pinals, and the Yavapais and Hualpais who had surrendered first, were being removed to the new San Carlos reservation, over toward Camp Apache.
“Joe has his ranch, though,” reminded Jimmie.
“Yes; but he has no post to sell to. You come to the White Mountain country, and we will talk Apache and hunt and go to war together.”
“The war is almost done, Micky. A big peace is being made.”
“No,” declared Micky, with a shake of his red head and a thoughtful squint of his blue eye. “Chuntz is still out, and Delt-che is still out, Naqui-naquis of the Tonto is still out. The Chiricahua have no police, no soldiers, no anything over them; they do as they please. This is not fair, the White Mountains think. Did you know that Major Brown and Lieutenant Bourke have been to see Cochise?”
“No!”
“Yes,” asserted Micky. “They were sent down there by Cluke, before the last scout. Cluke has had orders to let the Chiricahua alone, but he wanted to get a talk with Cochise. Cochise is for peace, because he is living where he chose to live. Maybe, though, his young men will grow tired of one spot; then who will stop them, says Alchisé?”
“The general will,” assured Jimmie.