“That’s good. Joe Felmer asked me to keep an eye on you, whenever I was around, and I’ve been thinking that it’s a little dull for a boy of your calibre to be herding horses all the time. Well, the general and some of the rest of us are starting for Apache in the morning, to look into this fracas. They need horses, over there. The quartermaster’s a good friend of mine, and I’ll just drop a hint that now might be a proper time to send a bunch in, and you with it. That’ll help you to learn the country. You’ll be forgetting how to speak Apache if you stay here talking horse.”
“I’d like to go mighty well, Mr. Sieber,” Jimmie admitted.
“All right. Micky Free’ll be glad to see you. He asks about you every time I run across him.”
Mr. Sieber hastened on. A fine man, was Al Sieber. He spoke Spanish and considerable Apache; had lived among the White Mountains at Camp Apache, and was a great favorite with Chief Pedro, there. “Man of Iron,” the White Mountains called him.
He was of powerful build, and stern-looking; apt to be of few words, right to the point; but he had a kind heart. He was now acting chief of scouts, from Whipple and Camp Verde.
Lieutenant Jacob Almy dead—murdered? That was shocking news. Everybody liked First Lieutenant Jacob Almy, of the Fifth Cavalry. Since he had been put in charge of the Indians at San Carlos, by his gentle but firmly just methods he had made many friends among them, also.
General Crook was energetic, as usual. He set out early the next morning, on “Apache” his mule, with a small escort including Lieutenant Bourke his chief aide, and Al Sieber. Jimmie and a Mexican herder accompanied, driving the bunch of remount horses.
The loose horses traveled well. The trip of two hundred and fifty miles through the roughest country in Arizona was accomplished in ten days.
There had not been much talk on the way over. The general acted grimly determined, and in a hurry. Camp Apache was found saddened and expectant.