Soon after Jimmie had begun a sort of a reunion with Alchisé and Nan-ta-je and Bobby Do-klinny and others, at the Camp Apache agency building, Mr. Sieber came riding by.
“Jimmie,” he summoned, with crook of finger, “you ride along with me. I may have use for you. Bring Free, if you want to.”
“I’m going for a talk with Pedro,” he continued, in Spanish, so that Micky might understand. Micky knew no English. “If he talks too fast for me, I want one of you to explain. And the same way if I speak with words that he doesn’t know.”
“We will talk for you, Sibi,” answered Micky.
Old Chief Pedro of the White Mountain Apaches was, as everybody said, the wisest, most sensible chief among the tame Indians. They found him at home, sitting upon a blanket in the shade of a tree near his house. Since he had come back from Washington he had put up a board shanty, to live in instead of a brush wickyup. He was still wearing a white shirt—which was white no longer.
In spite of the soiled ragged shirt, a splendid old Indian he looked to be.
“You are well come, Sibi,” he remarked. “Sit down and we will talk. But who is this boy with one leg shorter than the other? I do not know him.”
“He is a friend of mine, and of Micky Free,” replied Al. “He was captured by Geronimo, and lived with Cochise and Geronimo. He was a soldier at the cave fight when the Yavapai were destroyed. He is a brave boy. The leg was made short by a wound. We may speak freely before him.”
“That is good,” answered Pedro. “I know you, and I know this wild Red-head. Now I know this other. I remember who he is. What have you come to say, Sibi? Did Cluke send you?”