“Yes,” answered Jimmie soberly. “I met Nah-che. He came while I was talking on the wire. He says that all the soldiers in Arizona cannot stop them.”
“That is true,” agreed Micky. “They have two hundred fine warriors, and better guns than the soldiers’ guns. They nearly all have those guns that shoot sixteen times, and lots of ammunition. The soldiers are scattered, and before we get together, and the New Mexico soldiers get together, Geronimo will be into Mexico. What was Nah-che doing on this side the river? The squaws and children cannot cross, with the horses. It is too high.”
“I think Nah-che brought a party over to drive me away or kill me. He had Chato with him, and two others. But he made them quit shooting at me. We are chi-kis-n.”
“That won’t count again,” warned Micky. “So watch out, next time. This is war, and long war. Now you’d better get your arm fixed, Cheemie. The Loco and Geronimo band will have to keep on, up the river, until they can cross. They will strike south, near New Mexico, until they cross the border. There are no soldiers, ahead in that country, to stop them; and they wouldn’t care if there were. But we’re to meet Sibi and follow and fight as well as we can, under the ugly long-nosed man.”
That was Lieutenant George Gatewood, of the Sixth Cavalry, at Thomas. He came in a hurry out of the adjutant’s office.
“All ready,” he barked, to the junior lieutenant, his second in command, and swung into the saddle.
“’Ten-shun! Column—march! Trot!”
The bugle sounded briskly, and away they went, in long column, the red and white guidons flapping, Micky and his scouts galloping to the advance.
Jimmie proceeded to have his arm bandaged, and to talk with the operator. Then he reported at headquarters, but he had little to tell that was not already known. He felt, though, that he had done his duty.
While his shoulder was healing, the troops of Arizona and New Mexico struck the hostiles several times, down at the border, but did not turn them.