“No. After a time the young men will get tired of killing and robbing Mexicans, which is easy. They will want to win honor by robbing the Americans—and then, we shall see.”
At Camp Thomas Jimmie met the general face to face while crossing the parade-ground. He had small hopes that the general would remember him when he saluted—but something in the general’s keen, inquiring eye made him halt and stand expectantly.
“Well, my man,” blurted the general. “I seem to know your face.”
“Yes, sir. I’m Jimmie Dunn.”
“I remember. You still limp a little, I see. What are you doing now?”
“I’m a telegraph line-man, sir.”
“That’s good. You had a talk with Nah-che, when he was on his way out, last spring, didn’t you? Do you think he can be persuaded to come in peaceably?”
“He might if he knew you were back, sir. But he said the Chiricahua hadn’t been treated well—they were out to stay.”
“The Apaches have grievances. The worst of the outlaws are better than the whites who have been robbing them.”