The next day Chihuahua (Bonito) himself came boldly in, to say that he would surrender his people as soon as he could get word to them all. They were tired of fighting and hiding.
“That is good,” answered the general. “I have soldiers and scouts enough to fight the Chiricahuas as long as they wish to fight. Those I do not kill or capture I will drive into the Mexican soldiers who are coming up from the south.”
“I speak only for my own band,” answered Chihuahua. “They will make peace, but I do not know what Geronimo and Whoa will do. If you will let me take two of my young men and go out again, I can hurry my people in faster.”
“They must bring the white boy.”
“I will tell them so,” said Chihuahua.
Chihuahua did good work, for the Chiricahuas kept gathering until there were one hundred and twenty-one in camp. But they had not brought Charley McComas, and none of the Geronimo men had turned up.
Then, at eight o’clock in the morning, a tremendous outburst of shouts and screeches sounded from some high cliffs above the camp. More Apaches were jumping about among the rocks there, as if much astonished.
“Geronimo!” exclaimed Micky, running.
The camp sprang to arms.