“D’you suppose Geronimo has somethin’ up his sleeve, still?” proposed Martin the cook, to Frank Monach. “He acts awful agreeable.”
XXIII
GERONIMO PLAYS SMART
“To-morrow we go home,” declared Micky Free, to Jimmie and Nah-che. They three had been messing together, as old friends.
It was the afternoon of May 23. Two days had passed since Geronimo had decided upon peace. He had kept his word, for the Chiricahuas had continued to come in—crippled old Nana himself had arrived this very morning—all the chiefs and captains were here except Juh, and Juh, or Whoa, need not be expected. He and his band of one man and two squaws had gone farther south.
Even Ka-e-ten-na (The Looking-glass), who was a young war-captain of the Mexican Chiricahuas, part of Whoa’s people, had come in. Now rations were being issued by Lieutenant Gatewood to two hundred and fifty extra persons, including a dozen Mexicans—forlorn women and children whom the Chiricahuas had brought with them. But, alas——
“Don’t we wait for Charley McComas?” demanded Jimmie.
“The white boy?” And Micky shook his red head. “No. It is too late. He is lost. If we wait longer, there will be no food. Too many people eat.”
“Doesn’t Chato know where he is?”
“Chato says not,” answered Nah-che. “He was left with the women. We have asked the women. They say that on the first day, when Chato’s rancheria was attacked, the little white boy ran into the bushes. Nobody has seen him again. He did not come out. Then there were rains that washed his trail. It was eight days ago, and we think he is dead.”