They talked for a moment in Apache, too fast for Jimmie to understand. Then the sitting chief, who had been eying Jimmie sharply, addressed him in simple Mexican-Spanish easy to catch.
He was not at all a bad-looking Apache. In fact, he was about the finest Apache that Jimmie had ever met: a broad-chested six-footer, like the captain chief, but large eyed and kindly faced and dignified.
“What is your name?”
“James Dunn.”
“No Mexicano?”
“Americano,” corrected Jimmie proudly.
“Your father Pete Keetchen?”
“No.”
“Where you live?”
“Camp Grant.”