“Who is old Miguel?”
“He is a White Mountain chief. There are Miguel and Pedro and old Es-ki-tis-tsla and Pi-to-ne. They are for peace.”
“Inju,” grunted Jimmie.
While they rested and ate and drank, Micky kept a sharp look-out. Every now and again he mounted upon a rocky ledge and lay there, peering.
“I see smokes,” he said, coming down the last time. “I do not think they are meant for us. The Chiricahua are signaling to each other. But we had better go on, Cheemie, to a cave I know of. We will sleep.”
Yes, there were smokes, far back on their trail: smokes that signaled “enemies.” This was well, because with enemies around, the Chiricahuas would not risk following the trail of a boy. So that noon Jimmie and Micky slept in Micky’s cave, which was concealed high up in the side of a canyon. They entered it from above. From the mouth they might see a long distance.
“In two days we shall cross the Tonto country,” remarked Micky. “That is where we turn east for Camp Apache and the White Mountains. We will have to be very careful again. The Tonto are bad people. They are outlaws. When an Apache gets bad, he joins the Tonto.”
IV
THE CANVAS SUIT MAN
The country was steadily growing wilder, with much large timber. For two days Micky had been leading on and on. The Chiricahuas did not seem to be pursuing, and Jimmie was certain that he had escaped from them. He wished that he might have said good-by to good Nah-da-ste, who had taken care of him; and to his friends Nah-che and Chato, and some others; but of course that had not been possible. They might have known that he could not stay being an Apache.