The lieutenant saluted, and Jimmie saluted. That was regulations.
“This boy is Jimmie Dunn, sir,” reported the lieutenant. “He was taken by the Chiricahuas about a year ago, while herding sheep on the Kitchen ranch south of Tucson. He says that he has run away from them, and,” added the lieutenant, with a quizzical laugh, “he doesn’t want to go back.”
Jimmie stood at attention, while General Crook eyed him. This, then, was the new “comandante” of whom Micky had spoken. He was a straight, square-shouldered, active-looking man, as strong on his feet as any Apache. Yes, he was of a tall, muscular build like Geronimo. He was of light complexion, with sandy hair and thin sandy moustache, and high forehead, and from between two very keen, gray-blue eyes a large sharp nose jutted down to a firm mouth set over a longish, firm chin. He needed shaving. The hands upon his shot-gun were brown and sinewy.
Now he queried abruptly, military fashion but not gruff; merely as though he required a short direct answer.
“What band of Chiricahua?”
“Cochise’s band.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know, sir. They’re traveling around.”
“Where were they when you left them?”