Micky wore a loose, whitish cotton shirt with its tails outside ragged cotton trousers, and on his feet Apache moccasins. A white cloth band was around his red head, his one blue eye beamed alertly, and his freckled face was streaked with perspiration and dust. All that he carried was an Apache fiddle made from a bent rib of a yucca, strung with deer sinews.
The two Indians with him were stripped to breech-clout aprons, and moccasins, and red flannel head-bands; one of them had rawhide shield and long lance, the other, bow and quiver. They had continued on and now had been stopped before the adjutant’s office by the orderly.
“Let us sit down and talk, Cheemie,” laughed Micky.
So he and Jimmie squatted.
“What are you doing, Micky?”
“I have come over from Camp Apache with two White Mountain runners. They bring messages from that fort to this one. We came through in one day and two nights. It is more than one hundred miles. Have you heard the news, Cheemie?”
“What news, Micky?”
“Cochise says he wants peace. He has gone on the Ojo Caliente (Warm Spring) place, in the Cañada Alamosa, where Chief Victorio is.”
“How do you know?” exclaimed Jimmie. This was great news.