Taza joined them, and shook hands. He was carrying a beautiful breech-loading rifle—an officer’s rifle. Eying it curiously, Jimmie suddenly recognized it. It had been the rifle of stripling Lieutenant Reid Stewart, the dandy “shave tail”—it was the only one of its kind—engraved so fancifully; that is, Jimmie had seen the lieutenant with it, at Camp Grant; and now Taza had it!
Taza must have noticed Jimmie stiffen and choke, for he said, in Spanish:
“No trieste, hermano (Do not feel badly, brother).” And in Apache, “We all do things in war that we would not do in peace.”
Nevertheless, on the way to Camp Bowie, after the council, Jimmie could not forget the sign of Lieutenant Reid’s rifle, in the Chiricahua camp. He was such a young officer, to have been killed so soon, without having had a chance to defend himself. And Cochise had declared that his people had done no harm since leaving the Cañada Alamosa!
But then, that was Indian way. And Apaches had been killed, too, by the white men. War was a cruel game.
General Howard did not return to Camp Bowie. He had gone the other way, to Tucson, with his party and his ambulance. From Tucson he was going to San Francisco, to report to General Schofield; and from there he was going to Washington.
He certainly had accomplished a great work, only——
“Will the peace last as long as the stone, do you think, Maria?” asked Jimmie.
“The white people will break the stone, amigo mio,” said Maria. “Some day they will break the stone, because they want the land where it lies. Then there will be war again, and you and I will fight Nah-che. But Cochise spoke straight. The Chiricahua in Arizona are tired. Did you hear about the joke on the one-armed general?”
“No.”