"Have you been feeding them grain lately?"
"Yes; they can have a full feed."
I volunteered to fetch it myself, but looking me over ungratefully, Squito lifted her eyes to mine for the first time, and said coolly: "You'd best pack those things out of the wagon into the house." And picking up a couple of empty candle-boxes, which stood on a carpenter's bench near at hand, she passed round a corner of the wall with one under each arm, and reappeared presently with the feeds of maize.
We moved our traps from the wagon into a room in the house, and lit a log fire on the wide hearth, for the sun was nearly gone, and at this time of year the nights were frosty. Major Tupper paid us a visit from the neighbouring camp with a couple of his officers.
"What news?"
"Well, the Indians had killed the marshal and another man near Wilcox. Lieut. Fountain was reported to have had a brush with them in the Dragoon Mountains. Captains Crawford and Davis were on the point of starting on separate expeditions into the Sierra Madre after them. A scout from Casas Grandes, in Chihuahua, had passed through the camp yesterday on his way to General Crook, at Fort Bowie, and reported that Natchez, Nané, and Mangus, with a considerable following, were located in their old stronghold—the mountain on the San Diego ranch—and that small parties of them were trading daily with the Mexicans in Casas Grandes. Etc., etc."
"They'll get you one of these days, Colonel, when you are driving around in your wagon," said the Major.
Don Cabeza laughed, as he sent the cigar-box round again. "They don't want me; old Geronimo and I, we're——" (here a little horizontal motion of the hand smoothed the matter over and disposed of it completely) "we're solid. I've fixed things with him. 'That'll be all right,' as the boys say. When the Indians are out, Major, it is like having a needle in a carpet: you may tread on it first step, and you may not strike it in ten years. If you have any business to attend to, you'd best go right along and do it. Keep your eyes skinned, of course, but don't stay home."
Our visitors left; Jake and Joe, two limber, sinewy, six-foot models of health and strength, came in, and in due course, under the direction of the Colonel (a finished gourmet, who not only could give you points with regard to anything of gastronomic interest between the Poodle Dog and Delmonico's, but could post you almost equally well as to the best temples of culinary art that lay between Bignon's and the Café St. Pétersbourg, in Pera), we produced a sumptuous repast. With difficulty was our chef dissuaded from delaying supper whilst he made a venison stew—a stew of any kind being a favourite tour de force of his. Of course we all differed as to the best method of cooking what had to be prepared, and for the fun of baiting the Colonel, most of us united in deriding his decisions. But when Rafaeleta, after roundly challenging his ability, finally deserted us, and went over to his side, we had to "take water."