was the clerk's name—hit upon the novel plan of driving out the Indians who infested the store, by repeating the sobriquet of him who had just joined the angel band, or whatever it may be that Apaches join when they die. When the usual throng assembled next morning and crouched down on their hams along the sides of the room, a muffled groan issued from behind the counter, "Espidi, (Quail)! Espidí!" Hark! It was the dead man's name. It was repeated with emphasis, the wooden vault of the counter acting as a sounding-board and adding volume to the cry "Espidí! Espidí!" The Apaches looked at each other, ceased smoking, and gathered up their blankets and calico mantles.
While in this stage of worry and uncertainty, George turned the scale of their fears and put them to precipitate flight by springing over the counter, yelling the slogan—"Espidí! Espidí!
The bravest fled in panic, nor would they again venture inside while George showed the slightest disposition to sound the dreaded word. But it came to pass that the servant who prepared the hash and other luxuries of George's mess, was called from this vale of sorrow, and the Indian boys gloated as they assured themselves that now indeed was the hour of sweet revenge. They hurried to the entrance of the store, and shouted at the top of their voices: "Jack! Jack! Jack!" looking with delight upon George, whose discomfiture they awaited with a chuckle. To their astonishment, George did not move, and laughed as heartily as they did.
The repugnance to mention the names of the dead extended to their own names. No Apache will give his name to a stranger, fearing some hidden power may thus be placed in the stranger's hand to his detriment; neither will they name their mother-in-law, or, for that matter, speak to or look at the amiable old lady. This disinclination does not apply to the American nicknames of which soldiers are so lavish. An Apache scout does not require
