"Well," Sandoval began again, as he lit a cigarette, "now that supper is over, suppose we have a chat. Are you agreeable, comrade?"
"Willingly," Red Cedar replied, as he settled himself comfortably, and filled his pipe.
"You were saying then—" Sandoval remarked.
"Pardon me," the squatter interrupted him; "I was saying nothing. You were complaining, I believe, about the whites destroying your trade by coming closer and closer to your abode."
"Yes, that was what I was saying."
"You added, if my memory serves me right, that the remedy was impossible to find?"
"To which you answered, perhaps."
"I said so, and repeat it."
"Explain yourself, then."
"The affair I have come to propose to you is extremely simple: For some years past the whites have been gradually invading the desert, which, in a given time which is not remote, will end by disappearing before the incessant efforts of civilisation."
"It is true."
"Well, if you like, within a month you shall be rich men."
"We will,caray," the bandits exclaimed in a formidable voice.
"I will tell you the affair in two words: I have discovered a placer of incalculable wealth; twenty leagues from here, I have left one hundred men devoted to my fortunes. Will you imitate them and follow me? I promise each of you more gold than he ever saw in his life or ever dreamed of possessing."
"Hum!" said Sandoval; "It is tempting."
"I thought of you, my old comrades," Red Cedar continued with hypocritical simplicity, "and have come. Now, you know my plan; reflect on what I have said to you; tomorrow, at sunrise, you will give me your answer."
And, without mingling further in the conversation, Red Cedar rolled himself up in a zarapé, and fell asleep, leaving the bandits to discuss among themselves the chance of success his magnificent proposal offered.
Red Cedar, immediately that he entered the Far West, had, with the experience of old wood rangers which he possessed in the highest degree, chosen a suitable site for his band to encamp. He did not wish to enter the desert without ensuring allies on whom he could count, in the event of his being attacked.
The Pawnee ambuscade, prepared with the skill characteristic of the savages, which had been on the point of succeeding, and from which he had only escaped by accident, was a warning to him of the snares that would be laid for him, and the dangers that would menace him at every step daring the long journey he was about to undertake across the prairies.
Red Cedar was one of those men who make it a principle to neglect nothing that can insure the success of their plans; he, therefore, resolved to protect himself from any attack as speedily as possible. His first care was to choose a spot where he could encamp his band, so as to be protected from all Indian marauders, and offer an advantageous resistance, in the case of a serious attack.
The Rio Gila forms a multitude of wooded islets, some of which rising in a conical form, are very difficult of access owing to the escarpment of their banks, and especially through the rapidity of the current. It was on one of these islands that Red Cedar bivouacked his men. Peru trees, mezquites, and cottonwood trees, which grew abundantly on this island, mingled with creepers that twined round their stems in inextricable confusion, formed an impenetrable thicket, behind which they could boldly sustain a siege, while offering the immense advantage of forming a wall of verdure, through whose openings it was easy to watch both banks of the river, and any suspicious movements on the prairie.
So soon as the gambusinos had landed on the island, they glided like serpents into the interior, dragging their horses after them, and being careful to do nothing that might reveal their encampment to the sharp-sighted Indians. So soon as the camp was established, and Red Cedar believed that, temporarily at least, his band was in safety, he assembled the principal leaders, in order to communicate his intentions to them.
They were, first, Fray Ambrosio, then Andrés Garote, Harry and Dick, the two Canadian hunters, and, lastly, the squatter's two sons, Nathan and Sutter, and the Chief of the Coras. Several trees had been felled to form a suitable site for the fires and the tents of the women, and Red Cedar, mounted on his steed, was soon in the centre of the chiefs collected around him.
"Señores," he said to them, "we have at length entered the Far West: our expedition now really commences, and I count on your courage, and, above all, your experience, to carry it out successfully; but prudence demands that on the prairies, where we run the risk of being attacked by enemies of every description at any moment, we should secure allies who, in case of need, could protect us efficiently. The ambuscade we escaped, scarce eight and forty hours ago, renders it a duty to redouble our vigilance, and, above all, hasten to enter into communication with the friends we possess in the desert."
"Yes," said the monk; "but I do not know these friends."
"But I know them, and that is enough," Red Cedar replied.
"Very good," Fray Ambrosio went on; "but where are they to be found?"
"I know where to find them. You are here in an excellent position, where you can hold your own for a long time, without any fear of it being carried. This is what I have resolved on."
"Come, gossip, explain yourself; I am anxious to know your plans," said the monk.
"You shall be satisfied: I am going to start at once in search of my friends, whom I am certain of finding within a few hours: you will not stir from here till my return."
"Hum! And will you be long absent?"
"Two days, then, at the most."
"That is a long time," Garote remarked.
"During that period you will conceal your presence as far as possible. Let no one suspect you are encamped here. I will bring you the ten best rifles in the Far West, and with their protection, and that of Stanapat, the great Apache Chief of the Buffalo tribe, whom I expect to see also, we can traverse the desert in perfect safety."
"But who will command the band in your absence?" Fray Ambrosio asked.
"You, and these caballeros. But remember this: you will under no pretext leave the island."
"'Tis enough, Red Cedar, you can start; we shall not stir till you return."
After a few more words of slight importance, Red Cedar left the clearing, swam his horse over the river, and on reaching firm ground, buried himself in the tall grass, where he soon disappeared.
It was about six in the evening, when the squatter left his comrades, to go in search of the men whom he hoped to make his allies. The gambusinos had paid but slight attention to the departure of their chief, the cause of which they were ignorant of, and which they supposed would not last long. The night had completely fallen. The gambusinos, wearied by a long journey, were sleeping, wrapped in their zarapés, round the fire, while two sentries alone watched over the common safety. They were Dick and Harry, the two Canadian hunters, whom chance had so untowardly brought among these bandits.
Three men leaning against the trunk of an enormous ungquito were conversing in a low voice. They were Andrés Garote, Fray Ambrosio, and Eagle-wing. A few paces from them was the leafy cabin, beneath whose precarious shelter reposed the squatter's wife, her daughter Ellen, and Doña Clara.
The three men, absorbed in the conversation, did not notice a white shadow emerge from the cabin, glide silently along, and lean against the very tree, at the foot of which they were.
Eagle-wing, with that penetration which distinguishes the Indians, had read the hatred which existed between Fray Ambrosio and Red Cedar; but the Coras had kept this discovery in his heart, intending to take advantage of it when the opportunity presented itself.
"Chief," the monk said, "do you suspect who the allies are Red Cedar has gone to seek?"
"No," the other replied, "how should I know?"
"Still it must interest you, for you are not so great a friend of the Gringo as you would like to appear."
"The Indians have a very dense mind; let my father explain himself so that I may understand him, and be able to answer him."
"Listen," the monk continued, in a dry voice and with a sharp accent, "I know who you are: your disguise, clever and exact though it be, was not sufficient to deceive me: at the first glance I recognised you. Do you believe that if I had said to Red Cedar, this man is a spy or a traitor; he has crept among us to make us tall into a trap prepared long beforehand: in a word, this man is no other than Moukapec, the principal Cacique of the Coras? Do you believe, I say, that Red Cedar would have hesitated to blow out your brains, eh, chief? Answer."
During these words whose significance was terrible to him, the Coras had remained unmoved; not a muscle of his face had quivered. When the monk ceased speaking, he smiled disdainfully, and contented himself with replying in a haughty voice, while looking at him fixedly:
"Why did not my father tell this to the scalp hunter? He was wrong."
The monk was discountenanced by this reply, which he was far from expecting; he understood that he had before him one of those energetic natures over which threats have no power. Still he had advanced too far to draw back: he resolved to go on to the end, whatever might happen.
"Perhaps," he said, with an evil smile, "at any rate, I have it in my power to warn our chief in his return."
"My father will act as he thinks proper," the chief replied drily, "Moukapec is a renowned warrior, the barking of the coyotes never terrified him."
"Come, come, Indian, you are wrong," Garote interposed, "you are mistaken as to the Padre's intentions with respect to you; I am perfectly convinced that he does not wish to injure you in any way."
"Moukapec is not an old woman who can be cheated with words," the Coras said; "he cares little for the present intentions of the man, who, during the burning of his village, and the massacre of his brothers, excited his enemies to murder and arson. The chief follows his vengeance alone, he will know how to attain it without allying himself to one of his foes to get it. I have spoken."
After uttering these words, the Indian chief rose, dressed himself in his buffalo robe, and withdrew, leaving the two Mexicans disconcerted by this resistance which they were far from anticipating. Both looked after him for a while with admiration mingled with anger.
"Hum!" the monk at length muttered; "Dog of a savage, Indian, brute, beast, he shall pay me for it."
"Take care, señor Padre," the Gambusino said, "we are not in luck at this moment. Let us leave this man with whom we can effect nothing, and seek something else. Every man reaches his point who knows how to wait, and the moment will arrive to avenge ourselves on him; till then, let us dissimulate—that is the best thing, I believe, for us to do."
"Did you notice that, on leaving us, Red Cedar did not say a syllable about his prisoner?"
"For what good? He knows she is in perfect safety here, any flight from this island is impossible."
"That is true; but why did he carry off this woman?"
"Who knows? Red Cedar is one of those men whose thoughts it is always dangerous to sound. Up to the present, we cannot read his conduct clearly enough; let him return, perhaps then the object he has in view will be unfolded to us."
"That woman annoys me here," the monk said in a hollow voice.
"What's to be done? Down there at Santa Fe I did not hesitate to serve you in trying to get rid of her; but now it is too late—it would be madness to dream of it. What matter to us, after all, whether she be with us, or not? Believe me, make up your mind to it, and speak no more about it. Bah! She will not prevent us reaching the placer."
The monk shook his head with a dissatisfied air, but made no reply. The Gambusino wrapped himself in his zarapé, lay down on the ground, and fell asleep. Fray Ambrosio, for his part, remained plunged in gloomy thoughts. What was he thinking of? Some treachery, doubtless.
When the woman who had been leaning against the tree, perceived that the conversation was at an end, she glided softly away, and re-entered the cabin.
Since she had fallen again into the power of Red Cedar, Doña Clara, a prey to a gloomy sorrow, had yielded unresistingly to her abductors, despairing ever to escape from them; especially since she had seen the men in whose power she was, definitely take the road to the desert.
For a maiden, accustomed to all the refinements of luxury, and all those little attentions which a father's love continually lavished on her, the new existence commencing was an uninterrupted succession of tortures, among half savage ruffians, whose brutal ways and coarse language constantly made her fear insults she would have been too weak to repulse.
Still, up to this moment, Red Cedar's conduct had been—we will not say respectful, for the squatter was ignorant of such refinements—but, at any rate, proper, that is to say, he had affected to pay no attention to her while ordering his men not to trouble her in any way.
Doña Clara had been entrusted by the scalp hunter to his wife Betsy and his daughter Ellen.
The Megera, after giving the maiden an ugly look, had turned her back on her, and did not once address her—conduct which was most agreeable to the young Mexican. As for Ellen, she had constituted herself, on her private authority, the friend of the prisoner, to whom she rendered all those small services her position allowed her, with a delicacy and tact little to be expected from a girl educated in the desert by a father like hers.
At the outset, Doña Clara, absorbed in her grief, had paid no attention to Ellen's kindness, but gradually, in spite of herself, the young American's unchanging gentleness, and her patience, which nothing rebuffed, affected her; she had felt the services which the other occasionally rendered her, and had gradually learned to feel for the squatter's daughter a degree of gratitude which presently ripened into friendship.
Youth is naturally confiding; when a great grief oppresses it, the need of entrusting that grief to a person who seems to sympathise with it, renders it expansive. Alone among the bandits, to whom chance had handed her over, Doña Clara must inevitably—so soon as the first paroxysm of suffering had passed—seek for someone to console her, and help her in enduring the immense misfortune that crushed her.
And this had occurred much more rapidly than under ordinary circumstances, thanks to the sympathising kindness of the young American, who had in a few hours found the way to her heart.
Red Cedar, whom nothing escaped, smiled cunningly at the friendship of the two maidens, which, however, he feigned not to perceive. It was a strange thing, but this scalp hunter, this man that seemed to have nothing human about him, who perspired crime at every pore, whose ferocity was unbounded, had in his heart one feeling which attached him victoriously to the human family, a profound, illimitable love for Ellen—the love of the tiger for its cubs.
This frail girl was the sole creature for whom his heart beat more violently. How great, how powerful was the love Red Cedar experienced for this simple child! It was a worship, an adoration. A word from her little mouth caused the ferocious bandit to feel indescribable delight; a smile from her rosy lips overwhelmed him with happiness. By her charming caresses, her gentle and insinuating words, Ellen had power to govern despotically that gathering of birds of prey which was her family. The chaste kiss his daughter gave him every morning, was the sunbeam that for the whole day warmed the heart of the terrible bandit, before whom everybody trembled, and who himself trembled at a slight frown from her, who combined all the joy and happiness of his life.
It was with extreme satisfaction that he saw his daughter become his innocent accomplice by acquiring the confidence of his prisoner, and gaining her friendship. This gentle girl was in his sight the securest gaoler he could give Doña Clara. Hence, in order, to facilitate, as far as possible, all that could enhance the friendship, he had completely closed his eyes, and feigned to be ignorant of the approximation between the two girls.
It was Ellen who had listened to the conversation between the monk and the Gambusino. At the moment she was re-entering the hut, the stifled sound of voices induced her to listen. Doña Clara was speaking in a low voice to a man, and that man was the Sachem of the Coras. Ellen, surprised in the highest degree, listened anxiously to their conversation, which soon greatly interested her.
After leaving the two Mexicans, Eagle-wing had, for some minutes, walked about the camp with an affected carelessness, intended to remove the suspicions of any who might have been tempted to watch his movements.
When he fancied he had dispelled any suspicions, the Indian chief insensibly drew nearer to the cabin, which served as a refuge to the maidens, and entered it, after assuring himself by a glance, that no one was watching.
Doña Clara was alone, at this moment. We have told the reader where Ellen was; as for the squatter's wife, faithful to her husband's instructions not to annoy the prisoner in any way, she was quietly asleep by the fire, in the clearing.
The maiden, with her head bowed on her bosom, was plunged in deep and sad thought. At the sound of the Indian's steps, she raised her head, and could not restrain a start of terror on seeing him.
Eagle-wing immediately perceived the impression he produced on her, he stopped on the threshold of the cabin, folded his arms on his chest, and bowed respectfully.
"My sister need not be alarmed," he said in a gentle and insinuating voice, "it is a friend who is speaking to her."
"A friend!" Doña Clara murmured, as she took a side glance at him; "the unfortunate have no friends."
The Indian drew a few steps nearer to her, and went on, as he bent over her:
"The jaguar has been forced to put on the skin of the crafty serpent, in order to introduce himself among his enemies, and gain their confidence. Does not my sister recognise me?"
The Mexican girl reflected for a moment, and then answered with hesitation, and looking at him attentively:
"Although the sound of your voice is not unfamiliar to me, I seek in vain to remember where, and under what circumstances I have already seen you."
"I will help my sister to remember," Eagle-wing continued. "Two days ago, at the passage of the ford, I tried to save her, and was on the point of succeeding, but before that my sister had seen me several times."
"If you will mention a date and a circumstance, I may possibly succeed in remembering."
"My sister need not seek, it will be useless; I prefer telling her my name at once, for moments are precious. I am Moukapec, the great Chief of the Coras, of the Del Norte. My sister's father and my sister herself often helped the poor Indians of my tribe."
"That is true," the maiden said, sadly. "Oh! I remember now. Poor people! They were pitilessly massacred, and their village fired by the Apaches. Oh! I know that horrible story."
A sardonic smile played round the chief's lips at these words.
"Coyote does not eat coyote," he said, in a hollow voice; "the jaguars do not wage war on jaguars. They were not Indians who assassinated the Coras, but scalp hunters."
"Oh!" she said, in horror.
"Let my sister listen," the Coras continued quickly; "now that I have told her my name, she must place confidence in me."
"Yes," she answered, eagerly, "for I know the nobility of your character."
"Thanks! I am here for my sister's sake alone. I have sworn to save her, and restore her to her father."
"Alas!" she murmured sadly, "that is impossible. You are alone, and we are surrounded by enemies. The bandits who guard us are a hundredfold more cruel than the ferocious beasts of the desert."
"I do not know yet in what way I shall set about saving my sister," the chief said, firmly; "but I shall succeed if she is willing."
"Oh!" she exclaimed with febrile energy, "If I am willing! Whatever requires to be done, I will do without hesitation. My courage will not fail me, be assured of that, chief."
"Good!" the Indian said with joy; "My sister is truly a daughter of the Mexican kings. I count on her when the moment arrives. Red Cedar is absent for a few days; I will go and prepare everything for my sister's flight."
"Go, chief; at the first sign from you I shall be ready to follow you."
"Good! I retire; my sister can take courage, she will soon be free."
The Indian bowed to the maiden, and prepared to leave the hut. Suddenly, a hand was laid on his shoulder. At this unexpected touch, in spite of his self-command, the chief could not repress a start of terror. He turned, and Red Cedar's daughter stood before him, with a smile on her lips. "I have heard all," she said in her pure and melodious voice.
The chief bent a long and sad look on Doña Clara.
"Why this emotion," Ellen continued, "which I read on your features? I do not mean to betray you, for I am a friend of Doña Clara. Reassure yourself; if accident has made me mistress of your secret, I will not abuse it—on the contrary, I will help your flight."
"Can it be so? You would do that?" Doña Clara exclaimed, as she threw her arms round her neck, and buried her face in her bosom.
"Why not?" she simply answered; "You are my friend."
"Oh! Oh! I love you, for you are good. You had pity on my grief, and wept with me." Eagle-wing fixed on the maiden a glance of undefinable meaning.
"Listen," Ellen said; "I will supply you with the means you lack. We'll leave the camp this very night."
"We?" Doña Clara asked; "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Ellen continued, quickly, "that I shall go with you."
"Can it be possible?"
"Yes," she said, in a melancholy voice; "I cannot remain here longer."
On hearing these words, the Coras Chief quivered with joy; a sinister ray flashed from his dark eyes; but he immediately resumed his stoical appearance, and the maidens did not notice his emotion.
"But what shall we do to procure means of flight?"
"That is my affair, so do not trouble yourself about it. This very night, I repeat, we shall start."
"May Heaven grant it!" Doña Clara sighed.
Ellen turned to the chief and said:
"Does my brother know, at a short distance from the spot where we now are, any Indian pueblo where we can seek shelter?"
"Two suns from here, in a northwestern direction, there is a pueblo, inhabited by a tribe of my nation. It was thither I intended to lead my white father's daughter after her escape."
"And we shall be in safety with that tribe?"
"The daughter of Acumapicthzin will be as safe as in her father's hacienda," the Indian answered, evasively.
"Good! Can my father leave the camp?"
"Who is strong enough to arrest the flight of the condor? Moukapec is a warrior, nothing stops him."
"My brother will set out."
"Good!"
"He will proceed by the shortest road to the pueblo of his nation, then he will return to meet us with the warriors he has collected, in order that we may defend ourselves, in the event of being followed by the Gambusinos."
"Very good," the Indian answered joyfully. "My sister is young, but wisdom dwells in her heart; I will do what she desires—when may I start?"
"At once."
"I go. What hour will my sister quit the camp?"
"At the hour when the owl sings its first hymn to the rising sun."
"My sister will meet me at the most four hours after her departure. She must remember in her flight always to go in a northwestern direction."
"I will do so."
Eagle-wing bowed to the maidens and left the cabin.
The gambusinos were in a deep sleep round the fire; only Dick and Harry were awake. The Coras glided like a phantom through the trees, and reached the edge of the water unnoticed, which was the more easy to effect, because the Canadians were not watching the island, from which they had no danger to apprehend, but had their eyes fixed on the prairie. The chief took off his clothes and made them into a parcel, which he fastened on his breast; he slipped into the water, and swam silently in the direction of the mainland.
So soon as the Indian left the cabin Ellen bent over Doña Clara, gave her a loving kiss on the forehead, and said softly—"Try to sleep for a few hours, while I prepare everything for our flight."
"Sleep!" the Mexican answered, "How can I with the restlessness that devours me."
"You must!" Ellen insisted, "For we shall have great fatigue to endure tomorrow."
"Well," Doña Clara said, softly, "I will try, as you wish it."
The maidens exchanged a kiss and a shake of the hand, and Ellen left the hut in her turn, smiling to her friend, who followed her with an anxious glance. When left alone, Doña Clara fell on her knees, clasped her hands, and addressed a fervent prayer to God. Then, slightly tranquilised by her appeal to Him, who is omnipotent, she fell back on the pile of dry leaves that served as her bed, and, as she had promised Ellen, attempted to sleep.
The night covered the tranquil desert with its dark blue sky, studded with dazzling stars. A majestic silence brooded over the prairie; all were asleep in the island save the two Canadian sentries, who, leaning on their rifles, followed with absent eye the tall shadows of the wild beasts that slowly came down to drink in the river.
At times a mysterious quiver ran over the trees, and shook their tufted crests, whose leaves rustled with a strange sound.
Dick and Harry, the two worthy hunters, interchanged a few words in a low voice to while away the tedium of their long sentry go, to which they were condemned, when suddenly a white shadow glided through the trees, and Ellen stood by their side.
The young men started on seeing her; but the maiden greeted them with a smile, sat down on the grass, and with a graceful gesture made them a sign to seat themselves by her side. They hastened to obey her.
The hunters looked at the maiden, who smiled on them with that infantile grace which no expression can render.
"You were talking when I came up."
"Yes," Harry answered, "we were talking of you."
"Of me?" she said.
"Was it not for your sake alone that we joined this troop of bandits?" Dick said, in an ill-humoured tone.
"Do you regret being here?" she asked, with a soft smile.
"I did not say that," the young man continued; "but we are not in our place among these villains. We are free and loyal hunters, honourable wood rangers; the life we lead oppresses us."
"Were you not talking of that when my presence interrupted you?"
They remained silent.
"Answer boldly!" she went on.
"Good heavens! You know that such a life is as oppressive to me as it is to you."
"What do I know?" Harry said. "Many times I have proposed to you to fly, and leave these men whose hands are constantly polluted with blood, but you have ever refused."
"That is true," she said sadly; "alas! Although these men are criminal, one of them is my father."
"For two years that we have been following you everywhere, you have given us the same answer."
"It was because I hoped that my father and brother would abandon this career of crime."
"And now?"
"I have no hope left."
"In that case?" Harry exclaimed sharply.
"I am ready to follow you," she answered, sharply.
"Is that the truth? Is it your heart that is speaking, Ellen? Do you really consent to abandon your family and trust to our honour?"
"Listen," she answered, sorrowfully; "for two years I have thought deeply, and the more I reflect the more does it appear to me that Red Cedar is not my father."
"Can it be possible?" the hunter exclaimed, in amazement.
"I can say nothing certain; but when I go back I fancy (though this is vague and surrounded by shadows in my mind) I can remember another existence, very different from the one I am leading at present."
"You can remember nothing positive?"
"Nothing: I see pass, as in a vision, a lovely pale lady, a man with a proud glance, and of tall stature, who takes me in his arms, and covers me with kisses, and then—"
"Well, and then?" the hunters exclaimed, in a panting voice.
"And then I see flames, blood, and nothing more, but a man carrying me off through the night on an impetuous steed."
The maiden, after uttering these words in a broken voice, hid her head in her hands. There was a lengthened silence, during which the Canadians attentively observed her: at length they drew themselves up, and Harry laid his hand on her shoulder: she raised her head.
"What would you of me?" she said.
"Ask you a question."
"Speak!"
"Since you have grown up have you never tried to clear up your doubts by questioning Red Cedar?"
"Yes," she answered, "once."
"Well?"
"He listened to me attentively, let me say all I had to say, and then gave me a glance of undefinable meaning, shrugged his shoulders, and answered, 'You are silly, Ellen; you must have had a bad dream. That story is absurd.' Then he added, in an ironical voice, 'I feel sorry for you, poor creature, but you are really my daughter.'"
"Well," Dick said, in a tone of conviction, as he struck the butt of his rifle fiercely on the ground, "I tell you that he lied, and that man is not your father."
"Doves do not lay their eggs in the nests of vultures," Harry added. "No, Ellen, no, you are not that man's daughter."
The maiden rose, seized each of the hunters by the arm, and, after looking at them for a moment, said:
"Well, and I believe so too. I know not why, but for some days past a secret voice has cried in my heart and told me that this man cannot be my father; that is why I, who, up to this day, have always refused your offers, have come to trust myself to your honour, and ask you if you will protect my flight."
"Ellen," Harry answered in a grave voice, and with an accent full of respect, "I swear to you before that God who hears us, that my companion and myself will risk death to protect or defend. You shall always be a sister to us, and in that desert we are about to traverse in order to reach civilised countries, you shall be as safe and treated with as much respect as if you were in Quebec Cathedral, at the foot of the high altar."
"I swear that I will do all Harry has just said; and that you can, in all confidence, place yourself under the safeguard of our honour," Dick added, raising his right hand to Heaven.
"Thanks, my friends," the maiden answered. "I know your honour. I accept without reservation, persuaded as I am that you will fulfil your promise."
The two men bowed.
"When shall we start?" Harry asked.
"It will be better to take advantage of Red Cedar's absence to fly," said Dick.
"That thought is mine, too," Ellen remarked, but added, with some hesitation, "I should not like to fly alone."
"Explain yourself," Dick said.
"It is needless," Harry quickly interrupted him. "I know what you desire. Your thought is an excellent one, Ellen, and we gladly assent to it. The young Mexican lady can accompany you. If it be possible for us to restore her to her family, who must feel in despair about her, we will do it."
Ellen gave the young man a look, and slightly blushed.
"You are a noble-hearted fellow, Harry," she replied. "I thank you for having guessed what I did not know how to ask of you."
"Is there anything else you want of us?"
"No."
"Good! Then bring your companion here as speedily as possible, and, when you return, we shall be ready. The gambusinos are asleep. Red Cedar is absent. We have nought to fear, but you had better make haste, so that before sunrise we may be far enough from here not to fear those who will doubtless pursue us when they observe your flight."
"I only ask you for a few minutes," the maiden said, and soon disappeared in the shrubs.
In vain had Doña Clara sought sleep, in obedience to her friend's recommendations. Her mind, agitated by hopes and fears, had not allowed her to enjoy a moment's rest. With eye and ear on the watch, she listened to the voices of the night, and strove to distinguish, in the gloom, the shadows that at times glided through the trees.
Ellen found her awake, and ready to start. The maidens' preparations for flight were not lengthy, for they only took with them a few indispensable articles.
In rummaging an old box, which Red Cedar and his family employed to keep their clothes in, Ellen discovered a small coffer, about the size of her hand, of carved rosewood, inlaid with silver, which the squatter hardly ever left out of his possession, but which he had not thought it necessary to take with him on the present expedition.
The maiden examined this coffer for a moment, but it was closed. By an intuitive movement, for which she could not account, but which completely mastered her, she seized it, and put it in her bosom.
"Let us go," she said to Doña Clara.
"I am ready," the young Mexican replied, laconically, though her heart bounded.
The maidens left the hut, holding each other's hand. They crossed the clearing, and proceeded in the direction of the Canadians. The gambusinos lying ground the fire did not stir. They were all fast asleep.
For their part, the two hunters had made their preparations for flight. While Dick fetched out to the riverside the four sturdiest horses he could find, Harry collected the saddles and bridles of the other horses, and threw them into the river, where they immediately disappeared in the current. The Canadian had reflected that the time the gambusinos would occupy in making up their loss would be so much gained to them.
The maidens reached the riverbank at the moment when Dick and Harry were finishing saddling the horses. They mounted at once, the Canadians placed themselves at their side, and the fugitives forced their horses into the river. Fortunately, the water was low; and hence, although the current was rather powerful in the centre, the horses managed to cross the Gila without obstacle.
It was about eleven in the evening when the fugitives landed. So soon as they were concealed in the tall grass, so as not to be seen from the island, they drew bridle to let their horses breathe after the rude passage they had just made.
"Let us profit by the hours we have before us to travel the whole night," Harry said, in a low voice.
"Our absence will not be observed till sunrise," Dick observed. "The time spent in seeking us on the island, and in providing some substitute for the bridles, will give us twelve or fourteen hours which we must profit by to get away as far as possible."
"I ask nothing better," Harry said; "but, before starting, we must choose our road."
"Oh!" Ellen said, "the direction we must follow is easily settled: we must only go straight to the northwest."
"Be it so," the hunter went on; "one direction is as good as another. Our principal object is to get off as soon as possible: but why northwest rather than any other quarter of the wind?"
Ellen smiled.
"Because," she said, "a friend you know—the Indian chief who formed part of the band—left the camp before us, in order to warn his warriors, and bring us help in the event of an attack."
"Well thought of," the hunter said. "Let us be off, and not spare our horses, for on their speed our safety depends."
Each bowed over the neck of the horses. The little party started with the speed of an arrow in a northwestern direction, as had been agreed on. The four riders soon disappeared in the darkness; the footsteps of their horses ceased to re-echo on the hardened ground, and all fell back into silence.
The gambusinos were peacefully sleeping on the island.
We will now return to Valentine and his companions.
The six horsemen were still galloping in the direction of the mountains; and, about midnight, they stopped at the base of an enormous granite mass, which rose solitary and glowing in the prairie.
"This is the spot," said Bloodson, as he dismounted. His companions followed his example, and Valentine took a scrutinising glance around.
"If what I suppose be true," he said, "your dwelling might be an eagle nest."
"Or a vulture's," the stranger hoarsely answered. "Wait a few seconds."
He then imitated the cry of the tiger-serpent. Suddenly, as if by enchantment, the mass of granite was illumined from top to bottom, and torches, shaken by vague and indistinct forms, ran rapidly along the slopes, bounding with extreme velocity until they arrived close to the astonished travellers, who found themselves all at once surrounded by some fifty men in strange garbs and with sinister faces, rendered even more sinister by the reflection of the torches which the wind drove in every direction.
"These are my men," the stranger said, laconically.
"Hum!" Valentine remarked, "You have a formidable army."
"Yes," Bloodson went on; "for all these men are devoted to me. On many occasions, I have put their attachment to rude trials. They will let themselves be killed at a signal from me."
"Oh, ho!" the hunter went on, "The man who can speak thus is very strong, especially if he wish to gain an honourable end."
The stranger made no answer, but turned his head away.
"Where is Shaw?" he asked.
"Here I am, master," the man he had asked after said as he showed himself.
"What!" Valentine exclaimed, "Red Cedar's son!"
"Yes: did I not save his life which his brother sought to take? By that title he belongs to me. Now," he added "come, my guests, do not remain any longer outside. I will show you my domain. Shaw, do you take the horses."
The travellers followed the stranger, who, preceded by several torch-bearers, was already escalading the abrupt sides of the granite block. The ascent was ruder still. It was easy to recognise the steps of a staircase, beneath the roots, creepers, and brambles that overgrew them. The travellers were plunged in the utmost astonishment. Valentine and Curumilla alone affected an indifference which caused their host to ponder.
When about one-third up the mountain, Bloodson stopped before an excavation made by human hands, through whose gaping entrance a thread of light emerged.
"You did not, perhaps, expect," said Bloodson, as he turned to his friends, "to find in the Far West a keep as strong as this."
"I confess, Don Miguel, that I did not expect it."
"Oh, my friends, your memory fails you, I fancy," Valentine said with a smile; "this mountain, if I am not mistaken, is nothing but a Teocali."
"It is true," Bloodson said, with an air of annoyance he tried in vain to hide, "I have placed my abode in the interior of an ancient Teocali."
"There are a good many about here, history relates that it was in this country the Aztecs assembled before finally invading the plateau of Anahuac."
"For a stranger, Don Valentine," Bloodson remarked, "you were well acquainted with the history of this country."
"And with that of its inhabitants; yes, señor caballero," the hunter replied.
They went in, and found themselves in an immense hall, with white walls, loaded with sculpture, which, as Valentine had stated, must date back to the epoch of the Aztecs. A great number of torches, fixed in iron sockets, spread a fairylike light over this hall. Bloodson did the honours of this strange abode, as a man perfectly versed in the habits of civilised life. A few minutes after their arrival, the hunters enjoyed a meal which, though served in the desert, left nothing to be desired as regarded the delicacy of the dishes or the order in which it was served.
The sight of Shaw had involuntarily inspired Valentine with a secret distrust of their host; the latter, with the penetration and knowledge of mankind he possessed, at once noticed it, and resolved to get rid of it by a frank explanation between the hunter and himself.
As for Curumilla, the worthy Indian ate with good appetite, as was his wont, not uttering a word, though he did not lose a syllable of what was said around him, and his piercing eye had already scrutinised the most secret nooks of the spot where he was.
When the supper was ended, Bloodson gave a signal, and his comrades suddenly disappeared at the end of the hall, where they stretched themselves on piles of dry leaves which served them as beds. The hunters remained alone with their host, and at a sign from the latter, Shaw took a place by his side. For some time they smoked in silence, until Bloodson threw far from him the end of the cigarette he had been smoking, and took the word.
"Señores caballeros," he said, with a tone of frankness that pleased his hearers, "all that you see here may reasonably surprise you, I allow. Still, nothing is more simple; the men you, have seen belong to all the Indian tribes that traverse the desert; only one of them is a white man, and that is Shaw. If Don Pablo will be kind enough to reflect, he will tell you that the man found in the streets of Santa Fe with a knife in his chest was saved by me."
"In truth," the young man said, "Father Seraphin and myself picked up the poor wretch, who gave no sign of life. You only could recall him to existence."
"All the others are in the same case; proscribed by tribes, menaced with instant death by their enemies, they have sought a refuge with me. There is now another point, I desire to clear up, in order that no cloud may exist between us, and that you may place the most perfect confidence in me."
His hearers bowed respectfully.
"For what good?" Valentine said; "Every man in this world has his secret, caballero, and we do not ask for yours. We are connected by the strongest bond that can attach men, a common hatred for the same individual, and the desire to take a striking revenge on him—what more do we want?"
"Pardon me, in the desert, as in the civilised life of towns," Bloodson said with dignity, "men like to know those with whom accident has brought them into relationship. I am anxious you should know that the force I have at my service, and which is really formidable, Don Valentine, as you were good enough to observe, is employed by me to act as the police of the desert; repulsed by the world, I resolved to revenge myself on it by pursuing and destroying those pirates of the prairies who attack and plunder the caravans that cross the desert. It is a rude task I have undertaken, I assure you, for the villainies are numerous in the Far West, but I wage an obstinate war on them, and so long as Heaven permits, I will carry it on without truce or mercy."
"I have already heard what you say spoken of," Valentine replied, as he held out his hand sympathisingly; "the man who thus comprehends his mission on earth must be one in a thousand, and I shall ever be happy to be counted in the number of his friends."
"Thanks," Bloodson answered with emotion, "thanks for your remark, which compensates me for many insults and much miscomprehension. And now, caballeros, I place at your disposal the men who are devoted to me; do with them whatever you please, and I will be the first to offer the example of obedience."
"Listen," Valentine replied, after a moment's reflection; "we have to deal with a thorough-paced villain, whose principal weapon is cunning, and we shall only succeed in conquering him by employing the same. A considerable party is soon tracked on the prairie; Red Cedar has the eye of a vulture and the scent of a dog; the more we are, the less chance we have of catching him."
"What is to be done then, my friend?" Don Miguel asked.
"This," Valentine went on: "surround him, that is to say, enclose him in a circle whence he cannot emerge, by securing allies among all the desert Indians; but it is understood that these allies will act separately, until we have so well succeeded in tracking the villain that he must surrender."
"Yes, your idea is good, though difficult and dangerous in its execution."
"Not so much as you suppose," Valentine responded warmly. "Listen to me: tomorrow, at daybreak, Curumilla and myself will go in search of Red Cedar's trail, and I swear to you that we shall find it again."
"Good," said Don Miguel; "and afterwards?"
"Wait; while one of us remains to watch the bandit, the other will return to warn you of the spot where he is. During that time you will have formed alliances with thepueblosIndians, and be in a condition to force the boar in its lair."
"Yes," Bloodson remarked, "that plan is simple, and for that very reason must succeed. It is a struggle of cunning, that is all."
"Yes," General Ibañez objected; "but why should we not go on his trail also?"
"Because," Valentine answered, "though you are as brave as your sword, general, you are a soldier—that is to say, you understand nothing of the Indian warfare we are about to carry on, a war composed entirely of ambushes and treachery. You and our friends, in spite of your well-known courage, and I might almost say, on account of it, would prove more injurious than useful, owing to your ignorance of the country in which we are, and the manners of the men we have to fight."
"That is true," Don Miguel said; "our friend is in the right, leave him to act; I am convinced that he will succeed."
"And so am I," Valentine exclaimed, with an accent of conviction; "that is why I wish to be free, so that I may act as I please."
"In short," the general went on, "in a game so serious as that we are playing with men so clever and determined as those we have to fight with, nothing must be left to accident. I resign myself to inaction; carry out your schemes as you think proper, Don Valentine."
"Pardon me," Don Pablo exclaimed, hotly. "My father and you may consent to remain here, for I can understand that your age and habits render you but little fitting for the life you would be obliged to lead; but I am going. I am strong, able to stand fatigue, and long accustomed by Valentine himself to the terrible demands of the desert life you are ignorant of. My sister's safety is at stake: we wish to rescue her from the hands of her ravishers; and hence I must join the men who are going in search of her."
Valentine gave him a glance full of tenderness. "Be it so," he said to him. "You will come with us, Pablo: this will complete your initiation into desert life."
"Thanks, my friend, thanks," the young man said gladly. "You have removed an immense weight from my heart. Poor sister! I shall coöperate, then, in her deliverance!"
"There is another man you must take with you, Don Valentine," Bloodson said.
"Why so?" Valentine asked.
"Because," the other answered, "as soon as you have departed, I shall go and visit the Indian villages: when the moment arrives, we must know where to meet."
"Yes, but how is it to be managed?"
"Shaw will accompany you."
A flash of joy passed into the young man's eye, although his face remained unmoved.
"So soon as you have found the trail, Shaw, who knows my hiding places, will be sent off by you to advise me, and he will find me, wherever I may be."
"Yes," the squatter's son said, laconically. Valentine examined him for a moment attentively, and then turned to Bloodson:
"Be it so," he said; "he shall come. I am greatly mistaken, or this young man has a greater interest than we suppose in the success of our plans; and we can trust entirely to him."
Shaw lowered his eyes with a blush.
"And now," Bloodson said, "it is late: we have hardly four hours of night left. I believe that we have come to a perfect understanding, and that we shall do well to sleep. We do not know what the morrow reserves for us."
"Yes, let us sleep," Valentine said, "for I intend starting at sunrise."
"Will your horses be rested?"
"Let them rest, for we do not want them; a trail can only be properly followed on foot."
"You are right; a man on foot can pass anywhere."
After exchanging a few more words, each rose to go and throw himself on a pile of dry leaves.
Don Miguel seized Valentine's arm and clutched it firmly, as he said, with tears in his voice,—
"Friend, restore me my daughter."
"I will do so," the hunter said, with emotion, "or die."
The hacendero went away a few paces, but then hurriedly returned to the Frenchman's side.
"Watch over my son," he said in a choking voice.
"Do not be alarmed, my friend," the hunter answered.
Don Miguel warmly pressed the hunter's hand, uttered a sigh, and retired.
A few moments later, and all were sound asleep in the Teocali, with the exception of the sentries that watched over the common safety.
Red Cedar's proposition was too advantageous for the Pirates to hesitate about accepting it. This was the reason:—
For some years past a man had appeared on the prairies, at the head of fifty or sixty determined companions, and had waged such a rude war on the adventurers or pirates, that it had become almost impossible to carry on their old trade with impunity.
On his private authority, this man had constituted himself the defender of the caravans that crossed the desert, and protector of the trappers and hunters, whom they no longer dared plunder, through fear of being attacked by this unknown redressor of grievances.
This existence was growing insupportable, and an end must be put to it. Unfortunately the means had hitherto failed the pirates to deal a heavy blow, and free themselves from the crushing yoke Bloodson bowed them under. Hence they did not hesitate, as we have seen, to accept Red Cedar's proposition.
These men had been acquainted with the bandit for several years: he had, indeed, been their chief for some time; but at that period they were still civilised brigands, if we may employ that expression when speaking of such fellows, prowling along the frontiers of the American Union, assaulting isolated farms, and plundering and killing the defenceless inhabitants.
This band, which was at that time composed of about fifty, was gradually driven back on the desert, where Bloodson, who hunted them like wild beasts, had decimated them so thoroughly in many a fight, that the band, now reduced to only ten persons, was literally at bay, and compelled to live on the produce of the chase, or the rare occasions for plunder offered by isolated travellers, whom their unlucky star brought into the vicinity of the pirates' lair.
As they were perfectly concealed by the Indian garb they wore, the few travellers who escaped them fancied they had been plundered by redskins. This disguise caused their security, and allowed them to go at times and sell the produce of their plunder in the seaport towns.
We have said that the bandit band was composed of ten men, but we were incorrect; for one of them was a woman.
There was a strange anomaly in this creature, scarce twenty years of age, with delicate features, a tall and lithe form, living among these ruffians whom she ruled over with all the force of a vast mind, indomitable courage, and an iron will. The brigands had a superstitious adoration for her which they could not exactly account for; obeying her slightest caprices without a murmur, and ready to let themselves be killed at the least sign from her rosy fingers.
She was, as it were, their palladium. The girl was perfectly well aware of the uncontrolled power she exercised over her terrible guardians, and abused it constantly, while they never attempted resistance. The Indians themselves, seduced by the grace, vivacity, and sympathetic charms of the young creature, had christened her the White Gazelle; a name harmonising so well with her character, that she was known by no other.
She wore a fanciful costume of extraordinary wildness and eccentricity, which was admirably suited to the gentle, though decided, and slightly dreamy expression of her face. It was composed of loose Turkish trousers, made of Indian cashmere, fastened at the knees with diamond garters; while boots of stamped deer hide protected her leg, and imprisoned her little foot. To her heels were fastened heavy gold Mexican spurs; double-barrelled pistols and a dagger were passed through her China crape girdle, which confined her delicate waist. A jacket of violet velvet, buttoned over the bosom with a profusion of diamonds, displayed her exquisite bust. A brilliant-hued Navajo zarapé, fastened at the neck with a clasp of rubies, served as her cloak, and a Panama hat of extreme fineness (doble paja), decorated with an eagle plume, covered her head, while allowing tresses of jet black hair to fall in disorder on her neck, and which, had they not been bound by a ribbon, would have trailed on the ground.
This girl was asleep when Red Cedar entered the cavern, and the pirates were accustomed to do nothing without her assent.
"Red Cedar is a man in whom we can place entire confidence," Pedro Sandoval said, as he summed up the affair, "but we cannot give him answer till we have consulted theniña."
"That is true," a second confirmed him—"hence, as any discussion will be useless, I think the best thing we can do, is to follow Red Cedar's example, and go to rest."
"Powerfully reasoned," said one of the bandits, called Orson; a little man with ignoble features, grey eyes, and a mouth extending from ear to ear, while laughing so as to display two rows of white teeth, wide and sharp as those of a wild beast; "so shall I say good night."
The other pirates did the same, and in a few minutes the deepest silence prevailed in the grotto, whose inhabitants, secure in the strength of their position, slept peacefully.
At daybreak Red Cedar opened his eyes, and rose from the hard bed on which he had rested, in order to stretch his limbs, and restore the circulation of the blood.
"Up already!" Sandoval said, as he emerged, cigarette in mouth, from one of the sleeping cells.
"My bed was not so attractive as to keep me longer," Red Cedar answered with a smile.
"Bah!" the other said, "'Tis the fortune of war; therefore I do not complain about it:" the squatter continued, drawing his comrade to the entrance of the grotto. "And now, gossip, answer me, if you please; what do you think of my proposal? You have had time for reflection, I suppose?"
"Cascaras!—it did not require much reflection to see that it was a good bargain."
"You accept," Red Cedar said, with a movement of joy.
"If I were to be master, I should not make the slightest difficulty, but—"
"Hang it, there is a but."
"You know very well there always is one."
"That is true; and what is the but?"
"Oh, less than nothing; we must merely submit the question to the Niña."
"That is true: I did not think of that."
"You see now."
"Cristo!She will accept."
"I am certain of it. Still, we must lay it before her."
"Of course. Stay, comrade, I prefer you should undertake it: while you are doing it, I will go and kill some game for breakfast. Does that suit you?"
"Very well."
"Good-bye for the present, then."
Red Cedar threw his rifle over his shoulder and left the grotto, whistling to his dog.
Sandoval, when left alone, prepared to discharge his commission, while saying to himself in an aside—
"That devil of a Red Cedar is always the same, as timid as he used to be: that results from not having been used to the society of ladies.
"Good morning, Sandoval," a gentle and melodious voice breathed in his ear.
And the White Gazelle tapped the shoulder of the old bandit, while smiling kindly on him. The girl was really a ravishing creature. She wore the costume we just now described; but she held in her hand a rifle, damascened with silver. Sandoval gazed on her for a moment with profound admiration, and then answered in a trembling voice—
"Good morning, child; did you have a good night?"
"I could not have had a better; I feel in glorious spirits this morning."
"All the better, dear girl, all the better; for I have to present to you an old comrade, who ardently desires to see you again."
"I know whom you are alluding to, father," the girl replied. "I was not asleep last night when he arrived, and even supposing I had been so the noise you made would have awakened me."
"You heard our conversation, then?"
"From one end to the other."
"And what is your advice?"
"Before answering, tell me who are the people we are to attack."
"Do you not know?"
"No; since I ask you."
"Hang it; they are Americans, I believe."
"But what sort of Americans? Are they Gringos or Gachupinos?"
"I did not inquire into such details; to me all Americans are alike; and provided they are attacked, I ask for nothing more."
"That is possible, old father," the girl answered, with a little pout; "but I make a grand difference between them."
"I do not exactly see the use of it."
"I am free to think as I please, I suppose," she interrupted him, as she stamped her foot impatiently.
"Yes, my child, yes—do not be angry, I entreat you."
"Very good; but pay attention to what I am going to tell you. Red Cedar is a man on whom I do not put the slightest trust. He is ever accustomed to pursue a gloomy object, which escapes his partners; they only serve him as a cat's paw in all his undertakings; and he abandons them unblushingly so soon as they are of no further use to him. The affair Red Cedar proposes to you is magnificent at the first glance; but, on reflecting, far from offering us profits, it may bring a multitude of annoyances on us, and bring us into a wasp's nest, whence we cannot emerge."
"Then, your opinion is to decline?"
"I do not say that; but I wish to know what you intend doing, and what our chances of success are?"
During this conversation, the other bandits had left their cells and ranged themselves round the speakers, whose discussion they followed with the deepest interest.
"On my word, my dear child, I do not know what answer to make you. Last evening Red Cedar spoke to me of the affair, and it appeared to us grand; but if it does not please you we will give it up. We will not mention it again; and that's all about it."
"That is how you always are, Sandoval; it is impossible to discuss any point with you. At the slightest objection offered you flare up, and will not listen to the reasons which may be given to you."
"I am not so, my child; I only state facts. However, here is Red Cedar; have it out with him."
"That will not take long," the girl answered; and turning to the squatter, who entered the grotto, bearing on his shoulders a magnificent elk he had shot, and which he threw on the ground, she said—
"Answer me a single question, Red Cedar."
"Twenty, if it be agreeable to you, charming Gazelle," the bandit said, with a constrained smile, which rendered him hideous.
"No, one will be sufficient. Who are the people you are engaged with?"
"A Mexican family."
"I want to know their name."
"I will tell it you. It is the Zarate family, one of the most influential in New Mexico."
At this answer a vivid flush ran over the girl's face, and she displayed marks of profound emotion.
"I also propose," the bandit continued, whose notice this flush had not escaped, "to finish with that demon, Bloodson, on whom we have so many insults to avenge."
"Good!" she said with increasing emotion.
The astounded brigands gazed anxiously on the girl. At length, by a violent effort, the Gazelle succeeded in reassuming an air of coolness; and, addressing the Pirates, said to them, in a voice whose accent revealed a great internal agitation—
"That entirely changes the question. Bloodson is our most cruel enemy. If I had known that at first, I should not have opposed the enterprise as I did."
"Then—?" Sandoval ventured to interrupt. "I consider the idea excellent; and the sooner we put it in execution, the better."
"Very good," Red Cedar exclaimed. "I felt sure that the niña would support me."
The Gazelle smiled on him.
"Whoever could understand women?" Sandoval muttered in his moustache.
"Now," the young girl added, with extraordinary animation, "let us hasten to make our preparations for departure, as we have not an instant to lose."
"Caspita! I am glad we are going to do something at last," said Orson, as he prepared to cut up the elk brought in by Red Cedar: "we were beginning to moulder in this damp hole."
"Leonard," Sandoval said, "look after the horses; fetch them from the corral, and bring them to the subterraneous passage."
"Hang it all," said Red Cedar; "talking about horses, I haven't one."
"That is true," Sandoval replied; "you arrived on foot yesterday; but I fancied you had left your horse in the chaparral."
"No, it was killed in an ambuscade, where I all but left my hide. Since then, my dog has carried the saddle."
"We have more horses than we want, so Leonard shall bring one to you."
"Thanks, I will make it up to you."
Leonard and another bandit collected the harness and went off. When the meal was finished, which did not take long, as the Pirates were anxious to start, the separations forming the rooms were taken down, and two or three Pirates, arming themselves with powerful levers, moved an enormous rock, under which was the hole, serving as cache to the band, when obliged to leave its den temporarily. In this hole they placed any objects of value which the grotto contained, and the rock was then returned to its place.
This duty accomplished, Sandoval shouted as he proceeded to the mouth of the grotto—
"Some men to help."
At a sign from Sandoval, half a dozen men seized the end of a tree serving as a bridge, lifted it, balanced it for a moment in the air, and hurled it into the precipice, down which it rolled, with a sound resembling the discharge of a park of artillery. The exterior of the grotto was then covered with shrubs, in order to conceal it as far as possible.
"Ouf," Sandoval said, "at present all is in order; we will start when you please."
"At once!" the girl said, who seemed a prey to a great impatience, and who during all these lengthened preparations had not ceased to, scold the Pirates for their delay.
The band entered the passage without further delay; and, after a march of about half an hour, entered a ravine, where the horses, under the guard of a Pirate, were nibbling the pea vines and young tree shoots.
All mounted. The White Gazelle allowed her comrades to pass, and managed to remain a little in the rear. Then, approaching Red Cedar, she looked at him in a peculiar way, and laid her dainty hand on his shoulder.
"Tell me, scalp hunter," she muttered, in a low and concentrated voice, "it is really Don Miguel de Zarate, the father of Don Pablo, whom you wish to crush?"
"Yes, señorita," the squatter answered, feigning astonishment at this question. "Why do you ask me that?"
"Nothing," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders; "merely an idea."
And, spurring her horse, which bounded forward with a snort of pain, she rejoined the band, which started at a long trot.
"Why does she take such interest in Don Pablo?" Red Cedar asked himself, so soon as he was alone. "I must know that! Perhaps it may help me to—"
A sinister smile curled the corners of his thin lips, and he added, as he watched the girl gallop on—
"You fancy your secret well kept. Poor fool! I shall soon know it."