"Poor child!" Ellen murmured, sympathisingly. "Be assured, gentlemen, that I will take care of her."
"Thanks, madam, thanks," the old Pirate said, as he several times kissed the maiden's hands. "I would give my last drop of blood to see her smile on me again."
"Is she your daughter?" Ellen asked with interest.
The Pirate shook his head sadly.
"We have no children or family, we the accursed ones of civilisation," he said, in a hollow voice; "but, as I have watched over this poor girl almost since her birth, I love her as we are capable of loving. I have always acted as her father, and my greatest grief today is to see her suffering and be unable to relieve her."
"Leave that care to me; I hope you will soon hear her voice and see her smile on you."
"Oh, do that, madam," he exclaimed, "and I, who never yet blessed anything, will worship you as an angel."
The maiden, affected by such devoted love in a nature so rough as that of the Pirate, renewed her assurance of giving the prisoner all the care her position demanded, and the two women remained alone in the tent.
In the meanwhile, a new village had risen, as if by enchantment, on the ruins of the old one. Within a few hours, buffalo skin tents were erected in every direction, and only a few traces remained of the sanguinary contest of which the spot had been the scene on that same day.
A fire was kindled in the public square, and the Apache prisoners, fastened to stakes put up expressly for them, were stoically awaiting the decision on their fate.
All were getting ready for the scalp dance, and a great number of men, tall, handsome, and well dressed, soon invaded every corner of the square. Their faces were blackened, as were those of Unicorn and Pethonista, who led them; after these the old women and children came up in procession, and ranged themselves behind the men. Last of all, the other females came up in close column, two by two, and occupied the centre of the square.
Seven warriors belonging to the Old Dogs formed the band; they, too, had blackened their faces, and three of them carried drums; the other four, chichikouis. The warriors, wrapped in their buffalo robes, had their heads uncovered, and generally adorned with feathers, which fell down behind. The women's faces were also painted, some black, others red; they wore buffalo robes, or blankets dyed of different colours. Two or three, the wives of the principal chiefs, had on white buffalo robes, and wore on their heads an eagle plume, placed perpendicularly.
As Sunbeam, Unicorn's squaw, was absent, the first wife of Pethonista took her place, and, alone, wore the grand sacred cap of feathers. All the other women held in their hands war clubs or muskets, decorated with red cloth and small feathers, the butt of which they struck on the ground while dancing.
We will remark here, that in the scalp dance the women carry arms, and put on the war costume, to the exclusion of the men.
The chieftainess stood at the right extremity of the band. She had in her hand a long wand, from whose upper end were suspended four scalps, still dripping with blood, surmounted by a stuffed jay, with outstretched wings; a little lower, on the same staff, were five more scalps. Opposite her stood another woman, carrying eight scalps in the same way, while the majority of the rest had either one or two.
The women formed a semicircle; the musicians, placed on the right, began their deafening noise, beating the drums with all their strength, singing their exploits, and shaking the chichikouis. The squaws then began dancing. They took little steps, balancing to the right and left; the two ends of the semicircle advanced and fell back in turn; the dancers shrieked at the top of their lungs, and produced a fearful concert, which can only be compared to the furious miauwling of a multitude of cats.
The Apache prisoners were fastened to stakes in the centre of the circle. Each time the women approached them in their evolutions, they overwhelmed them with insults, spat in their faces, and called them cowards, hares, rabbits, and dogs without hearts.
The Apaches smiled at these insults, to which they replied by enumerating the losses they had entailed on the Comanches, and the warriors they had killed. When the dance had lasted more than an hour, the women, exhausted with fatigue, were compelled to rest, and the men advanced in their turn, and stood before the prisoners.
Among them was one Valentine would have liked to save—it was Black Cat. The hunter therefore resolved to interfere, and employ all his influence with Unicorn to obtain the life of the Apache chief.
Valentine did not conceal from himself the difficulty of such an undertaking with men to whom vengeance is the first duty, and whose good will he was, above all, afraid of alienating. But powerful reasons compelled him to act thus, and he resolved to attempt it. He therefore advanced without hesitation to Unicorn, who was preparing the punishment of the prisoners, and touched him lightly on the arm.
"My brother is the first sachem of the Comanches," he said to him.
The chief bowed silently.
"His calli," Valentine continued, in an insinuating voice, "disappears under the scalps of his enemies, so numerous are they, for my brother is more terrible than lightning in combat."
The Indian regarded the hunter with a proud smile.
"What does my brother want?" he asked.
"Unicorn," Valentine continued, "is no less wise at the council fire than he is intrepid in battle. He is the most experienced and revered of the warriors of his nation."
"My brother, the great pale hunter, must explain himself clearly, in order that I may understand him," the sachem answered, with a shade of impatience.
"My brother will listen to me for a moment," Valentine continued, quite unmoved. "Several Apache warriors have fallen alive into his hands."
"They will die!" the chief said, hoarsely.
"Why kill them? Would it not be better to set a ransom on them and send them back to their tribe, thus proving to the Apaches that the Comanches are great warriors, who do not fear them?"
"The palefaces understand nothing about war: a dead man is no longer to be feared. If you pardon an enemy, you run the risk of him taking your scalp on the morrow. The Apaches must die. They have burnt my village, killed the squaws and children of my young men. Blood demands blood. They have an hour to live!"
"Very good," the hunter replied, who understood that if he attempted to save all the prisoners he should not succeed, and was therefore compelled, much against the grain, to compromise; "the warriors must die; that is the law of war, and I do not seek to oppose it; but among them there is one for whom my heart swells with pity."
"The Apache prisoners are mine," Unicorn objected.
"I do not deny it, and my brother has the right to dispose of them as he pleases, and I cannot object; hence I ask a favour of my brother."
The chief frowned slightly, but Valentine went on without seeming to notice the tacit dissatisfaction of the Comanche:
"I have a great interest in saving this man."
"My brother is white. The palefaces have a gilded tongue; they know how to find words which say all they wish. My brother is aware that I can refuse him nothing. Who is the warrior he desires to save?"
"Does my brother promise me that the man shall not perish, whoever it may be, whose life I may demand?"
The Comanche Chief was silent for a moment, looking fixedly at the hunter, who watched him with equal attention.
"Unicorn is my friend," Valentine continued. "I have a perfectly new rifle: if it pleases my brother, I will give it to him."
At this insinuation a slight smile enlivened the chief's face.
"Good: I accept the rifle," he answered. "It is a proper weapon for a sachem. My brother has my word. Who is the warrior he wishes to save?"
"Black Cat."
"Wah! I suspected it: however, no matter, my brother, can be at his ease. Black Cat shall be saved."
"I thank my brother," Valentine said warmly. "I see that his heart is noble! He is a great warrior!"
Then, alter affectionately pressing the chief's hand, Valentine returned to his station, suppressing a sigh of satisfaction.
The Apaches, who had been fastened for a long time to the stakes at which they would be tortured, regarded the terrible preparations for their atrocious punishment with a calm eye, and not a muscle quivering in their stoical and indifferent faces. So great was their carelessness, or, at any rate, it appeared so, that you might have fancied that they were merely about to figure as spectators in the gloomy tragedy preparing, although they were destined to play so terrible a part in it.
So soon as Valentine left him, Unicorn ordered the torture to commence, but he suddenly altered his mind.
"My sons," he said, addressing the Comanche warriors, and pointing to Black Cat; "this man is a chief, and as such can claim an exceptional death, in which he can prove to us his constancy and courage under suffering. Send him to the happy hunting grounds in such a way that the warriors of his nation whom he meets in another life may give him a reception worthy of him. Tomorrow the old men and chiefs will assemble round the council fire, to invent a punishment meet for him. Take him from the stake."
The Indians frenziedly applauded these words, which promised them so attractive a spectacle for the morrow.
"The Comanches are boasting and cowardly women," Black Cat broke out; "they do not know how to torture warriors. I defy them to make me utter a groan, if the punishment lasted a whole day."
"The Apache dogs can bark," Unicorn said coldly; "but if their tongue is long, their courage is short; tomorrow, Black Cat will weep like a daughter of the palefaces."
Black Cat shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and the Comanches repeated their frenzied applause.
"Unfasten him," Unicorn commanded a second time.
Several warriors approached the Apache chief, cut the cords that bound him to the stake, and then secured his limbs and threw him at the foot of a tree, Black Cat not deigning to make a sign evidencing the slightest irritation. After exchanging a glance with Valentine, Unicorn placed himself at the head of a band of warriors, who formed a semicircle round the prisoners. The chieftainess placed herself opposite to him, with the women; the band struck up more noisily than ever, and the torture began.
The squaws and warriors danced round the prisoners, and in passing before them, each, whether a man or woman, cut off a strip of flesh with long, sharp scalping knives. In making these wounds, the Comanches employed the utmost precaution to prevent the knives running too deep into the flesh, lest the victims should run the chance of dying at once, which would have unpleasantly modified the intention of the Indians, by depriving them of a sight from which they promised themselves so much pleasure.
The Apaches smiled on their torturers, and excited them still more by telling them that they did not know how to treat their prisoners; that their wounds were only so many mosquito stings; that the Apaches were far more skilful; and that the many Comanche prisoners they had made endured in their tribe much more atrocious sufferings.
The unfortunate men were in a pitiable state: their bodies were only one wound, from which the blood streamed. The Comanches grew excited and rage seized upon them, on hearing the insults of their enemies. A woman rushed all at once on one of the prisoners whose words were the bitterest, and with her sharp and curved talons tore out his eyes, which she swallowed on the spot, saying to him—
"Dog, you shall not see the sun again."
"You have torn out my eyes, but left me my tongue," the prisoner replied, with a smile rendered more hideous by the two empty and bleeding sockets. "'Twas I who devoured the quivering heart of your son, Running-water, when he entered my calli to steal horses. Do what you please, I am revenged beforehand!"
The woman, exasperated by this last insult, rushed upon him and buried her knife in his heart. The Apache burst into a hoarse laugh, which suddenly changed into the death rattle, and fell a corpse while uttering the words—
"I said truly that you do not know how to torture your prisoners—dogs, rabbits, thieves!"
The Comanches doubled their fury on the wretched victims, incessantly hacking and stabbing them, and though the majority were dead already, they did not leave off till they had destroyed all appearance of humanity. The scalps were then raised, and the victims thrown into the fire prepared for them.
The Comanches danced and howled round this fire until their voice and strength failed them, and they fell exhausted, in spite of the drums and chichikouis. The men and women, stretched on the ground pell-mell, soon fell asleep, in that strange state of intoxication produced by the odour of the blood shed during this atrocious butchery.
Valentine, despite the almost insurmountable disgust this scene had occasioned him, did not wish to retire, as he feared lest Black Cat might be massacred by the Comanches in a moment of mad fury. This precaution was not vain: several times, had he not resolutely interfered, the Apache chief would also have been sacrificed to the hatred of his enemies, who had attained a paroxysm of fury impossible to describe.
When the camp was plunged in silence, and everybody asleep, Valentine proceeded cautiously in the direction where the Apache chief lay bound, who watched him come up with a very peculiar glance. Not saying a word, the hunter, after assuring himself that nobody was watching his movements, cut all the cords that bound him. The Apache bounded like a jaguar, but fell back again on the ground; the cords had been tied so securely that they had entered into his flesh.
"My brother must be prudent," the Frenchman said gently. "I wish to save him."
He then took his flask and poured a few drops of brandy on the pallid lips of the chief, who gradually recovered, and at length stood on his feet. Bending a searching glance on the man who so generously paid him attentions he was far from expecting, he asked in a hoarse voice—
"Why does the pale hunter wish to save me?"
"Because," Valentine answered, without hesitation, "my brother is a great warrior in his nation, and must not die. He is free."
And holding out his hand to the chief, he helped him to walk. The Indian followed him unresistingly, but without a word. On reaching the spot where the horses of the tribe were picketed, Valentine selected one, saddled it, and led it to the Apache, who, during the hunter's short absence, had remained motionless on the same spot.
"My brother will mount," he said.
The warrior was still so weak that Valentine was compelled to help him into the saddle.
"Can my brother keep on his horse?" he asked, with tender solicitude.
"Yes," the Apache answered, laconically.
The hunter took the gun, bow, and panther skin quiver of the chief which he handed to him, saying gently—
"My brother will take back his arms. A great warrior as he is must not return to his tribe like a timid woman; he should be able to kill a stag, if he met one on the road."
The Indian seized the weapons; a convulsive tremor ran over his limbs, and joy gained the victory over Indian stoicism. This man, who had faced a horrible death without change of countenance, was conquered by the Frenchman's noble conduct; his granite heart was softened; a tear, doubtless the first he had ever shed, escaped from his fever parched eyes, and a sob burst from his overcharged breast.
"Thanks," he said, in a choking voice, so soon as words could find their way to to his lips; "thanks, my brother is good, he has a friend."
"My brother owes me nothing," the hunter replied, simply; "I act as my heart and my religion order me."
The Indian remained pensive for a moment, then he muttered, shaking his head dubiously:
"Yes, I have heard that said before, by Father Seraphin, the Chief of Prayer of the palefaces. Their God is omnipotent, He is before all merciful; is not that a blessing?"
"Remember, chief," Valentine quietly interrupted him, "that I save your life in the name of Father Seraphin, whom you seem to know."
The Apache smiled softly.
"Yes," he said, "these are his words, 'Requite good for evil.'"
"Remember those divine precepts which I put in practice today," Valentine exclaimed, "and they will support you in suffering."
Black Cat shook his head.
"No," he said, "the desert has its own laws, which are immutable; the red skins are of a different nature from the palefaces: their law is one of blood, and they cannot alter it. Their law says: 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.' The maxim is derived from their fathers, and they are obliged to submit to it, and follow it; but the redskins never forget an insult or a kindness. Black Cat has a great memory."
There was a silence of some minutes, during which the two men regarded each other attentively. At length the Apache spoke again.
"My brother will lend me his gourd."
The hunter gave it to him; the Apache quickly raised it to his lips, and took a mouthful. Then, bending down to Valentine, he placed his hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on the lips, while allowing a portion of the fluid he held in his mouth to pass into the hunter's.
On the prairies of the Far West this ceremony is a species of mysterious initiation, and the greatest mark of attachment one man can give another. When two men have embraced in this way, they are henceforth friends, whom nothing can separate save death, and they help one another without hesitation under all circumstances.
Valentine knew this, and hence, in spite of the disgust he internally experienced, he did not oppose the action of the Apache chief. On the contrary, he yielded to it joyfully, comprehending the immense advantages he should, at a later date, derive from this indissoluble alliance with one of the most influential Apache sachems, those allies of Red Cedar, on whom he had sworn to take an exemplary revenge.
"We are brothers," Black Cat said, gravely. "Henceforth, by day or night, wherever the great pale hunter may direct his footsteps, a friend will constantly watch over him."
"We are brothers," the hunter replied; "Black Cat will ever find me ready to come to his assistance."
"I know it," said the warrior. "Farewell; I will return to the warriors of my tribe."
"Farewell," Valentine said.
And vigorously lashing his horse, the Apache Chief started at full speed, and soon disappeared in the darkness. Valentine listened for a moment to the echo of his horse's hoofs on the hardened ground, and then returned thoughtfully to the calli, in which Ellen was nursing White Gazelle.
Ellen felt moved with pity at the sight of this young and lovely woman, who lay on the floor of the hut, and whom life seemed to have quitted forever. She felt for her, although she never remembered to have seen her before, a sympathy for which she could not account, and which instinctively attracted her.
Who was this woman? How had she, still so young, become mixed up in these scenes of murder and associated with these savage prairie men, to whom every human being is an enemy, every valuable article a booty? Whence arose this strange ascendancy which she exerted over outlaws, whom she made cry like children?
All these thoughts crossed Ellen's mind, and heightened, were that possible, the interest she felt in the stranger. And yet, in her heart, a vague fear, an undefinable presentiment warned her to be on her guard, and that this woman, gifted with, a strange character and fatal beauty, was an enemy, who would destroy her happiness forever.
As Ellen was one of those rare women for whom evil sentiments did not exist, and who made it a principle to obey, under all circumstances, the impulse of her heart, without reflecting on the consequences that might result from it, she silenced the feeling of revolt within her, and bent over White Gazelle.
And with that exquisite tact, innate in the female heart, she sat down by the side of the sufferer, laid her beautiful head on her knees, loosened her vest, and gave her that busy attention of which the other sex alone possess the secret.
The two maidens, thus grouped on the uneven floor of a wretched Indian hut, offered an exquisite picture. Both deliciously lovely, though of different beauty—for Ellen had the most lovely golden locks ever seen, while the Gazelle, on the contrary, had the warm tint of the Spanish woman, and hair of a bluish black—presented the complete type, in two different races, of the beau-ideal of woman, that misunderstood and incomprehensible being, the fallen angel in whose heart God seems to have let fall a glorious beam of His divinity, and who retains a vague reminiscence of that Eden which she made us lose.
The American woman, that perfect whole, a composition of graces, volcanic and raging passions, angel and demon, who loves and hates simultaneously, and who makes the man she prefers feel in the same second the joys of paradise and the nameless tortures of the Inferno! Who could even analyze this impossible nature, in which virtue and vices, strangely amalgamated, seem to personify the terrible convulsions of the soil on which she lives, and which has created her?
For a long time, Ellen's cares were thrown away. White Gazelle remained pale and cold in her arms. The maiden began to grow alarmed. She knew not to what she should have recourse, when the stranger made a slight movement, and a faint ruddiness tinged her cheeks. She uttered a profound sigh, and her eyelids painfully rose. She looked round her in amazement, and then closed her eyes again.
After a moment, she opened them once more, raised her hand to her brow as if to dissipate the clouds that obscured her mind, fixed her eyes on the person who was attending to her, and then, with a frown and quivering lips, she, tore herself from the arms that entwined her, and, bounding like a panther, sought shelter in one of the corners of the hut, without ceasing to gaze fixedly at the young American, who was startled at this strange conduct, and could not understand it.
The two girls remained thus for a few seconds, face to face, devouring each other with their eyes, but not exchanging a syllable. No other sound could be heard in the hut, save the panting respiration of the two females.
"Why do you shun me?" Ellen at length asked in her harmonious voice, soft as the cooing of a dove. "Do I frighten you?" she added, with a smile.
The Spaniard listened to her as if she did not catch her meaning, and shook her head so passionately that she broke the ribbon confining her hair, which fell in thick ringlets over her white shoulders, and veiled them.
"Who are you?" she asked, impetuously, with an accent of menace and anger.
"Who am I?" Ellen replied, in a firm voice, in which a slight tinge of reproach was perceptible. "I am the woman who has just saved your life."
"And who told you I wished it to be saved?"
"In doing so, I only consulted my own heart."
"Oh, yes, I understand," the Gazelle said, ironically. "You are one of those women called in your country Quakeresses, who spend their life in preaching."
"I am nothing of the sort," Ellen said, softly. "I am a woman who suffers like yourself, and whom your misfortunes affect."
"Yes, yes," the Spaniard shrieked, as she writhed her hands despairingly, and burst into tears—"I suffer all the torments of hell."
Ellen regarded her for a moment with compassion, and walked towards her. "Do not cry, poor girl!" she said to her, mistaking the cause that made her shed tears. "You are in safety here. No one will do you any harm."
The Spaniard threw up her head haughtily.
"Nay!" she said, impetuously. "Do you fancy, then, that I am not in a condition to defend myself, were I insulted? What need have I of your protection?"
And, roughly seizing Ellen's arm, she shook her passionately as she said:—
"Who are you? What are you doing here? Answer!"
"You, who were with the bandits when they attacked this village, should know me," Ellen replied, drily.
"Yes, I know you," the Spaniard said presently, in a hoarse voice. "You are the woman whom the genius of evil brought across my path to rob me of all my happiness! I did not expect to find you here, but I am delighted at doing so, for I can at length tell you how I hate you," she added, stamping her foot passionately. "Yes, I hate you!"
Ellen, in her heart, was alarmed at the stranger's violence; she tried in vain to explain her incomprehensible words.
"You hate me!" she replied, softly. "For what reason? I do not know you. This is the first time that accident has brought us together. Up to this day, we never had any relations together, near or remote."
"Do you think so?" the Spaniard continued, with a cutting smile. "In truth," she added, "we never had any relations together. You are right, and yet I know you thoroughly. Miss Ellen, daughter of the squatter, the scalp hunter, the bandit, in a word, Red Cedar, and who dares to love Don Pablo de Zarate, as if you did not belong to an accursed race. Have I forgotten aught—are those all your titles? Answer, will you?" she said, thrusting her face, inflamed with passion, close to Ellen's, and shaking her violently by the arm.
"I am, indeed, Red Cedar's daughter," Ellen answered, coldly; "but I do not understand what you mean by your allusion to Don Pablo de Zarate."
"Do you not, innocent lamb!" the Spaniard retorted with irony.
"And supposing it were so," the American answered with some haughtiness, "what does it concern you? By what right do you cross-question me?"
"By what right?" the Spaniard said, violently, but suddenly checked herself, and, biting her lips till the blood came, she folded her hands on her breast, and, surveying Ellen with a glance full of the utmost contempt, she continued:—
"In truth, you are an angel of purity and gentleness; your life has passed calmly and softly at the hearth of honest and respectable parents, who inculcated in you at an early age all the virtues they practice so well—ah, ah! Is not that what you meant to say to me?— while I, who am an associate of brigands, who have spent my whole life on the prairie, who understand nothing of the narrow exigencies of your paltry civilisation, who have always breathed the sharp and savage air of liberty—by what right should I come to interfere in your family arrangements, and interfere in your chaste loves, whose sentimental and insipid incidents are so well regulated by feet and inches? You are right, I cannot, with my savage manner, and burning heart, cross your love, and destroy for a caprice all your combinations—I am, indeed, mad," she added, as she rudely repulsed the maiden.
She folded her arms on her chest, and leant against the wall of the hut in silence. Ellen looked at her for a while, and then said, in a soft and conciliating voice—
"I try in vain to understand your allusions, but if they refer to any fact effaced from my mind, if, under any circumstance, I may have unconsciously offended you, I am ready to offer you all the apologies you may require. Our position among these ferocious Indians is too critical for me not to try, by all means in my power, to draw more closely together the bonds of friendship between ourselves, the only representatives of the white race here, which alone can enable us to escape the snares laid for us, and resist the attacks that threaten us."
The Spaniard's face had gradually lost the hateful and wicked expression that disfigured it, and her features had become calmer. Now that she had reflected, she repented the imprudent words she had uttered on the first outburst of passion. She would have liked to recall her secret; still she hoped that it was not too late to do so; and with that craft innate in woman, and which renders her so dangerous under certain circumstances, she resolved to deceive her companion, and efface from her mind the bad impression which her foolish words must have left there.
Hence it was with a smile, and in her softest voice, that she answered the American—
"You are good-hearted; I am not worthy of the attention you have paid me, or of the gentle words you address to me, after what I dared to say to you. But I am more unfortunate than wicked. Abandoned when a child, and adopted by the bandits with whom you saw me, the first sounds that struck my ear were cries of death, the first light I saw was the glare of incendiary fires. My life has been passed in the desert, far from the towns, where people learn to grow better. I am an impetuous and obstinate girl; but, believe me, my heart is good; I can appreciate a kindness, and remember it. Alas! A girl in my position is more to be pitied than blamed."
"Poor child!" Ellen said, with involuntary emotion, "So young, and already so unhappy."
"Oh, yes, most unhappy," the Spaniard went on; "I never knew the sweetness of a mother's caresses, and the only family I have had is composed of the brigands, who accompanied the Apaches when they attacked you."
The girls remained seated side by side, with their arms intertwined and head on each other's shoulder, like two timid doves. They talked for a long time, describing their past life. Ellen, with the candour and frankness that formed the basis of her character, allowed her companion to draw from her all her secrets, harmless as they were, not perceiving that the dangerous woman who held her beneath the charm of her blandishments, continually excited her to confidence, while herself maintaining the utmost reserve.
The hours passed thus rapidly, nearly the whole night slipped away in their confessions, which did not terminate till sleep, which never surrenders its sway over young and animated people, closed the drooping eyelids of the American girl.
The Spaniard did not sleep; when the other maiden's head fell on her chest she raised it cautiously, and laid it delicately on the skins and furs arranged to act as a bed; then, by the flickering and uncertain light of the pinewood torch fixed in the ground, which lit up the hut, she gazed long and attentively on the squatter's daughter.
Her face had lost its placid mask and assumed an expression of hatred of which such lovely features would have been thought incapable; with frowning brow, clenched teeth, and pallid cheeks, as she stood before the maiden, she might have been taken for the genius of evil, preparing to seize the victim which it holds fascinated and gasping beneath its deadly glance.
"Yes," she said, in a hollow voice, "this woman is lovely; she has all needed to be beloved by a man. She told me the truth—he loves her! And I," she added, with a movement of rage, "why does he not love me? I am lovely too—more lovely than this one, perhaps. How is it that he has been at least twenty times in my presence, and his heart has never been warmed by the fire that flashed from my eyes? Whence comes it that he has never noticed me, that all my advances to make him love me have remained futile, and that he has never thought of anyone but the woman lying asleep there, who is in my power, and whom I could kill if I pleased?"
While uttering these words she had drawn from her girdle a small stiletto, with a blade sharp as the tongue of a cascabel.
"No!" she added, after a moment's reflection, "No, it is not thus that she must die! She would not suffer enough. Oh, no! I mean her to endure all the sufferings that are lacerating me. Jealousy shall torture her heart as it has done mine for so long.Voto a Dios!I will avenge myself as a Spanish woman should do. If he despise me, if he will not love me, neither of us shall have him; we shall both suffer, and her torture will alleviate mine. Oh! Oh!" she said, with a smile, as she walked round the sleeping girl with the muffled tread of a wild beast; "fair-haired girl, with lily complexion, your cheeks covered with the velvety down of a peach, will ere long be as pale as mine, and your eyes, red with fever, will no longer find tears to soothe them."
She bent over Ellen, attentively listened to her regular breathing, and certain that she was plunged in a deep sleep, she walked toward the curtain door of the hut, raised it cautiously, and after looking around her in the obscurity, feeling assured by the calmness that surrounded her, she stepped over the body of Curumilla, who was lying across the door, and started off hurriedly, but with such light steps that the most practised ear could not have noticed the sound.
The Indian warrior had taken on himself the duty of watching over the two women. When the scalp dance was ended he returned to install himself at the spot he had selected, and, in spite of the remarks of Valentine and Don Pablo, who assured him that they were in safety, and it was unnecessary for him to remain there, nothing could make him give up his resolution.
Phlegmatically shaking his head at his friend's remarks, he took off his buffalo robe without any further response; he stretched it on the ground, and lay down on it, wishing them good night with a brief but peremptory nod. The others, seeing the Araucano's immoveable resolve, philosophically went away, shaking their heads.
Curumilla was not asleep—not one of the Spanish girl's movements escaped him; and she had scarce gone ten yards when he was already on her trail, watching her carefully. Why he did so he was himself ignorant; but a secret foreboding warned him to follow the stranger, and try to learn for what reason, instead of sleeping, she traversed at so late an hour the camp in which she was a prisoner, and where she consequently exposed herself to come in contact at each step with a ferocious enemy, who would have killed her with delight.
The reason that made her brave so imminent a danger must be very powerful, and that reason the Indian chief determined on knowing.
The girl had difficulty in finding her way through this inextricable labyrinth of huts and tents, against which she stumbled at every step. The night was dark; the moon, veiled under a dense mass of clouds, only displayed its sickly disc at lengthened intervals; not a star gleamed in the sky.
At times the girl halted on her journey, stretching forth her hand to listen to any suspicious sound, or else returned hurriedly on her footsteps, turning in the same circle, while careful not to go far from Ellen's hut.
It was evident to Curumilla that the prisoner was seeking, though unable to find, a tent that contained the person she wished to speak with. At length, despairing probably of ever succeeding in this search of which she did not hold the thread, the girl stopped and imitated twice the snapping bark of the white coyote of the Far West. This signal, for it was evidently one, succeeded better than she expected, for two similar barks, uttered at points diametrically opposed, answered her almost immediately. The girl hesitated for a second; a dark flush passed over her face, but recovering at once, she repeated the signal.
Two men appeared simultaneously at her side—one, who seemed to rise out of the ground, was Red Cedar, the second, Pedro Sandoval.
"Heaven be praised!" the Spaniard said, as he pressed the girl's hand, "You are saved, Niña, and I fear nothing more now.Canarios!You may flatter yourself with having caused me a terrible fright."
"Here I am," said Red Cedar; "can I be of any service to you? We are ambushed a few steps from here, with two hundred Apaches; speak, what is to be done?"
"Nothing at present," the Gazelle said, as she returned the pressure of her two friends' hands. "After our ill success of this evening, any attempt would be premature, and fail. At daybreak, from what I have heard, the Comanches will set out to take up your trail. Do not let their war party out of sight. It is possible that I may require your help on the way; but till then do not show yourself; act with the greatest prudence, and before all try to keep your enemies in ignorance of your movements."
"You have no other recommendations to give me?"
"None; so retire; the Indians will soon wake up, and it would not be well for you if they surprised you."
"I obey."
"Above all, do what I told you."
"That is agreed," Red Cedar repeated.
He glided into the gloom and disappeared among the tents. Curumilla was inclined to follow him and kill him as he fled; but after a short hesitation he allowed him to escape.
"It is now your turn," the Gazelle continued, addressing Sandoval; "I have a service to ask of you."
"A service, Niña; say rather an order to give me; do you not know that I am happy to please you in everything?"
"I am aware of it, and feel grateful to you, Pedro; but this time what I have to ask of you is so important and so serious, that, in spite of myself, I hesitate to tell you what I expect from you."
"Speak without fear, my child, and whatever it may be, I swear to you to do it."
"Even if the life of a person were at stake?" she said, with a bright and fixed glance, resembling that of a wild beast.
"All the worse for him: I would kill him."
"Without hesitation?"
"Yes. Has anyone insulted you, my child? If so, point him out to me, that you may be the sooner avenged."
"What I would ask of you is worse than killing a man."
"I do not understand you."
"I wish—you understand me clearly, my dear Pedro?—I wish that on the road we should escape—"
"If it is only that, it is easy."
"Perhaps so! But that is not all."
"I am listening."
"When we escape, you must carry off and take with us the girl to whom you entrusted me last evening."
"What the deuce would you do with her?" the pirate exclaimed, astonished at this singular proposition, which he was far from expecting.
"That is my business," the Gazelle answered rudely.
"Of course, still it seems to me—"
"After all, why should I not tell you? There is, I think, in a country a long distance from here, a savage and ferocious race called the Sioux?"
"Yes, and they are precious scoundrels, I can assure you, señorita; but I do not see what connection there is—"
"You shall see," she sharply interrupted him. "I wish that the girl you carry off tomorrow shall be handed over as a slave to the Sioux."
This proposition was so monstrous, that Pedro Sandoval could not refrain from a glance of stupefaction at the young Spaniard.
"You have heard me," she continued.
"Yes, but I should prefer killing her: it would be sooner done, and the poor girl would suffer less."
"Ah, you pity her!" she said with a demoniac smile; "the fate I reserve for her, then is very atrocious? Well, that is exactly what I want; she must live and suffer for a long time."
"This woman must have terribly insulted you?"
"More than I can tell you."
"Reflect on the horrible punishment to which you condemn her."
"All my reflections are made," the girl replied in a sharp voice; "I insist on it."
The Pirate hung his head silently.
"Will you obey me?" she asked.
"I must, for am I not your slave?"
She smiled proudly.
"Take care, Niña! I know not what has happened between this girl and yourself, but I am conscious that vengeance often produces very bitter fruits, Perhaps you will repent hereafter what you do today?"
"What matter? I shall be avenged. That thought will render me strong, and give me the courage to suffer."
"Then, you are quite resolved?"
"Irrevocably."
"I will obey."
"Thanks, my kind father," she said, eagerly; "thanks for your devotion."
"Do not thank me," the Pirate said, sadly; "perhaps you will curse me some day."
"Oh, never!"
"May Heaven grant it!"
With these words, the accomplices separated.
Pedro re-entered the tent allotted to him, while the Gazelle rejoined Ellen, who was still sleeping her untroubled sleep, smiling at the pleasant dreams that lulled her.
Curumilla lay down again at the entrance of the lodge.
We have said that Doña Clara had disappeared.
At the moment when the struggle was most obstinate, Valentine, taking Doña Clara in his arms, leaped from the top of the lodge on which he had hitherto been fighting, intrusted the maiden to Shaw, and rushed back into the fight at the head of the Comanches, who, recovering from the terror caused by the unforeseen attack of their implacable foes the Apaches, gradually assembled to the powerful war cry of their chief, Pethonista.
"Watch over her," Valentine said to Red Cedar's son; "watch over her, and, whatever may happen, save her."
Shaw took the maiden in his powerful arms, threw her over his shoulder, and with flashing eye and quivering lip, he brandished his axe, that fearful squatter's instrument he never laid aside, and rushed head foremost among the Apaches, resolved to die or break the human barrier that rose menacingly before him.
Like a boar at bay, he dashed madly forward, felling and trampling mercilessly on all who attempted to bar his progress. A living catapult, he advanced step by step over a pile of corpses, incessantly dropping his axe, which he raised again dripping with blood. He had only one thought left—to save Doña Clara or die!
In vain did the Apaches collect around him; like an implacable reaper, he cut them down as ripe corn, while laughing that dry and hoarse grin, a nervous contraction which affects a man who has reached the last stage of rage or madness.
In fact, at this moment, Shaw was no longer a man, but a demon. Trampling over the quivering bodies that fell beneath the terrible blows of his axe, feeling the body of her for whose safety he fought trembling on his shoulder, he struggled without stopping in his impossible task, but resolved to cut a hole, at all risks, through the human wall constantly arising before him.
Shaw was a man of tried courage, long habituated to fighting, and pitiless to the redskins. But alone, on this night, only illumined by the blood-red hue of the fire, and confined in a fatal circle, he felt a great fear involuntarily coming over him; he breathed with difficulty, his teeth were clenched, an icy perspiration ran down his body, and he felt on the point of succumbing.
Falling would have been death. He would have immediately disappeared under the avalanche of ferocious Indians yelling around him.
This discouragement did not last so long as a lightning flash. The young man, sustained by that hope which springs eternal in the human breast, as well as by his love for Doña Clara, prepared to continue the unequal contest.
Bounding like a jaguar, he hurled himself into the thick of the fight. This contest of a single man against a swarm of enemies had something grand and startling about it. Shaw, as if under the influence of a horrible nightmare, struggled in vain against the incessantly renewed cloud of foemen; in him every feeling of self had vanished, he no longer reflected, his life had become entirely physical, his movements were automatic, his arms rose and fell with the rigid regularity of a pendulum.
He had managed, without knowing how, to clear the fortifications of the village; at a few paces from him the Gila flowed silently on, and appeared to him in the moonlight like an immense silver ribbon. Could he reach the river, he was saved; but there is a limit which human strength, however great it may be, cannot go beyond, and Shaw felt that he was reaching this limit.
He took an anxious glance around; Apaches hemmed him in on all sides! He uttered a sigh, for he thought that he was about to die. At this solemn moment, when all was about to fail him, a final shriek burst from his chest. A cry of agony and despair, of terrifying meaning, and re-echoed for a second far and wide, so that it drowned all the battle sounds; it was the parting protest of a man who at length confesses himself conquered by fatality, and who, before succumbing, summons his fellow men to his aid, or implores the succour of Heaven.
A cry answered his! Shaw, astonished, unable to count on a miracle, as his friends were too far off and themselves too busy to help him, fancied himself the victim of a dream or hallucination; still, collecting all his strength, feeling hope well up again in his heart, he gave vent to a more startling shout than the former.
"Courage!"
This time, it was not echo that answered him.
Courage! This word alone was borne on the wings of the wind, weak as a sigh, and, in spite of the horrible yells of the Apaches, was distinctly heard by Shaw.
In moments of frenzy, or when a man is at bay, the senses acquire a perfection for which it is impossible otherwise to account. Like the giant Antæus, Shaw drew himself up, and seemed restored to that life which was on the point of leaving him. He redoubled his blows on his innumerable enemies, and at length succeeded in breaking through the barrier they opposed to him.
Several horsemen appeared galloping over the plain; shots illumined the darkness with their transient flash, and men, or rather demons, rushed suddenly on the throng of the Apaches, and commenced a frightful carnage. The redskins, surprised by their unexpected attack, rushed toward the village, uttering yells of terror: their prey had escaped them.
Shaw had fought bravely and firm as a rock up to the last moment; but when his enemies disappeared, he sank to the ground in a state of unconsciousness.
How long did he remain in this state? He could not say: but when he recovered his senses it was night. He fancied at first, that only a few hours had elapsed since the terrible struggle he had undergone, and he looked inquiringly around him. He was lying by a fire in the centre of a clearing; Doña Clara was a few paces from him, weak and pale as a spectre.
Shaw uttered a cry of surprise and terror on recognising the men who surrounded him, and who had probably saved him by answering his final shout. They were his two brothers, Fray Ambrosio, Andrés Garote, and a dozen Gambusinos.
By what strange accident had he rejoined his comrades at the moment when he had so great interest in shunning them? What evil chance had brought them across his path?
The young man let his head sink on his chest, and fell into a sad and gloomy reverie. His comrades, lying like him by the fire, maintained the most obstinate silence, and did not seem at all eager to cross-question him.
We will take advantage of the momentary respite allowed Shaw, to explain what had taken place on the island since we quitted it to follow Doña Clara, Ellen, and the two Canadian hunters.
Until sunrise no one perceived the flight of the girls. At breakfast, Nathan and Sutter, amazed at not seeing their sister appear, ventured on entering the hut of branches that served as shelter to the two females, and then all was explained. They went in a furious rage to Fray Ambrosio to tell him what had happened, and the monk completed the news they gave him by announcing in his turn the flight of Eagle-wing, Dick, and Harry.
The fury of the two brothers was unbounded, and they proposed to raise the camp at once, and go in pursuit of, the fugitives. Fray Ambrosio and his worthy friend Garote had infinite difficulty in making them understand that this would lead to no result; that, moreover, they had as guide an Indian thoroughly acquainted with the topography of the country, and the hiding places, and that it would be folly to suppose that the persons who had escaped had not so arranged their flight as to foil all attempts made to seize them again.
Another and more powerful reason obliged them to remain on the island, to which the squatter's sons were compelled to yield. Red Cedar, on going away, ordered that under no pretext should they quit the post he had selected; he had moreover promised to join his band again there, and if they left it, it would be impossible for him to find them, as he would not know in what direction they had gone.
The young men were forced to allow that Fray Ambrosio was right; but, in order to satisfy their conscience, they placed themselves at the head of a few resolute men, crossed the river, and beat up the neighbourhood. We need scarcely say that they found nothing, for at about a league from the Gila the traces were finally lost.
The young men were in despair; but Fray Ambrosio, on the other hand, was delighted. He had only one desire, that of seeing the band quit of Doña Clara, who, according to his views, impeded its progress and prevented it marching with the speed circumstances required; and now, instead of one woman, two had gone!
The worthy monk could scarce contain himself for joy; he, listened with, a sympathising air and expressions of condolence to the advice and complaints of his comrades at this extraordinary flight; but in his heart he was delighted.
Still, as there was no perfect happiness in this world, and wormwood must always be mixed with the honey of life, an unexpected incident suddenly troubled the beatitude of Fray Ambrosio.
At starting, Red Cedar, while concealing the object of his journey, had dropped hints to his comrades that he would bring them allies; moreover, he informed them, that his excursion would not last more than three or four days at the most. In the desert, especially in the Far West, there is no regular road; travellers are compelled, for the greater part of the time, to march axe in hand, and cut a path by force. The gambusinos knew this by experience, and hence were not surprised, because Red Cedar did not return at the period he had fixed.
They were patient, and as their provisions were beginning to give out, they scattered on either side the river, and organised great hunting expeditions to renew their stock. But days had slipped away, and Red Cedar did not return: a month had already passed, and no news or sign arrived to tell the gambusinos that he would come soon. Another fortnight also passed, and produced no change in the position of the gold-seekers.
By degrees the band began to grow discouraged, and soon, without anyone knowing how, the most sinister news circulated at first in a whisper, but then they acquired the almost certainty, that the squatter, surprised in an ambuscade by the redskins, had been massacred, and that, consequently, it was useless waiting for him any longer.
These rumours, to which Fray Ambrosio attached but slight importance at the outset, became presently so strong that he grew anxious in his turn, and tried to dissipate them; but this was difficult, not to say impossible. Fray Ambrosio knew no more than the rest about Red Cedar's movements; his fears were, at least, as great as those of his comrades; and whatever he might do, he was compelled to allow that he had no valid reason to offer them, and was completely ignorant of the fate of their common chief.
One morning the gambusinos, instead of setting out to hunt as they did daily, assembled tumultuously before thejacal, which served as headquarters for the monk and the squatter's sons, and told them plainly that they had waited long enough for Red Cedar: as he had given them no news of his movements for upwards of two months, he must be dead: that consequently the expedition was a failure; and as they had no inclination to fall, some fine morning, into the power of their foes, the redskins, they were going to return at once to Santa Fe.
Fray Ambrosio in vain told them that, even supposing Red Cedar was dead—which was not proved—although it was a misfortune, it did not cause the expedition to fail, as he alone held the secret of the placer, and promised to lead them to it. The gambusinos, who placed no confidence in his talents as guide, or in his courage as a partisan, would not listen to anything; and, whatever he might do to check them, they mounted their horses, and rode off from the island, where he remained with the squatter's sons, Andrés Garote, and five or six other men still faithful to him. Fray Ambrosio saw them land, and spur their horses into the tall grass, where they speedily disappeared. The monk fell to the ground in despair; he saw his plans for a fortune irredeemably ruined; plans which he had fostered so long, and which were crushed at the very moment when they seemed on the point of realisation.
Any other man than Fray Ambrosio, after such a disaster, would have yielded to despair; but he was gifted with one of those energetic natures which difficulties arouse instead of crushing; and, in lieu of renouncing his schemes, he resolved, as Red Cedar did not return, to go in search of him, and leave the island at once. An hour later, the little party set out on its march.
By an extraordinary coincidence, they set out on the very day when the Apaches started to attack the Comanche village; and as when accident interposes it does not do things by halves, it led them to the vicinity of the village at the moment when the desperate contest was going on which we have described in a previous chapter.
Their predacious instincts invited them to draw nearer the village under the protection of the darkness, in the hope of obtaining some Indian scalps, which were very valuable to them. It was then that the gambusinos heard Shaw's cry for help, to which they responded by hurrying up at full speed.
They rushed boldly into the medley, and saved the young man and the precious burthen he still held enclasped; then, after cutting the throats of several Indians, whom they conscientiously scalped, as they considered it imprudent to venture further, they started off again as quickly as they had come, and reached a forest where they concealed themselves, intending to ask Shaw, when he regained his senses, how he happened to be at the entrance of this village, holding Doña Clara in his arms, and fighting alone against a swarm of Indians.
The young man remained unconscious the whole day. Although the wounds he had received were not dangerous, the great quantity of blood he had lost, and the extraordinary efforts he had been obliged to make, plunged him into such a state of prostration, that several hours still elapsed after he had regained his senses before he seemed to have restored sufficient order in his ideas to be able to give an account of the events in which he had played so important a part.
It was, therefore, Fray Ambrosio's advice to grant time to recall his thoughts before beginning to cross-question him, and hence the affected indifference of the gambusinos toward him, an indifference which he profited by, to seek in his mind the means to part company with them, carrying off for the second time Doña Clara, who had so unhappily fallen into their hands again.
On the day after the battle, at sunrise, there was a busy scene in the Comanche village. The criers or hachestos mounted on the piles of ruins, summoned the warriors, who arrived one after the other, still fatigued by the dances and combats of the previous night. The war whistles, the shells, the drums and chichikouis, made an infernal disturbance, and hence the entire population was speedily assembled.
Unicorn was a chief of great prudence. Being on the point of undertaking an expedition which might separate him for a long time from his friends, he did not wish to leave the women and children exposed defencelessly to an attack like that of the previous evening. As the season was advanced, he resolved to abandon the village definitively, and escort those who were not selected to accompany him, to the winter village of the nation, situated at no great distance off, in a virgin forest, and in an impregnable position.
The appearance of the village was most picturesque; the warriors, painted and armed for war, formed two companies of one hundred men each, collected on the square, having on each flank a squadron of twenty-five horsemen. Between the two detachments the women, children, and old men placed themselves, with the dogs fastened to the sledges, which bore all their valuable property, such as furniture, furs, &c.
Unicorn, surrounded by his staff, composed of the subordinate chiefs of the tribe, held in his hands the totem, and gave his orders with a word or a gesture, which were immediately executed with an intelligence and dexterity that would have done honour to the most civilised nation.
Valentine was also on the public square, with his comrades and prisoners. The two maidens, calm and smiling, were side by side, conversing together, while Curumilla was holding his head down, and frowning.
Bloodson had gone off at daybreak, with his band, to try and surprise, in his turn, the Apache village, which was no great distance off. It was a strange fact, but the hunters and Mexicans felt an extraordinary pleasure at the departure of this man, who had, however, rendered them an immense service. Certainly, it would have been impossible for them to explain this feeling, which all experienced. Still, when he was no longer among them, their chests expanded, and they breathed with greater ease; in a word, it seemed as if an immense weight had been suddenly removed.
And yet, we repeat, the hunters and Mexicans had only terms of praise in which to allude to this man's treatment of them. Whence came this instinctive repulsion with which he inspired them?—the truth was, that Bloodson had something about him which caused those to whom accident brought into contact with him to feel disgust mingled with fear.
A great noise was suddenly heard in the square, and two or three Indians came up to speak to the chief. Unicorn uttered an exclamation of anger and feigned the greatest disappointment.
"What is the matter, chief?" Valentine asked, with the most indifferent air he could assume.
"Our most valuable Apache prisoner," Unicorn said, "has found means to escape, I do not know how."
"That is a misfortune," Valentine said: "still, it may not be irreparable."
"How so?"
"Who knows? Perhaps he may have escaped very recently; if you were to send couriers in every direction, it is possible that he may be recaptured. Besides, if that measure did not produce the anticipated result," he added, as he gave the young Spaniard a cold and stern glance, which made her start, "it would, at any rate, tell us what has become of our Apache enemies, and if they have not left round the village spies ordered to watch our movements."
The sachem smiled at this proposal; he made a sign, and a dozen horsemen galloped out in the plain. While awaiting the return of the scouts, the final preparations for departure were made.
After overhearing the conversation between the Gazelle and the Pirates, Curumilla repeated it to Valentine. The latter thanked him, and begged him to watch the movements of the girl and Pedro Sandoval. The advice Valentine gave the chief, and which he readily followed was intended to unmask the Apaches, compel them to retire, and hence deprive the Pirate of the assistance he expected in effecting his escape.
In fact the Apaches on seeing their enemies spread all over the plain, not knowing their intentions, but fearing lest they should be surprised by them, fell back, and that so rapidly, that the scouts returned to the village without seeing anything, after a two hours' ride.
On the report they delivered of all being quiet in the neighbourhood and the road quite clear, Unicorn gave the signal for departure: the immense caravan slowly set out to the sound of musical instruments, mingled with the yells of the warriors and the barking of the dogs. Valentine, for greater security, placed the two females at the head of the column, in the group of horsemen formed by the subordinate chiefs.
The day had opened with a pure sky and dazzling sun; the atmosphere, perfumed by the exhalations from the prairie flowers, pleasantly dilated the lungs, and caused the hunters to feel in the highest spirits. The caravan was unfolded like an immense serpent on the prairie, advancing in good order through an enchanting landscape.
The hunters were crossing at this moment the spot called the Bad Lands, a continuation of the Black Coast, which the Gila intersects. The prairie extended along the river, then gradually ascended in rollers toward the mountains, and was covered with blocks of greyish-brown granite, displaying various strata. All around rose a marvellous chain of tall greyish and barren mountains, with extraordinarily shaped summits, and spotted with dark patches of conifera.
The Rio Gila, which was rather narrow found its way with difficulty through the lofty crests of schist, granite, and clay, and the nude and dead scenery that surrounded it was but slightly animated on the banks by the poplars and pine bushes that bordered it.
To the right was a village of prairie dogs: these pretty little animals, which are not at all savage, were seated on the flattened roofs of their house, watching the caravan, as they shook their tails rapidly and uttered their shrill cry, which is not a perfect bark; then they disappeared in the ground.
The caravan rapidly advanced toward a virgin forest, whose gloomy spurs stretched out nearly to the river's bank, and which they reached after two hours' march. On reaching the first trees, the caravan halted for a while, in order to make the final arrangements, before burying itself beneath the gloomy dome which would serve as its shelter for several months.
Before leaving his friends, the white hunters, the Comanche Chief had the neighbourhood beaten up, but no trail was visible; the Apaches seemed to have definitely declined further fighting, and gone off. In fact, it would have been signal folly for them to try and attack the Comanches, thrice as strong as themselves, rendered haughty by their last victory, and who, before entering the forest, would have liked nothing better than to have a parting fight with their implacable enemies. But nothing disturbed the calmness of the prairie.
"My brother can continue his journey," Unicorn said to Valentine; "the Apache dogs have fled with the feet of antelopes."
"Oh, we do not fear them," the hunter replied, disdainfully.
"Before the eighth sun, my brother will see me again," the chief continued.
"Good."
"Farewell."
And they separated. The Comanche warriors entered the forest; for a while the sound of their footsteps and the tinkling of the bells fastened to their dogs' necks re-echoed under the gloomy arcades of the forest; then silence was gradually re-established, and the hunters found themselves alone. They were six resolute and well-armed men, who feared no danger; they could continue their journey in perfect safety.
"Are we still far from the island where Red Cedar's band is encamped?" Valentine asked the Sachem of the Coras.
"Scarce four leagues," Eagle-wing answered. "Were it not for the countless turnings we shall have to take, we should reach it in an hour; but we shall not arrive till the last song of themaukawis."
"Good; you and Don Pablo will go on ahead with the squarer's daughter."
"Do you fear anything?" Don Pablo asked.
"Nothing; but I wish to speak a few minutes with the Spanish girl."
"All right."
The two men pushed on with the maiden, and Valentine took his place on the right of the Gazelle, who was riding thoughtfully, without paying any attention to her horse.
The revelations made by Curumilla had the more struck Valentine, because he did not at all comprehend the Gazelle's hatred of Ellen. Every feeling must have its reason, every hatred a cause; and both these escaped him. In vain did he seek in his memory a fact which might account for, if not excuse, the strange conduct of White Gazelle; he found nothing that would put him on the right track.
He recalled to mind that he had seen the girl several times in the vicinity of Don Miguel de Zarate's hacienda, at the Paso del Norte; he also remembered that Don Pablo had done her a slight service, when she craved his help, but her relations with the hacendero's son had terminated there.
He believed it certain that, although Red Cedar's daughter lived near the hacienda, the Gazelle had never seen her before they met at the Indian village. Still, as he knew Don Pablo's love for Ellen, a love of which the young man had never spoken to him, but which he had long seen; as, too, the position was grave, and Ellen might at any moment fall into danger, which must be avoided at any cost, Valentine resolved to have a conversation with the Spanish girl, and try to read clearly in her heart, were that possible.
But if gentle means failed, he would show her no indulgence, or let a gentle and unoffending creature be exposed to the perfidy of a cruel woman, whom no consideration seemed to arrest in her sinister plans.
Valentine looked round. Ellen was about two hundred yards ahead, between Eagle-wing and Don Pablo. Temporarily reassured, he turned to the Spanish girl, who at this moment was talking eagerly, and in a loud voice, with Pedro Sandoval. The girl blushed, and ceased speaking. Valentine, not appearing to notice the confusion his presence caused the speakers, bowed slightly to the Spaniard, and addressed her in a calm voice:—
"I beg your pardon," he said, "if I interrupt a doubtless interesting conversation; but I wish to have a few words with you."
The girl blushed still more deeply. Her black eye flashed fire under the long lash that veiled it, but she answered in a trembling voice, as she stopped her horse—
"I am ready to listen to you, señor caballero."
"Do not stop, I beg, señora," Valentine said. "This worthy man, who doubtless shares all your secrets," he added, with an ironical smile, "can hear our conversation, which, indeed, will relate to him."
"In truth," the girl answered, in a firmer voice, as she let her horse proceed, "I have nothing hidden from this worthy man, as you do him the honour of calling him."
"Very good, señora," the hunter continued with equal coldness. "Now, be good enough not to take in ill part what I am about to say to you, and answer a question I shall take the liberty of asking you."
"I presume you intend me to undergo an interrogation?"
"That is not my intention, at least at this moment; it will depend on you, madam, that we do not pass the limits of a friendly conversation."
"Speak, sir. If the question you ask me is one of those a woman may answer, I will satisfy you."
"Be good enough to tell me, madam, whether you found us cruel enemies last night?"
"Why this question?"
"Be so kind as to answer it first."
"I can only speak in terms of praise of your conduct."
"I thank you. And how did Miss Ellen treat you?"
"Admirably."
"Good. You are not ignorant, I think, that through your yesterday's aggression, an aggression which may be regarded as attempted murder and robbery, since, as you are not at war with the Indians, and as, belonging to our race, should regard us as friends—you are not ignorant, I say, that you have rendered yourself amenable to the prairie law, which says, 'an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.'"
"What do you wish to arrive at?"
"Pardon me. You are not ignorant, I assume, that, instead of treating you as I did, with the most perfect respect, I should have been quite justified in passing a rope round your neck, and hanging you, with your worthy friend, to the branches of the first tree: and there are some magnificent specimens in these parts!"
"Sir!" the girl exclaimed, as she drew herself up, and became livid with fury.