"Pick up this carrion," he said, spurning the corpse with his foot. "We are Dauph'yeers, and woe to the man who does not carry out the clauses of our agreement: I will kill him like a dog. Let this scoundrel be hanged by the feet, that his unclean carcass may become the prey of the vultures. In ten minutes the boot and saddle will sound: all the worse for the man who is not ready."
After this thundering speech the count re-entered the house with as firm a step as he had left. The revolt was subdued—the wild beasts had recognised the iron grip beneath the velvet glove; they were tamed forever, and henceforth would let themselves be killed without uttering a murmur.
"'Tis no matter," the soldiers said to each other, "he is a rude fellow for all that: he hasn't any cold in his eyes."
And then each eagerly made his preparations for departure. Ten minutes later, as the captain had announced, he reappeared; the troop was on horseback, ranged in order of battle, and ready to set out. The count smiled, and gave the word to set out.
"Humph!" Cucharés muttered to himself, "What a pity that Don Martial has such fine diamonds! After what I have seen I could have broken my word with pleasure."
Before long the free company, with the captain at its head, disappeared in the Del Norte.
The hacendero and his daughter left the colony of Guetzalli under the escort of Don Martial and the four peons he had taken into his service. The little band advanced to the west, in the direction of which the free company had marched in pursuit of the Apaches. Don Sylva was the more anxious to rejoin the French because he knew that their expedition had no other purpose than to deliver him and his daughter from the hands of the redskins.
The journey was gloomy and silent. As the travellers approached the desert the scenery assumed a sombre grandeur peculiar to primitive countries, which exercised an unconscious influence over the mind, and plunged them into a melancholy which they were powerless to overcome.
No more cabins, no morejacals, no more travellers found by the side of the road, offering an affectionate wish for your safe arrival as you pass, but an accidented soil, impenetrable forests peopled with wild beasts, whose eyes sparkled like live coals amid the wildly-interlaced creepers, shrubs and tall grass. At times the trail of the Frenchmen might be seen on the soil, trodden by a large number of horses; but suddenly the country changed its character, and every trace disappeared.
Each evening, after the Tigrero had beaten the vicinity to drive back the wild beasts, the camp was formed by the bank of a stream, the fires lighted, and a hut of branches hastily constructed to protect Doña Anita from the night cold; then, after a scanty meal, they wrapped themselves up in their fresadas and zarapés and slept till daybreak. The only incidents which at times disturbed the monotony of their life were the discovery of an elk or deer, in pursuit of which Don Martial and his peons galloped at full speed, and it often took hours ere the poor brute was headed and killed.
But there were none of those pleasant chats and confidences which make time appear less tedious, and render the fatigues of an interminable road endurable. The travellers maintained a reserve toward each other, which not only kept all intimacy aloof, but also any confidence. They only spoke when circumstances rendered it compulsory, and then only exchanged words that were indispensable. The reason of this was that two of the travellers had a secret unknown to the third, which weighed upon them, and at which they blushed inwardly.
Man, with his necessarily incomplete nature, is neither entirely good nor entirely bad. Most frequently, after committing actions under the iron pressure of passion or personal interest, when his coolness has returned, and he measures the depth of the abyss in which he has precipitated himself, he regrets them, especially if his life, though not exemplary, has at least hitherto been exempt from deeds which are offensive to morality. Such was at this moment the situation of Don Martial and Doña Anita. Both had been led by their mutual love to commit a fault they bitterly repented; for we will state here, to prevent our readers forming an erroneous estimate of their character, that their hearts were honest, and when, in a moment of madness, they arranged and carried out their flight, they were far from foreseeing the fatal consequences which this hopeless step would entail.
Don Martial, especially after the orders he had given Cucharés, and the hacendero's unshaken determination of rejoining the Count de Lhorailles, clearly comprehended that his position was growing with each moment more difficult, and that he was proceeding along a path that had no outlet. Thus the two lovers, fatally attached by the secret of their flight, still kept hidden from each other the remorse that devoured them; they felt at each step that the ground on which they walked was undermined, and that it might suddenly give way beneath their feet.
In such a situation life became intolerable, as there was no longer a community of thought or feeling between these three persons. A collision between them was imminent, though it happened, perhaps, sooner than they anticipated, through the pressure of the circumstances in which they were entangled. After a journey of about a fortnight, during which no noteworthy incident occurred, Don Martial and his companions, guided partly by the information they had picked up at the hacienda, and partly by the trail left by the persons they were following, at length reached the ruins of the Casa Grande of Moctecuhzoma. It was about six in the evening when the little party entered the ruins: the sun, already below the horizon, only illumined the earth with those changing beams which glisten for a long while after the planet king has disappeared. Marching a short distance from each other, Don Sylva and Don Martial looked searchingly around, advancing cautiously, and with finger on the rifle trigger, through this inextricable maze, so favourable for an Indian ambuscade. They at length reached the Casa Grande, and nothing extraordinary had met their sight. Night had almost set in, and objects began to grow confused in the shadows. Don Martial, who was preparing to dismount, suddenly stopped, uttering a cry of astonishment, almost of terror.
"What is it?" Don Sylva asked quickly as he walked up to the Tigrero.
"Look!" the latter said, stretching out his arm in the direction of a clump of stunted trees which stood a short distance from the entrance. The human voice exerts a strange faculty over animals—that of inspiring them with insurmountable fear and respect. To the few words exchanged by the two men hoarse and confused cries responded, and seven or eight savage vultures rose from the centre of the clump, and began flying heavily over the travellers' heads, forming wide circles in the air, and continuing their infernal music.
"I can see nothing," Don Sylva went on; "it is as black as in an oven."
"That is true: still, if you look more carefully at the object I point out you will easily recognise it."
Without any reply the hacendero pushed on his horse.
"A man hung by the feet!" he uttered, stopping his horse with a gesture of horror and disgust. "What can have happened here?"
"Who can say? It is not a savage—his colour and dress do not allow the least doubt on that point; still he has his scalp, so the Apaches did not kill him. What is the meaning it?"
"A mutiny perhaps," the hacendero hazarded.
Don Martial became pensive; his eyebrows contracted. "It is not possible," he said to himself; but a moment after added, "Let us enter the house; we must not leave Doña Anita any longer alone. Our absence must surprise her and might alarm her if prolonged. When the encampment is arranged I will go and look, and I shall be very unlucky if I do not discover the clue to this ill-omened mystery."
The two men retired and rejoined Doña Anita, who was awaiting them a few paces off, under the guard of the peons. When the travellers had dismounted and crossed the threshold of the casa, Don Martial lighted several torches ofocotewood to find their way in the darkness, and guided his companions to the large hall to which we have already introduced our readers. It was not the first time Don Martial had visited the ruins: frequently, during his long hunting expeditions in the western prairies, they had offered him a refuge. Thus he knew their most hidden nooks.
It was he, too, who had urged his companions to proceed to the Casa Grande, for he was convinced that the count could only find there a safe and sure bivouac for his troop. The hall, in which a table stood, presented unmistakable signs of the recent passage of several persons, and a tolerably prolonged stay they had made at the spot.
"You see," he said to the hacendero, "that I was not mistaken; the persons we seek stopped here."
"It is true. Do you think they have long left it?"
"I cannot tell you yet; but while supper is being prepared, and you are making yourselves comfortable, I will take a look round outside. On my return I trust to be more fortunate, and be able to satisfy your curiosity."
And placing the torch he held in his hand in an iron bracket fastened to the wall, the Tigrero quitted the house. Doña Anita fell pensively back on a species of clumsy sofa, accidentally left by the side of the table. Aided by the peons, the hacendero began making preparations for the night. The horses were unsaddled, driven into a species of enclosure, and had an ample stock of alfalfa placed before them. The trunks were unloaded, the bales carried into the hall, where they were piled up, after one had been opened to take out the requisite provisions; and then an enormous brazier was kindled, over which a quarter of deer-meat was hung.
When these various preparations were ended the hacendero sat down on a buffalo's skull, lighted a husk cigarette, and began smoking, while every now and then turning a sad glance on his daughter, who was still plunged in melancholy thought. Don Martial's absence was rather long, for it lasted two hours. At the end of that time his horse's hoofs could be heard echoing on the stone flooring of the ruins, and he reappeared.
"Well?" Don Sylva asked him.
"Let us sup first," the Tigrero answered, pointing to the girl in a way her father comprehended.
The meal was short, as might be expected from persons preoccupied and wearied with a long day's march. Indeed, with the exception of the roast venison, it only consisted ofcainc, maize tortillas, andfrijoles con aji. Doña Anita ate a few spoonfuls of tamarind preserve; then, after bowing to her friends, she rose and walked into a small room adjoining the hall, where a bed had been made up for her with her father's wraps, and the entrance to which was closed by hanging up, in place of the absent door, a horse blanket attached to nails driven in the wall.
"You fellows," the Tigrero said, addressing the peons, "had better keep good watch, if you wish to save your scalps. I warn you that we are in an enemy's country, and if you go to sleep you will probably pay dearly for it."
The peons assured the Tigrero that they would redouble their vigilance, and went out to execute the orders they had received. The two men remained seated opposite each other.
"Well," Don Sylva began, again asking his companion the question he had already begun, "have you learned anything?"
"All that was possible to learn, Don Sylva," the Tigrero sharply replied. "Were it otherwise I should be a scurvy hunter, and the jaguars and tigers would have had the best of me long ago."
"Is the information you have obtained favourable."
"That depends on your future plans. The French have been here, and bivouacked for several days. During their stay in the ruins they were vigorously attacked by the Apaches, whom, however, they succeeded in repulsing. Now it is probable, though I cannot assert it, that the troopers revolted for some cause of which I am ignorant, and that the poor wretch we saw hanging to the tree like rotten fruit paid for the rest, as generally happens."
"I thank you for your information, which proves to me that we are not mistaken, but followed the right trail. Now, can you complete your information by telling me if the French have long left the ruins, and in what direction they have marched?"
"Those questions are very easy to answer. The free company left their bivouac yesterday, a few moments after sunrise, and entered the desert."
"The desert!" the hacendero exclaimed, letting his arms sink in despondency.
There was a silence of some moments, during which both men reflected. At length Don Sylva took the word.
"It is impossible," he said.
"Still, it is so."
"But it is an extraordinary act of imprudence, almost of madness."
"I do not deny it."
"Oh, the unhappy men!"
"They are lost!"
"The fact is, that if they escape, Heaven will perform a miracle in their favour."
"I think with you; but it is now an accomplished fact, which no recriminations of ours can alter; so, Don Sylva, I believe that the wisest thing is to trouble ourselves no more about them, but let them get out of it as they best can."
"Is that your notion?"
"It is," the Tigrero replied carelessly. "I propose to remain here two or three days, and see if anything turns up. After that time, if we have seen or heard nothing, we will remount, and return to Guetzalli by the road we came, without stopping to look back, that we may arrive more speedily, and the sooner quit these horrible regions."
The hacendero shook his head like a man who has just formed an irrevocable determination.
"Then you will go alone, Don Martial," he said dryly.
"What!" the latter exclaimed, looking him firmly in the face. "What is your meaning?"
"I mean that I shall not turn back on the path I have hitherto followed; in a word, that I will not fly."
Don Martial was confounded by this answer.
"What do you intend doing, then?"
"Can you guess that? Why did we come to this place? For what purpose have we been travelling so long?"
"Excuse me, Don Sylva, but the question is now changed. You will do me the justice to allow that I have followed you without any observations—that I have been a faithful guide to you during this journey."
"I do so indeed. Now explain to me your notion."
"It is this, Don Sylva. So long as we only wandered about the prairies, at the risk of being devoured by wild beasts, I bowed my head, without attempting to oppose your designs, for I tacitly recognised that you were acting as you were bound to do. Even now, were you and I alone, I would bow without a murmur before the firm determination that animates you. But reflect that you have your daughter with you—that you condemn her to undergo nameless tortures in this fearful desert, where you force her to follow you, and which will probably swallow up both."
Don Sylva made no reply, so the Tigrero continued,—
"Our party is weak. We have provisions for only a few days; and you know, once in the Del Norte, we find no more water or game. If, during our excursion, we are assailed by atemporal, we are lost—lost, without resources, without hope!"
"All that you tell me is correct, I am well aware; still, I cannot follow your advice. Listen to me in your turn, Don Martial. The Count de Lhorailles is my friend; he will soon be my son-in-law. I do not say this to vex you, but only that you may thoroughly understand my position with regard to him. It was for my sake, to save me from those whom he supposed to have carried me off, that, without calculation, and solely urged by his noble heart, he entered the desert. Can I allow him to perish without trying to bring him succour? Is he not a stranger to Mexico—our guest, in a word? It is my duty to save him, and I will attempt it, whatever may happen."
"Since matters are so, Don Sylva, I will no longer try to combat a resolution so firmly made. I will not tell you that the man to whom you give your daughter is an adventurer, driven from his country through his ill-conduct, and who, in the marriage he seeks to contract, sees only one thing—the immense fortune you possess. All these things, and many others, I could supply you with proofs of; but you would not believe me, for you would only read rivalry in my conduct; so let us say no more on that head. You wish to enter the desert: I will follow you. Whatever may happen, you will find me at your side ready to defend and aid you. But as the hour for frank explanations has arrived, I do not wish any cloud to remain between us—that you should thoroughly know the man with whom you are going to attempt the desperate stroke you meditate, so that you may have a full and entire confidence in him."
The hacendero gazed at him with surprise. At this moment the curtain of Doña Anita's room was raised; the young girl came out, walked slowly down the hall, knelt before her father, and turning to the Tigrero,—
"Now speak, Don Martial," she said. "Perhaps my father will pardon me on seeing me thus implore his forgiveness."
"Pardon you!" the hacendero said, his eyes wandering from his daughter to the man who was standing before him with blushing brow and downcast eyes. "What is the meaning of this? What fault have you committed?"
"A fault for which I am alone culpable, Don Sylva, and for which I alone must suffer the punishment. I deceived you disgracefully: it was I who carried off your daughter."
"What!" the hacendero shouted with an outburst of fury. "I was your plaything, your dupe, then?"
"Passion does not reason. I will only say one word in my defence: I love your daughter! Alas! Don Sylva, I now perceive how culpable I have been. Reflection, though tardy, has at length arrived, and, like Doña Anita, who is weeping at your feet, I humble myself before you, and say, 'Pardon me!'"
"Pardon, father!" the poor girl said in a weak voice.
The hacendero made a gesture.
"Oh!" the Tigrero said quickly, "Be generous, Don Sylva. Do not spurn us. Our repentance is true and sincere. I am eager to repair the evil I have done. I was mad then: passion blinded me. Do not overwhelm me."
"Father," Doña Anita continued in a tearful voice, "I love him. Still, when we left the colony, we might have fled, and abandoned you; but we did not do it. The idea never once occurred to us. We were ashamed of our fault. You see us both here ready to obey you, and perform without a murmur the orders it may please you to give us. Be not inflexible, O my father, but pardon us!"
The hacendero drew himself up.
"You see," he said severely, "I can no longer hesitate. I must save the Count de Lhorailles at all hazards, else I should be your accomplice."
The Tigrero walked in great agitation up and down the hall: his eyebrows were contracted—his face deadly pale.
"Yes," he said in a broken voice, "yes, he must be saved. No matter what becomes of me after. No cowardly weakness! I have committed a fault, and will undergo all the consequences."
"Aid me frankly and loyally in my search, and I will pardon you," Don Sylva said gravely. "My honour is compromised by your fault. I place it in your hands."
"Thanks, Don Sylva; you will have no cause to repent," the Tigrero nobly replied.
The hacendero gently raised his daughter, drew her to his breast, and embraced her several times.
"My poor child!" he said to her, "I forgive you. Alas! Who knows whether in a few days I shall not have, in my turn, to ask your forgiveness for all the sufferings I have inflicted on you? Go and rest; the night is drawing on—you must have need of repose."
"Oh, how kind you are and how I love you, father!" she cried from her heart, "Fear nothing. Whatever sufferings the future may have in store for me, I will endure them without a murmur. Now I am happy, for you have pardoned me."
Don Martial's eye followed the maiden.
"When do you intend starting?" he said, stifling a sigh.
"Tomorrow, if possible."
"Be it so. Let us trust in Heaven."
After conversing for some short time longer, and making their final arrangements, Don Sylva wrapped himself up in his coverings, and soon fell asleep. As for the Tigrero, he left the house to see that the peons were carefully watching over their common safety.
"Provided that Cucharés has not fulfilled my orders!" he muttered.
On the next morning at daybreak the little band quitted the Casa Grande and two hours later entered the Del Norte. At the sight of the desert the maiden felt her heart contract; a secret presentiment seemed to warn her that the future would be fatal. She turned back, cast a melancholy glance on the gloomy forests which chequered the horizon behind her, and could not repress a sigh.
The temperature was sultry, the sky blue, not a breath of wind was stirring: on the sand might still be seen the deep footsteps of the count's free company.
"We are on the right road," the hacendero said; "their trail is visible."
"Yes," the Tigrero muttered, "and it will remain so till the temporal is unchained."
"Then," Doña Anita remarked, "may Heaven come to our aid!"
"Amen!" all the travellers exclaimed, crossing themselves, instinctively responding to the secret voice which each of us has in the depths of our heart, and which foreboded to their misfortune.
Several hours passed away: the weather remained fine. At times the travellers saw, at a great distance above their heads, innumerable swarms of birds proceeding toward the hot regions, orlas tierras calientes, as they are called in that country, and hastening to cross the desert. But everywhere nothing was visible save a grey and melancholy sand, or gloomy rocks wildly piled on each other like the ruins of an unknown and antediluvian world, found at times in remote solitudes.
The caravan, when night set in, camped under the shelter of a block of granite, lighting a poor fire, hardly sufficient to protect them from the icy cold which, in these regions, weighs upon nature at night. Don Martial rode incessantly on the sides of the small band, watching over their safety with filial solicitude, never remaining a moment at rest, in spite of the urging of Don Sylva and the entreaties of the maiden.
"No!" he constantly answered; "On my vigilance your safety depends. Let me act as I think proper. I should never pardon myself if I allowed you to be surprised."
Gradually the traces left by the troops became less visible, and at length disappeared entirely. One evening, at the moment the travellers were forming their camp at the foot of an immense rock, which formed a species of roof over their heads, the hacendero pointed out to Don Martial a thin white vapour, which stood out prominently against the blue sky.
"The sky is losing its brightness," he said; "we shall probably soon have a change of weather. God grant that a hurricane does not menace us!"
The Tigrero shook his head.
"No," he said, "you are mistaken. Your eyes are not so accustomed as mine to consult the sky. That is not a cloud."
"What is it, then?"
"The smoke of abois de vâchefire kindled by travellers. We have neighbours."
"Oh!" the hacendero said. "Can we be on the trail of those friends we have lost so long?"
Don Martial remained silent. He minutely examined the smoke, which was soon mingled with the atmosphere. At length he said:—
"That smoke bodes us no good. Our friends, as you call them, are Frenchmen; that is to say, profoundly ignorant of desert life. Were they near us, it would be as easy to see them as that rock down there. They would have lighted not one fire, but twenty braseros, whose flames, and, above all, dense smoke, would have immediately revealed their presence to us. They do not select their wood: whether it be dry or damp they care little. They are unaware of the importance in the desert of discovering one's enemy, while not allowing one's presence to be suspected."
"You conclude from this?"
"That the fire you discovered has been lit by savages, or at least by wood rangers accustomed to the habits of Indian life. All leads to this supposition. Judge for yourself—you who, without any great experience, though having a slight acquaintance with the desert, took it for a cloud. Any superficial observer would have committed the same mistake as yourself, so fine and undulating as it is, and its colour harmonises so well with all those vapours the sun incessantly draws out of the earth. The men, whoever they may be, who lit that fire, have left nothing to chance; they have calculated and foreseen everything, and I am greatly mistaken if they are not enemies."
"At what distance do you suppose them from us?"
"Four leagues at the most. What is that distance in the desert, when it can be crossed so easily in a straight line?"
"Then your advice is?" the hacendero asked.
"Weigh well my words, Don Sylva; above all, do not give them an interpretation differing from mine. By a prodigy almost unexampled in the Del Norte, we have now been crossing the desert for nearly three weeks, and nothing has happened to trouble our security: for a week we have been, moreover, seeking a trail which it is impossible to come on again."
"Quite true."
"I have, therefore, worked out this conclusion, which I believe to be correct, and which you will approve, I am convinced. The French only accidentally formed the resolution of entering the desert: they only did it to pursue the Apaches. Is not that your view?"
"It is."
"Very good. Consequently, they crossed it in a straight line. The weather which has favoured us favoured them too: their interest, the object they wished to attain, everything, in a word, demanded that they should display the utmost speed in their march. A pursuit, you know as well as I, is a chase in which each tries to arrive first."
"Then you suppose—?" Don Sylva interrupted him.
"I am certain that the French left the desert long ago, and are now coursing over the plains of Apacheria: that fire we noticed is a convincing proof to me."
"How so?"
"You will soon understand. The Apaches have the greatest interest in driving the French from their hunting grounds. Desperate at seeing them out of the desert, they have probably lit this fire to deceive them, and compel their return."
The hacendero was thoughtful. The reasons Don Martial offered him seemed correct: he knew not what determination to form.
"Well," he said presently, "and what conclusion do you arrive at from all this?"
"That we should do wrong," Don Martial said resolutely, "in losing more time here in search of people who are no longer in the desert, and running the risk of being caught by a tempest, which every passing hour renders more imminent in a country like this, which is continually exposed to hurricanes."
"Then you would return!"
"By no means. I would push on, and enter Apacheria as quickly as possible, for I am convinced I should then be speedily on the trail of our friends."
"Yes, that appears to me correct enough; but we are long way yet from the prairies."
"Not so far as you suppose; but let us break off our conversation at this point. I wish to go out and examine that fire more closely, for it troubles me greatly."
"Be prudent."
"Is not your safety concerned?" the Tigrero said, as he bent a gentle and mournful glance on Doña Anita. He rose, saddled his horse in a second, and started at a gallop.
"Brave heart!" Doña Anita murmured, on seeing him disappear in the mist. The hacendero sighed, but made no further reply, and his head fell pensively on his chest.
Don Martial pressed on rapidly by the flickering light of the moon, which spread its sickly and fantastic rays over the desolate scene. At times he perceived heavy rocks, dumb and gloomy sentinels, whose gigantic shadows striped the grey sand for a long distance; or else enormous ahuehuelts, whose branches were laden with that thick moss called Spaniard's beard, which fell in long festoons, and was agitated by the slightest breath of wind.
After nearly an hour and a half's march, the Tigrero stopped his horse, dismounted, and looked attentively around him. He soon found what he sought. A short distance from him the wind and rain had hollowed a rather deep ravine; he drew his horse into it, fastened it to an enormous stone, bound up its nostrils to prevent its neighing, and went off, after throwing his rifle on his shoulder.
From the spot where he was this moment standing the fire was visible, and the red flash it traced in the air stood out clearly in the darkness. Round the fire several shadows were reclining which the Tigrero recognised at the first glance as Indians. The Mexican had not deceived himself, his experience had not failed him. They were certainly redskins encamped there in the desert at a short distance from his party. But who were they? Friends or enemies? He must assure himself about that fact.
This was not an easy matter on this flat and barren soil, where it was almost impossible to advance without being noticed; for the Indians are like wild beasts, possessing the privilege of seeing in the night. In the gloom their pupils expand like those of tigers, and they distinguish their enemies as easily in the deepest shadow as in the most dazzling sunshine.
Still Don Martial did not recoil from his task. Not far from the redskins' bivouac was an enourmous block of granite, at the foot of which three or four ahuehuelts had sprung up, and in the course of time so entangled their branches in one another that they formed, at a certain distance up the rock, a thorough thicket. The Tigrero lay down on the ground, and gently, inch by inch, employing his knees and elbows, he glided in the direction of the rock, skilfully taking advantage of the shadow thrown by the rock itself. It took the Tigrero nearly half an hour to cross the forty yards that still separated him from the rock. At length he reached it; he then stopped to draw breath, and uttered a sigh of satisfaction.
The rest was nothing: he no longer feared being seen, owing to the curtain of branches that hid him from the sight of the Indians, but only being heard. After resting a few seconds he began climbing again, raising himself gradually on the abrupt side of the rock. At length he found himself level with the branches, into which he glided and disappeared. From the hiding place he had so fortunately reached he could not only survey the Indian camp, but perfectly hear their conversation. We need scarcely say that Don Martial understood and spoke perfectly all the dialects of the Indian tribes that traverse the vast solitudes of Mexico.
These Indians Don Martial at once recognised to be Apaches. His forebodings then were realised. Round abois de vâchefire, which produced a large flame, while only allowing a slight thread of smoke to escape, several chiefs were gravely crouching on their heels, and smoking their calumets while warming themselves, for the cold was sharp. Don Martial distinguished in their midst the Black Bear. The sachem's face was gloomy; he seemed in a terrible passion; he frequently raised his head anxiously, and fixing his piercing eye on the space, interrogated the darkness. A noise of horse hoofs was heard, and a mounted Indian entered the lighted part of the camp. After dismounting, the Indian approached the fire, crouched near his comrades, lighted his calumet, and began smoking with a perfectly calm face, although the dust that covered him, and his panting chest, showed that he must have made a long and painful journey.
On his arrival the Black Bear gazed fixedly at him, and they went on smoking without saying a word; for Indian etiquette prescribes that the sachem should not interrogate another chief before the latter has shaken into the fire the ashes of his calumet. The Black Bear's impatience was evidently shared by the other Indians; still all remained grave and silent. At length the newcomer drew a final puff of smoke, which he sent forth through his mouth and nostrils, and returned his calumet to his girdle. The Black Bear turned to him.
"The Little Panther has been long," he said.
As this was not a question the Indian limited himself to replying with a bow.
"The vultures are soaring in large flocks over the desert," the chief presently continued; "the coyotes are sharpening their bent claws; the Apaches scent a smell of blood which makes their hearts bound with joy in their breasts. Has my son seen nothing?"
"The Little Panther is a renowned warrior of his tribe. At the first leaves he will be a chief. He has fulfilled the mission his father entrusted to him."
"Wah! What are the Long-knives doing?"
"The Long-knives are dogs that howl without knowing how to bite: an Apache warrior terrifies them."
The chiefs smiled with pride at this boast, which they simply regarded as seriously meant.
"The Little Panther has seen their camp," the Indian continued; "he has counted them. They cry like women, and lament like weak children. Two of them will not take their accustomed place this night at the council fire of their brothers."
And with a gesture marked with a certain degree of nobility, the Indian raised the cotton shirt which fell from his neck about half way down his thighs, and displayed two bleeding scalps fastened to his waist belt.
"Wah!" the chiefs exclaimed joyfully, "the Little Panther has fought bravely!"
The Black Bear made the warrior a sign to hand him the scalps. He unfastened them and gave them. The sachem examined them attentively. The Apaches fixed their eyes eagerly upon him.
"Asch'eth(it is good)," he said presently; "my brother has killed a Long Knife and a Yori."
And he returned the scalps to the warrior.
"Have the palefaces discovered the trail of the Apaches?"
"The palefaces are moles; they are only good in their great stone villages."
"What has my son done?"
"The Panther executed the orders of the sachem point by point. When the warrior perceived that the palefaces would not see him, he went towards them mocking them, and led them for three hours after him into the heart of the desert."
"Good! My son has done well. What next?"
"When the palefaces had gone far enough the Panther left them, after killing two in memory of his visit, and then proceeded to the camp of the warriors of his nation."
"My son is weary: the hour of rest has arrived for him."
"Not yet," the Indian replied seriously.
"Wah! Let my son explain."
At this remark Don Martial, who was listening attentively to all that was said, felt his heart contract, he knew not why. The Indian continued,—
"There are others beside the Long-knives in the desert; the Little Panther has discovered another trail."
"Another trail?"
"Yes. It is not very visible: there are seven horses and three mules in all. I recognised one of the horses."
"Wah! I await what my brother is about to tell me."
"Six Yori warriors, having a woman with them, have entered the desert."
The chiefs eyes flashed fire.
"A palefaced woman?" he asked.
The Indian bowed in affirmation. The sachem reflected for a moment, and then his face re-assumed that stoical mask which was habitual to it.
"The Black Bear is not mistaken," he said; "he smelt the scent of blood: his Apache sons will have a splendid chase. Tomorrow at theendi-tah(sunrise) the warriors will mount. The sachem's lodge is empty. Let us now leave the Big-knives to their fate," he added, raising his eyes to heaven; "Nyang, the genius of evil, will take on himself to bury them beneath the sand. The Master of Life summons the tempest: our task is fulfilled. Let us follow the track of the Yoris, and return to our hunting grounds at full speed. The hurricane will soon howl across the desert. My sons can go to sleep: a chief will watch over them. I have spoken."
The warriors bowed silently, rose one after the other, and went to lie down on the sand a short distance off. Within five minutes they were all in a deep sleep. The Black Bear alone watched. With his head in his hands, and his elbows on his knees, he looked fixedly at the sky. At times his face lost that severe expression, and a transient smile played around his lips. What thoughts thus absorbed the sachem? On what was he meditating?
Don Martial read his thoughts, and felt a shudder of terror. He remained another half-hour motionless in his hiding place lest he might run the risk of discovery. Then he went down again as he had come, employing even greater precautions; for at this moment, when a leaden silence brooded over the desert, the slightest sound would have betrayed his presence to the Indian chief's subtile ear. He feared the discovery now more than ever, after the revelations he had succeeded in overhearing. At length he reached again, all safe and sound, the spot where he had left his horse.
For some time the Tigrero let the bridle hang loosely on his noble animal's neck, went slowly onwards, revolving in his mind all he had heard, and searching for the means he should employ to shield his companions from the frightful danger that menaced them. His perplexity was extreme: he knew not what to decide on. He knew Don Sylva too well to suppose that a personal interest, however powerful it might be, would induce him to abandon his friends in their present peril. But must Doña Anita be sacrificed to this delicacy—to this false notion of honour; above all, for a man in every respect unworthy of the interest the hacendero felt for him?
It was possible to avoid and escape the Apaches by skill and courage; but how to escape the tempest which in a few hours perhaps, would burst on the desert, destroy every trace, and render flight impossible?
The girl must be saved at any risk. This thought incessantly returned to the Tigrero's perplexed mind, and gnawed at his heart like a searing iron: he felt himself affected by a cold rage on considering the material impossibilities that rose so implacably before him. How to save the girl? He constantly asked himself this question, for which he found no answer. For a long time he went on thus with drooping head, seeking in vain a method which would enable him to act on his own inspiration, and escape from the critical position in which he found himself. At length light dawned on his mind; he raised his head haughtily, cast a glance of defiance toward the enemies who appeared so sure of seizing his companions, and digging the spurs into his horse, started at full speed.
When he reached the camp he found every one asleep save the peon who was mounting guard. The night was well on—it was about one o'clock in the morning; the moon spread around a dazzling light, almost as clear as day. The Apaches would not set out before daybreak, and he had, therefore, about four hours left him for action. He resolved to profit by them. Four hours well employed are enormous in a flight.
The Tigrero began by carefully rubbing down his horse to restore the elasticity to its limbs, for he would need all its speed; then, aided by the peons, he loaded the mules and saddled the horses. This last accomplished, he reflected for a moment, and they wrapped round the horse hoofs pieces of sheep-skin filled with sand. This stratagem, he fancied, would foil the Indians, who, no longer recognising the traces they expected, would fancy themselves on a false trail. For greater security he ordered two or three skins of mezcal to be left on the rock. He knew the Apaches' liking for strong liquors, and calculated on their drunken propensities. This done, ho aroused Don Sylva and his daughter.
"To horse! To horse!" he said in a voice that admitted of no reply.
"What's the matter?" the hacendero asked, still half asleep.
"That if we do not start at once we are lost!"
"How—what do you mean?"
"To horse! To horse! Every moment we waste here brings us nearer to death. Presently I will explain all."
"In Heaven's name tell me what the matter is!"
"You shall know. Come, come."
Without listening to anything, he compelled the hacendero to mount: Doña Anita had done so already. The Tigrero looked around for the last time, and gave the signal for departure. The party started at their horses' topmost speed.
Nothing is so mournful as a night march through the desert, especially under such circumstances as hurried our party on. Night is the mother of phantoms; in the darkness, the gayest landscapes become sinister—everything assumes a form to startle the traveller. The moon, however brilliant the light it diffuses may be, imparts to objects a fantastic appearance and mournful hues which cause the bravest to tremble.
This sepulchral calmness of the desert—this solitude that surrounds you, torments you from every side, and peoples the scenery with spectres—this obscurity which enfolds you like a leaden shroud—all combine to trouble the brain, and arouse a species of febrile terror, which the vivifying sunbeams are alone powerful enough to dissipate.
In spite of themselves our friends suffered from this feeling. They galloped through the night, not able to explain to themselves their motive for doing so, not knowing whither they were going. With heavy heads and weighed down eyelids, they had only one thought—of sleep. Borne along by their horses at headlong speed; the trees and rocks danced around them. They therefore secured themselves in their saddles, closed their eyes, and yielded to the sleep which overwhelmed them, and which they no longer felt the strength to resist.
Sleep is perhaps the most tyrannical and imperious necessity of man: it makes him despise and forget all else. The man overpowered by sleep will give way to it, no matter where he is, or what danger menaces him. Hunger and thirst may be subdued for a while by strength of will and courage, but sleep cannot. It is impossible to contend against it. It strangles you in its iron claws, and in a few moments hurls you down panting and conquered.
With the exception of Don Martial, whose eye was sharp and mind clear, the other members of the party resembled somnambulists. Hanging to their horses as well as they could, with eyes shut and thoughts wandering, they hurried on unconsciously, a prey to that horrible nightmare which is neither sleeping nor waking, but only the torpor of the senses and the oblivion of the mind.
This lasted the whole night. They had travelled ten leagues, and were utterly exhausted. Still at sunrise, beneath the influence of the warm rays, they gradually shook off their heaviness, opened their eyes, looked curiously around them, and an infinity of questions rose from the heart to the lips, as generally happens in such a case.
The party had reached the banks of the Rio Gila, whose muddy waters form, on this side, the desert frontier. Don Martial, after carefully examining the spot where he was, stopped on the bank. The bags of sand were removed from the horses' feet, and they were supplied with food. As for the men, they must temporarily put up with a mouthful ofrefinoto restore their strength.
The appearance of the country had changed. On the other bank of the river a thick, strong grass covered the ground, and immense virgin forests grew on the horizon.
"Ouf!" Don Sylva said, rolling on the ground with an expression of great satisfaction, "What a journey! I am worn out. If that were to last but one day,voto a brios!I could not stand it any longer. I am neither hungry nor thirsty. I will go to sleep."
While saying this the hacendero had arranged himself in the posture most agreeable for a nap.
"Not yet, Don Sylva," the Tigrero said sharply, and shaking him by the arm. "Do you want to leave your bones here?"
"Go to the deuce! I want to sleep, I tell you."
"Very good," Don Martial made answer coldly; "but if you and Doña Anita fall into the hands of the Apaches you will not make me responsible for it?"
"Eh?" the hacendero said, jumping up, and looking him in the face, "What are you saying about Apaches?"
"I tell you again that the Apaches are in pursuit of us. We are only a few hours ahead of them, and if we do not make haste we are lost."
"Canarios!We must fly," Don Sylva exclaimed, now thoroughly awake. "My daughter must not fall into the hands of those demons."
As for Doña Anita, little troubled her at this moment. She was fast asleep.
"Let the horses eat, and then we will start. We have a long way to go, and they must be able to bear us. These few moments of rest will allow Doña Anita to regain her strength."
"Poor child!" the hacendero muttered, "I am the cause of what has happened. My unlucky obstinacy brought us here."
"What use is recrimination, Don Sylva? We are all to blame. Let us forget the past, only to think of the present."
"Yes, you are right. What need discussing things that are done? Now that I am perfectly awake, tell me what you did during the night, and why you forced us to start so suddenly."
"My story will be short, Don Sylva; but you, I believe, will find it very interesting. But you shall judge for yourself. After leaving you last night, as you remember, to find out—"
"Yes, you wished to examine a fire that seemed to you suspicious."
"That was it. Well, I was not mistaken: that fire, as I supposed, was a snare laid by the Apaches. I managed to crawl up to them unnoticed, and hear their conversation. Do you know what they said?"
"By my faith, I have little notion what such idiots as those talk about."
"Not such idiots as you fancy somewhat lightly, Don Sylva. One of their runners was telling the sachem the result of a mission entrusted to him. Among other things he mentioned that he had discovered a paleface trail, and that among the palefaces was a woman."
"Caspita!" the hacendero exclaimed in terror, "Are you quite sure of that, Don Martial?"
"The more so because I heard the chief make this reply. Be attentive, Don Sylva—"
"I am listening, my friend: go on."
"'At sunrise we will set out in pursuit of the palefaces. The chief's lodge is empty: he wants a white woman to occupy it.'"
"Caramba!"
"Yes. Then finding I had learnt sufficient of the expedition the redskins were undertaking, I slipped away and regained our camp as soon as possible. You know the—"
"Yes, I know the rest, Don Martial," the hacendero said almost affectionately; "and I thank you most sincerely, not only for the intelligence you have displayed on this occasion, but also for the devotion with which you compelled us to follow you, instead of being disgusted by our mad sloth."
"I have done nothing but what I should do, Don Sylva. Have I not sworn to devote my life to you?"
"Yes, my friend, and you keep your vow nobly."
Since the hacendero had known Don Martial this was the first time he spoke openly with him, and gave him the title of friend. The Tigrero was touched by this expression; and if he had hitherto felt some slight prejudice against Don Sylva, it was suddenly dissipated, and only left in his heart a feeling of profound gratitude.
Doña Anita awoke during this conversation, and it was with an indescribable joy that she heard them talking thus amicably together. When her father told her the cause of the hasty journey she had been compelled to undertake in the middle of the night, she warmly thanked Don Martial, and rewarded him for all his sufferings by one of those glances, the secret of which only women in love possess, and into which they throw their whole soul. The Tigrero, delighted at seeing his devotion appreciated as it deserved served to be, forgot all his fatigues, and had only one desire—that of terminating happily what he had so well begun. So soon as the horses were saddled they mounted again.
"I leave myself in your hands, Don Martial," the hacendero said: "you alone; can save us."
"With the help of Heaven I shall succeed," the Tigrero replied passionately.
They entered the river, which was rather wide at this spot. Instead of crossing it at right angles, Don Martial, in order to throw the savages off the scent, followed the course of the river for some distance, and made repeated curves. At length, on reaching a point where the river was inclosed by two calcareous banks, where it was impossible for the horses' hoofs to leave any marks, he landed. The party had left the desert. Before them stretched those immense prairies, whose undulating soil gradually, rises to the slopes of theSierra Madreand theSierra de los Comanches. They are no longer sterile and desolate plains, denuded of wood and water, but a luxuriant nature, with an extraordinary productive force—trees, flowers, grass; countless birds singing joyously beneath the foliage; animals of every description running, browsing and sporting in the midst of these natural prairies.
The travellers yielded instinctively to the feeling of comfort produced by the sight of this splendid prairie, when compared with the desolate desert they had just quitted, and in which they had wandered about so long haphazard. This contrast was full of charm for them: they felt, their courage rekindled, and hope returning to their hearts. About eleven o'clock the horses were so fatigued that the travellers were compelled to encamp, in order to give them a few hours' rest, and thus pass the great heats of the day. Don Martial chose the top of a wooded hill, whence the prairie could be surveyed, while they remained completely concealed among the trees.
The Tigrero would not permit them, however, to light a fire to cook food as the smoke would have caused their retreat to be discovered; and in their present position they could not exercise too great prudence, as it was evident that the Apaches would have started in pursuit at sunrise. Those crafty bloodhounds must be thrown off the scent. In spite of all the precautions he had taken, the Tigrero could not flatter himself with the hope of having foiled them; for the redskins are so clever in discovering a trail. After eating a few hasty mouthfuls he allowed his companions to enjoy a rest they needed so greatly, and rose to go on the watch.
This man appeared made of iron—fatigue took no hold on him; his will was so firm that he resisted everything, and the desire to save the woman he loved endowed him with a supernatural strength. He slowly descended the hill, examining each shrub, only advancing with extreme prudence, and with his ear open to every sound, however slight. So soon as he reached the plain, certain that his presence would be concealed by the tall grass, in which he entirely disappeared, he hastened at full speed towards a sombre and primeval forest, whose trees approached almost close to the hill. This forest was really what it appeared to be—a virgin forest. The trees and leaves intertwined formed an inextricable curtain, through which a hatchet would have been required to cut a passage. Had he been alone, the Tigrero would not have been greatly embarrassed by this apparently insurmountable obstacle. Skilful and powerful as he was, he would have travelled 'twixt earth and sky, by passing from branch to branch, as he had often done before. But what a man so desolate as himself could do was not to be expected from a frail and weak woman.
For an instant the Tigrero felt his heart fail him, and his courage give way. But this despair was only momentary. Don Martial drew himself up proudly and suddenly regained all his energy. He continued to advance toward the forest, looking around like a wild beast on the watch for prey. All of a sudden he uttered a stifled cry of joy. He had found what he had been seeking without any hope of finding it.
Before him, beneath a thick dome of verdure, ran one of those narrow paths formed by wild beasts in going to water, which it required the Tigrero's practised eye to detect. He resolutely turned aside into this path. Like all such it took innumerable turnings, incessantly coming back on itself. After following it for a length of time, the Tigrero went back and re-ascended the hill.
His companions, anxious at his prolonged absence, were impatiently expecting him. Each welcomed his return with delight. He told them what he had been doing, and the track he had discovered. While Don Martial had been on the search, one of his peons, however, had made, on the side of this very hill, a discovery most valuable at such a moment to our travellers. This man, while wandering about the neighbourhood to kill time, had found the entrance to a cave which he had not dared to explore, not knowing whether he might not unexpectedly find himself face to face with a wild beast.
Don Martial quivered with joy at this news. He seized anocotetorch and ordered the peon to lead him to the cavern. It was only a few paces distant, and on that side of the hill which faced the river. The entrance was so obstructed by shrubs and parasitic plants, that it was evident no living being had ever penetrated it for many a long year. The Tigrero moved the shrubs with the greatest care, in order not to injure them, and glided into the cavern. The entrance was tolerably lofty, though rather narrow. Before going in Don Martial struck a light and kindled the torch.
This cavern was one of those natural grottos, so many of which are to be found in these regions. The walls were lofty and dry, the ground covered with fine sand. It evidently received air from imperceptible fissures, as no mephitic exhalation escaped from it, and breathing was quite easy; in a word, although it was rather gloomy, it was habitable. It grew gradually lower to a species of hall, in the centre of which was a gulf, the bottom of which Don Martial could not see, though he held down his torch. He looked around him, saw a lump of rock, probably detached from the roof and threw it into the abyss.
For a long time he heard the stone dashing against the sides, and then the noise of a body falling into water. Don Martial knew all he wanted to know. He stepped past the gulf, and advanced along a narrow shelving passage. After walking for about ten minutes along it, he saw light a considerable distance ahead. The grotto had two outlets. Don Martial returned at full speed.
"We are saved!" he said to his companions. "Follow me: we have not an instant to lose in reaching the refuge Providence so generously offers us."
They followed him.
"What shall we do, though," Don Sylva asked, "with the horses?"
"Do not trouble yourselves about them; I will conceal them. Place in the grotto our provisions, for it is probable we shall be forced to remain here some time; also keep by you the saddles and bridles, which I do not know what to do with. As for the horses, they are my business."
Each set to work with that feverish ardour produced by the hope of escaping a danger; and at the end of an hour at most, the baggage, provisions, and men had all disappeared in the cavern. Don Martial drew the bushes over the entrance, to hide the traces of his companions' passage, and breathed with that delight caused by the success of a daring project; then he returned to the crest of the hill.
He fastened the horses and mules together with his reata, and descending to the plain, he proceeded toward the forest, and entered the path he had previously discovered. It was very narrow, and the horses could only proceed in single file, and with extreme difficulty. At length he reached a species of clearing, where be abandoned the poor animals, leaving them all the forage, which he had taken care to pack on the mules. Don Martial was well aware that the horses would stray but a short distance from the spot where he left them, and that when they were wanted it would be easy to find them.
These various occupations had consumed a good deal of time, and the day was considerably advanced when the Tigrero finally quitted the forest. The sun, very low on the horizon, appeared like a ball of fire, nearly on a level with the ground. The shadow of the trees was disproportionately elongated. The evening breeze was beginning to rise. A few hoarse cries, issuing at intervals from the depths of the forest, announced the speedy re-awakening of the wild beasts, those denizens of the desert which, during the night, are its absolute king.
On reaching the crest of the hill, and before entering the grotto, Don Martial surveyed the horizon by the last rays of the expiring sun. Suddenly he turned pale; a nervous shudder passed through his frame; his eyes, dilated by terror, were obstinately fixed on the river; and he muttered in a low voice, stamping with fury,—
"Already? The demons!"
What the Tigrero had seen was really startling. A band of Indian horsemen was traversing the river at the precise spot where he and his companions had crossed it a few hours previously. Don Martial followed their movements with growing alarm. On arriving at the river bank, without any hesitation or delay, they took up his trail. Doubt was no longer possible; the Apaches had not been deceived by the hunter's schemes, but had come in a straight line behind the party, exercising great diligence. In less than an hour they could reach the hill; and then, with that diabolical science they possessed to discover the best hidden trail, who knew what would happen?
The Tigrero felt his heart breaking, and half mad with grief, rushed into the grotto. On seeing him enter thus with livid features, the hacendero and his daughter hurried to meet him.
"What is the matter?" They asked.
"We are lost!" he exclaimed with despair. "Here are the Apaches!"
"The Apaches!" they muttered with terror.
"O heavens save me!" Doña Anita said, falling on her knees and fervently clasping her hands.
The Tigrero bent over the fair girl, took her in his arms with a strength rendered tenfold by grief, and turning to the hacendero,—
"Come," he shouted, "follow me. Perhaps one chance of salvation is still left us."
And he hurried toward the extremity of the grotto, all eagerly following him. They hurried on for some time in this way. Doña Anita, almost fainting, leaned her lovely head on the Tigrero's shoulders. He still ran on.
"Come, come," he said, "we shall soon be saved."
His companions uttered a shout of joy: they had perceived a gleam of daylight before them. Suddenly, at the moment Don Martial reached the entrance, and was about to rush forth, a man appeared. It was the Black Bear.
The Tigrero leaped back with the howl of a wild beast.
"Wah!" the Apache said, with a mocking voice, "my brother knows that I love this woman, and to please me hastens to bring her to me."
"You have not got her yet, demon!" Don Martial shouted, boldly placing himself before Doña Anita, with a pistol in each hand. "Come and take her."
Rapidly approaching footsteps were heard in the depths of the cavern. The Mexicans were caught between two fires. The Black Bear, with his eye fixed on the Tigrero, watched his every movement. Suddenly he bounded forward like a tiger cat, uttering his war yell. The Tigrero fired both pistols at him and seized him round the waist. The two men rolled on the ground, intertwined like two serpents, while Don Sylva and the peons fought desperately with the other Indians.
We will now return to certain persons of this story, whom we have too long forgotten.
Although the French had remained masters of the field, and succeeded in driving back their savage enemies when they attacked the hacienda upon the Rio Gila, they did not hide from themselves the fact that they did not owe this unhoped for victory solely to their own courage. The final charge made by the Comanches, under the orders of Eagle-head, had alone decided the victory. Hence, when the enemy disappeared, the Count de Lhorailles, with uncommon generosity and frankness, especially in a man of his character, warmly thanked the Comanches, and made the hunters the most magnificent offers. The latter modestly received the count's flattering compliments, and plainly declined all the offers he made them.
As Belhumeur told him, they had no other motive for their conduct than that of helping fellow countrymen. Now that all was finished, and the French would be long free from any attacks on the part of the savages, they had only one thing more to do—take leave of the count so soon as possible, and continue their journey. The count, however, induced them to spend two more days at the colony.
Doña Anita and her father had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, that the French, but little accustomed to Indian tricks, and completely ignorant of the manner of discovering or following a trail in the desert, were incapable of going in search of the two persons who had been carried off. The count, in his mind, had built on the experience of Eagle-head and the sagacity of his warriors to find traces of the hacendero and his daughter. He explained to the hunters, in the fullest details, the service he hoped to obtain from them, and they thought they had no right to refuse it.
The next morning, at daybreak, Eagle-head divided his detachment into four troops, each commanded by a renowned warrior, and after giving the men their instructions, he sent them off in four different directions. The Comanches beat up the country with that cleverness and skill the redskins possess to so eminent a degree, but all was useless. The four troops returned one after the other to the hacienda without making any discovery. Though they had gone over the ground for a radius of about twenty leagues round the colony—though not a tuft of grass or a shrub had escaped their minute investigations—the trail could not be found. We know the reason—water alone keeps no trace. Don Sylva and his daughter had been carried down with the current of the Rio Gila.
"You see," Belhumeur said to the count, "we have done what was humanly possible to recover the persons carried off during the fight; it is evident that the ravishers embarked them on the river, and carried them a long distance ere they landed. Who can say where they are now? The redskins go fast, especially when flying; they have an immense advance on us, as the ill success of our efforts proves: it would be madness to hope to catch them. Allow us, then, to take our leave: perhaps, during our passage across the prairie, we may obtain information which may presently prove useful to you."
"I will no longer encroach on your kindness," the count replied courteously. "Go whenever you think proper, caballeros; but accept the expression of my gratitude, and believe that I should be happy to prove it to you otherwise than by sterile words. Besides, I am also going to leave the colony, and we may perhaps meet in the desert."
The next morning the hunters and the Comanches quitted the hacienda, and buried themselves in the prairie. In the evening Eagle-head had the camp formed, and the fires lighted. After supper, when all were about to retire for the night, the sachem sent thehachesto, or public crier, to summon the chiefs to the council fire.
"My pale brothers will take a place near the chiefs," Eagle-head said, addressing the Canadian and the Frenchman.
The latter accepted with a nod, and sat down by the brasero among the Comanche chiefs, who were already waiting, silent and reserved, for the communication from their great sachem. When Eagle-head had taken his seat he made a sign to the pipe bearer. The latter entered the circle, respectfully carrying in his hand the calumet of medicine, whose stem was adorned with feathers and a multitude of bells, while the bowl was hollowed out of a white stone only found in the Rocky Mountains.
The calumet was filled and lighted.
The pipe bearer, so soon as he entered the circle, turned the bowl of the pipe to the four cardinal points, murmuring in a low voice mysterious words, intended to invoke the goodwill of the Wacondah, the Master of Life, and remove from the minds of the chiefs the malignant influence of the first man. Then, still holding the bowl in his hand, he presented the mouthpiece to Eagle-head, saying in a loud and impressive voice,—
"My father is the first sachem of the valorous nation of the Comanches. Wisdom resides in him. Although the snows of age have not yet frozen the thoughts in his brain, like all men, he is subject to error. Let my father reflect ere he speak; for the words which pass his lips must be such as the Comanches can hear."
"My son has spoken well," the sachem replied.
He took the tube, and smoked silently for a few moments; then he removed the stem from his lips, and handed it to his nearest neighbour. The pipe thus passed round the circle, and not a chief uttered a word. When each had smoked, and all the tobacco in the bowl was consumed, the pipe bearer shook out the ash into his left hand, and threw it into the brazier, exclaiming,—
"The chiefs are assembled here in council. Their words are sacred. Wacondah has heard our prayer, it is granted. Woe to the man who forgets that conscience must be his only guide!"
After uttering these words with great dignity the pipe bearer left the circle, murmuring in a low, though perfectly distinct voice,—
"Just as the ash I have thrown into the fire has disappeared for ever, so the words of the chiefs must be sacred, and never be repeated outside the sachems' circle. My fathers can speak; the council is opened."
The pipe bearer departed after this warning. Then Eagle-head rose, and, after surveying all the warriors present, took the word.
"Comanche chiefs and warriors," he said, "many moons have passed away since I left the villages of my nation; many moons will again pass ere the all-powerful Wacondah will permit me to sit at the council fire of the great Comanche sachems. The blood has ever flowed red in my veins, and my heart has never worn a skin for my brothers. The words which pass my lips are spoken by the will of the Great Spirit. He knows how I have kept up my love for you. The Comanche nation is powerful; it is the Queen of the Prairies. Its hunting grounds cover the whole world. What need has it to ally itself with other nations to avenge insults? Does the unclean coyote retire into the den of the haughty jaguar? Does the owl lay its eggs in the eagle's nest? Why should the Comanche walk on the warpath with the Apache dogs? The Apaches are cowardly and treacherous women. I thank my brothers for not only having broken with them, but also for having helped me to defeat them. Now my heart is sad, a mist covers my mind, because I must separate myself from my brothers. Let them accept my farewell. Let the Jester pity me, because I shall walk in the shadow far from him. The sunbeams, however burning they may be, will not warm me. I have spoken. Have I spoken well, powerful men?"
Eagle-head sat down amid a murmur of grief, and concealed his face behind the skirt of his buffalo robe. There was great silence in the assembly; the Jester seemed to interrogate the other chiefs with a glance. At length he rose, and took the word in his turn to reply to the sachem.
"The Jester is young," he said; "his head is good, though he does not possess, the great wisdom of his father. Eagle-head is a sachem beloved by the Wacondah. Why has the Master of Life brought the chief back among the warriors of his nation? Is it that he should leave them again almost immediately? No; the Master of Life loves his Comanche sons. He could not have desired that. The warriors need a wise and experienced chief to lead them on the warpath, and instruct them round the council fire. My father's head is grey; he will teach and guide the warriors. The Jester cannot do so; he is still too young, and wants experience. Where my father goes his sons will go; what my father wishes his sons will wish. But never let him speak again about leaving them. Let him disperse the cloud that obscures his mind. His sons implore it by the mouth of the Jester—that child he brought up, whom he loved so much formerly, and of whom he made a man. I have spoken; here is my wampum. Have I spoken well, powerful men?"
After uttering the last words the chief threw a collar of wampum at Eagle-head's feet, and sat down again.
"The great sachem must remain with his sons," all the warriors shouted, as, in their turn, they threw down their wampum collars.
Eagle-head rose with an air of great nobility; he allowed the skirt of his buffalo robe to fall, and addressing the anxious and attentive assembly,—