After considerable efforts, Nathan managed to cut through the ligatures; the rest was nothing, as his hands were at liberty. In a few seconds he was completely freed from his bonds, and seized the knife, which he thrust into his girdle. The cord that let it down was then drawn up again.
Nathan waited in a state of indescribable agony. He had returned to his old position, and was snoring. All at once one of his guardians turned towards him, moved his limbs, stiffened with cold, rose and bent over him with a yawn. Nathan, with half-closed, eyes, carefully watched his movements. When he saw the redskin's face only two inches from his own, with a gesture swift as thought, he threw his hands round his neck, and that so suddenly that the Comanche, taken unawares, had not the time to utter a cry.
The American was endowed with Herculean strength, which the hope of deliverance doubled at this moment. He squeezed the warrior's neck as in a vice; and the latter struggled in vain to free himself from this deadly pressure. The bandit's iron hands drew tighter and tighter with a slow, deliberate, but irresistible pressure. The Indian, his eyes suffused with blood, his features horribly contracted, beat the air two or three times mechanically, made one convulsive effort, and then remained motionless. He was dead.
Nathan held him for two or three minutes, to be quite certain that all was over, and then laid the warrior by his side, in a position that admirably resembled sleep. He then passed his hand over his forehead to wipe away the icy perspiration, and raised his eyes to the tree, but nothing appeared there. A frightful thought then occupied the young man; suppose his friends, despairing of saving him, had abandoned him? A horrible agony contracted his chest.
Still, he had recognised his father's signal: the hiss of the whip snake had been long employed by them to communicate under perilous circumstances. His father was not the man to leave any work he had begun undone, whatever the consequences might be. And yet the moments slipped away one after the other, and nothing told the wretch that men were at work for his deliverance; all was calm and gloomy.
Nearly half an hour passed thus. Nathan was a prey to feverish impatience and a terror impossible to describe. Up to the present, it was true, no one in camp had perceived the unusual movement he had been obliged to make, but an unlucky chance might reveal his plans for flight at any moment; to effect this, an Indian aroused by the sharp cold need only pass by him while trying to restore the circulation of his blood by a walk.
As his friends forgot him, the young man resolved to get out of the affair by himself. In the first place, he must get rid of his second watcher, and then he would settle what next to do. Hence, still remaining on the ground, he slowly crawled toward the second warrior. He approached him inch by inch, so insensible and deliberate were his movements! At length he arrived scarce two paces from the warrior, whose tranquil sleep told him that he could act without fear. Nathan drew himself up, and bounding like a jaguar, placed his knee on the Indian's chest, while with his left hand he powerfully clutched his throat.
The Comanche, suddenly awakened, made a hurried movement to free himself from this fatal pressure, and opened his eyes wildly, as he looked round in terror. Nathan, without uttering a word, drew his knife and buried it in the Indian's heart, while still holding him by the throat. The warrior fell back as if struck by lightning, and expired without uttering a cry or giving a sigh.
"I don't care," the bandit muttered, as he wiped the knife, "it is a famous weapon. Now, whatever may happen, I feel sure of not dying unavenged."
Nathan, when he found his disguise useless, had asked leave to put on his old clothes, which was granted. By a singular chance, the Indian he stabbed had secured his game bag and rifle, which the young man at once took back. He gave a sigh of satisfaction at finding himself again in possession of objects so valuable to him, and clothed once more in his wood ranger's garb.
Time pressed; he must be off at all risks, try to foil the sentries, and quit the camp. What had he to fear in being killed? If he remained, he knew perfectly well the fate that awaited him; hence the alternative was not doubtful; it was a thousandfold better to stake his life bravely in a final contest, than wait for the hour of punishment.
Nathan looked ferociously around, bent forward, listened, and silently cocked his rifle. The deepest calm continued to prevail around.
"Come," the young man said, "there can be no hesitation; I must be off."
At this moment the hiss of the whip snake was again audible.
Nathan started.
"Oh, oh!" he said, "It seems that I am not abandoned as I fancied."
He lay down on the ground again and crawled back to the tree to which he had been fastened. A lasso hung down to the ground, terminating in one of those double knots which sailors call "chairs," one half of which passes under the thighs, while the other supports the chest.
"By jingo!" Nathan muttered joyfully, "Only the old man can have such ideas. What a famous trick we are going to play those dogs of redskins! They will really believe me a sorcerer; for I defy them to find my trail."
While talking thus to himself, the American had seated himself in the chair. The lasso drawn by a vigorous hand, rapidly ascended, and Nathan soon disappeared among the thick foliage of the larch tree. When he reached the first branches, which were about thirty feet from the ground, the young man removed the lasso, and in a few seconds rejoined his comrades.
"Ouf!" he muttered, as he drew two or three deep breaths, while wiping the perspiration from his face; "I can now say I have had a lucky escape, thanks to you; for, deuce take me, without you, I had been dead."
"Enough of compliments," the squatter sharply answered; "we have no time to waste in that nonsense. I suppose you are anxious to be off?"
"I should think so; in which direction are we going?"
"Over there," Red Cedar answered, holding his arm out in the direction of the camp.
"The devil!" Nathan sharply objected, "Are you mad, or did you pretend to save my life, merely to deliver me to our enemies with your own hands?"
"What do you mean?"
"Something you would see as well as I, if it were day; the forest suddenly terminates a few yards from here on the edge of an immense quebrada."
"Oh, oh," Red Cedar said, with a frown; "what is to be done in that case?"
"Return by the road you came for about half a league, and then go to the left. I have seen enough of the country since I left you to have a confused resemblance of the shape of the mountain, but, as you say, the main point at this moment is to be off from here?"
"The more so, as the moon will soon rise," Sutter observed, "and if the redskins perceived Nathan's escape, they would soon find our trail."
"Well said," Nathan replied, "let us be off."
Red Cedar placed himself once more at the head of the small party, and they turned back. Progress was extremely difficult in this black night; they were obliged to grope, and not put down their foot till they were certain the support was solid. If they did not, they ran a risk of falling and being dashed on the ground, at a depth of seventy or eighty feet.
They had scarcely gone three hundred yards in this way, when a frightful clamour was heard behind them: a great light illumined the forest, and between the leaves the fugitives perceived the black outlines of the Indians running in every direction, gesticulating and yelling ferociously.
"Hilloh," Red Cedar said, "I fancy the Comanches have found out your desertion."
"I think so, too," Nathan replied, with a grin; "poor fellows! They are inconsolable at my loss."
"The more so, because you probably did not quit them without leaving your card."
"Quite true, father," the other said, as he raised his hunting shirt and displayed two bloody scalps suspended to his girdle; "I did not neglect business."
The wretch, before fastening the lasso round him, had, with horrible coolness, scalped his two victims.
"In that case," Fray Ambrosio said, "they must be furious; you know that the Comanches never forgive. How could you commit so unworthy an action?"
"Trouble yourself about your own affairs, señor Padre," Nathan said, brutally, "and let me act as I think proper, unless you wish me to send you to take my place with the butt end of my rifle."
The monk bit his lips.
"Brute beast!" he muttered.
"Come, peace, in the devil's name!" Red Cedar said; "let us think about not being caught."
"Yes," Sutter supported him, "when you are in safety, you can have an explanation with knives, like true caballeros. But, at this moment, we have other things to do than quarrel like old women."
The two men exchanged a glance full of hatred, but remained silent. The little party, guided by Red Cedar, gradually retired, pursued by the yells of the Comanches, who constantly drew nearer.
"Can they have discovered our track?" Red Cedar said, shaking his head sadly.
We will now return to Valentine and his friends, whom we left preparing to pursue Red Cedar once more.
Valentine had began to take a real interest in this protracted manhunt; it was the first time since he had been in the desert that he had to deal with a foeman so worthy of his steel as was Red Cedar.
Like him, the squatter possessed a thorough knowledge of life in the Far West—all the sounds of the prairie were known to him, all tracks familiar; like him, he had made Indian trickery and cunning his special study; in a word, Valentine had found his equal, if not his master. His powerfully excited self-love urged him to bring this game of chess to a conclusion; hence he was resolved to press matters so vigorously that, in spite of his cleverness, Red Cedar must soon fall into his hands.
After leaving, as we have seen, the upper regions of the Sierra, the hunters advanced in the shape of a fan, in order to find some sign which would enable them to find the long lost trail, for, according to the axiom well known to the wood rangers, any rastreador, who holds one end of a trail, must infallibly reach the other within a given time. Unfortunately, no trace or sign was visible; Red Cedar had disappeared, and it was impossible to find the slightest trace of the way he had gone.
Still, Valentine did not give in; he studied the ground, examined every blade of grass, and cross-questioned the shrubs with a patience nothing could weary. His friends, less accustomed than himself to the frequent disappointments in a hunter's life, in vain gave him despairing glances; he walked on, with his head bent down, neither seeing their signals nor hearing their remarks.
At length, about midday, after going nearly four leagues in this fashion—a most wearying task—the hunters found themselves on a perfectly naked rock. At this spot it would have been madness to look for footprints, as the granite would not take them. Don Miguel and his son fell to the ground, more through despondency than fatigue.
Curumilla began collecting the scattered leaves to light the breakfast fire, while Valentine, leaning on his rifle, with his forehead furrowed by deep wrinkles, looked scrutinisingly round. At the spot where the hunters had established their temporary bivouac, no vegetation grew on the barren rocks; while an immense larch tree over-shadowed it with its well-covered branches.
The hunter incessantly turned his intelligent eye from earth to sky, as if he had a foreboding that at this spot he must find the trail he had so long been seeking. All at once he uttered a sonorous "hum!" At this sound, a signal agreed on between the Indian and him, Curumilla left off collecting the leaves, raised his head, and looked at him. Valentine walked towards him with a hasty step; the two Mexicans eagerly rose and joined him.
"Have you discovered anything?" Don Miguel asked, curiously.
"No," Valentine replied, "but in all probability I soon shall."
"Here?"
"Yes, at this very spot," he said, with a knowing smile; "believe me, you shall soon see."
While saying this, the hunter stooped, picked up a handful of leaves, and began examining them attentively, one by one.
"What can those leaves teach you?" Don Miguel asked with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Everything," Valentine firmly replied, as he continued his examination.
Curumilla was surveying the ground, and questioning the rock.
"Wah!" he said.
All stopped; the chief pointed to a line about half an inch, of the thickness of a hair, recently made on the rock.
"They have passed this way," Valentine went on, "that is as certain to me as that two and two make four; everything proves it to me; the steps we discovered going away from the spot where we now are—are a sure proof."
"How so?" Don Miguel asked in amazement.
"Nothing is more simple; the traces that deceived you could not humbug an old wood ranger like myself; they pressed too heavily on the heel, and were not regular, proves them false."
"Why false?"
"Of course. This is what Red Cedar did to hide the direction he took; he walked for nearly two leagues backwards."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it. Red Cedar, though aged, is still possessed of all the vigour of youth; his steps are firm and perfectly regular; like all men accustomed to forest life, he walks cautiously, that is to say, first putting down the point of his foot, like every man who is not certain that he may not have to go back. In the footsteps we saw, as I told you, the heel was put down first, and is much deeper buried than the rest of the foot; that is quite impossible, unless a person has walked backwards, especially for some time."
"That is true," Don Miguel answered; "what you say could not be more logical."
Valentine smiled.
"We have not got to the end yet," he said; "let me go on."
"But," Don Pablo remarked, "supposing that Red Cedar did come here, which I now believe as fully as you do, how is it that we do not find his traces on the other side of the rock? However carefully he may have hidden them, we should discover them, if they existed."
"Of course; but they are not here, and it is useless to lose time in looking for them. Red Cedar has come here, as this mark proves; but you will ask me why he did so? For a reason very easy to comprehend; on this granite soil, footsteps are effaced; the squatter wished to throw us out by bringing us to a spot where we must completely lose his direction, if we succeeded in finding his track. He succeeded up to a certain point; but he wished to be too clever, and went beyond his object; before ten minutes, I will show you the trail as clear as if we had been present when he went off."
"I confess, my friend, that all you say greatly astonishes me," Don Miguel replied. "I never could understand this species of sublime instinct which helps you to find your way in the desert, although you have already given me the most astonishing proofs; still, I confess that what is taking place at this moment surpasses everything I have hitherto seen you do."
"Good gracious!" Valentine answered; "you pay me compliments I am far from deserving; all this is an affair of reasoning, and especially of habit. Thus, it is as plain to you as it is to me, that Red Cedar came here?"
"Yes."
"Very good; as he came, he must have gone away again," the hunter said with a laugh; "for the reason that he is no longer here, or we should have him."
"That is certain."
"Good; now look how he can have gone."
"That is exactly what I do not see."
"Because you are blind, or because you will not take the trouble."
"Oh, my friend, I swear—"
"Pardon, I am in error: it is because you cannot explain what you see."
"What?" Don Miguel said, slightly piqued by this remark.
"Certainly," Valentine went on phlegmatically; "and you shall confess I am in the right."
"I shall be delighted to do so."
In spite of his good sense, and the other great qualities with which he was gifted, Valentine had the weakness, common to many men, of liking, under certain circumstances, to, make a parade of his knowledge of desert life. This defect, which is very frequently found on the prairies, in no way injured his character, and was pardonable after all.
"You shall see," he said with that sort of condescension which persons who know a thing thoroughly, assume on explaining it to the ignorant: "Red Cedar has been here and has disappeared: I arrive and look: he cannot have flown away, or buried himself in the ground: hence he must absolutely have gone by some road a man can use; look at these leaves scattered over the rock, they are sign No. 1."
"How so?"
"Hang it! That is clear enough, we are not at the season when trees lose their leaves: hence they did not fall."
"Why so?"
"Because, if they had, they would be yellow and dry, and instead they are green, crumpled, and some are even torn; hence it is positive, I think, that they have been removed from the tree by violence."
"That is true," Don Miguel muttered, his surprise at its height.
"Now, let us seek what unknown force tore them from the tree."
While saying this, Valentine had begun walking on, with his body bent to the ground, in the direction where he had seen the black line. His friends imitated his movements and followed him, also looking carefully on the ground. All at once Valentine stooped, picked up a piece of bark about the size of half his hand, and showed it to Don Miguel.
"All is explained to me now," he said: "look at that piece of bark: it is pressed and broken as if a rope had been round it, I think?"
"It is."
"Well, do you not understand?"
"On my word, no more than I did just now."
Valentine shrugged his shoulders.
"Listen to me then," he said; "Red Cedar came thus far: with his lasso he caught the end of that heavy branch just above our heads; and with the help of his companions, pulled it down to the ground. The black mark we saw proves what an effort they made. Once the bough was bent, the squatter's comrades mounted on it one after the other: Red Cedar, the last, went up with it, and all found themselves some seventy feet above ground. You must allow this is all very ingenious; but, unluckily, the squatter's boots left on this rock a graze about the width of a hair, and leaves fell from the tree; on unfastening his lasso, a piece of bark broke off, and as he was in a hurry, and could not come down again to remove all these ruinous proofs, I have seen them, and now I know as well all that happened here, as if I had been present."
The hunters did not merely display surprise at this clear and lucid explanation, but seemed struck speechless by such an incredible proof of sagacity.
"It is miraculous," Don Miguel at length exclaimed; "then you believe Red Cedar went off by that tree?"
"I would bet anything on it. However, you shall soon be convinced of it, for we shall follow the same road."
"But we cannot go far on that way."
"You are mistaken. In the virgin forests like the one that stretches out before us, the road we are about to follow is often the only one practicable. And now that we have found the bandits' trail, not to lose it again, I hope, let us breakfast quickly, so as to start the sooner in pursuit."
The hunters sat down gaily round the fire, and ate some grizzly bear meat. But their impatience made them take double mouthfuls, so that the meal was over in a twinkling, and they were soon ready to commence their researches. Valentine, in order to prove to his friends the exactness of the information he had given them, employed the same means Red Cedar had done to mount the tree, and when the hunters had assembled there, they allowed the truth of Valentine's statements: Red Cedar's trail was plainly visible.
They went on thus for a long time following the bandit's trail; but the further they went, the less distinct it became, and it was soon lost for the second time.
Valentine stopped and collected his friends.
"Let us hold a council," he said.
"I think," Don Miguel observed, "that Red Cedar fancied he had been long enough up a tree, and so went back to the ground."
Valentine shook his head.
"You have not got it," he said, "what you assert, my friend, is materially impossible."
"Why so?"
"Because the trail, as you see, suddenly ceases over a lake."
"That is true."
"Hum! It is plain that Red Cedar did not swim across it. Let us go on at all hazards, I feel certain that we shall speedily recover the trail; that direction is the only one Red Cedar could have followed. His object is to cross the line of foes who surround him on all sides; if he buried himself in the mountains, we know by experience, and he knows as well as we do, he would infallibly perish; hence he can only escape in this way, and we must pursue him."
"Still remaining on the trees?" Don Miguel asked.
"By Jove! Do not forget, my friends, that the bandits have a girl with them. The poor child is not accustomed like them to these fearful desert journeys; she could not endure them for an hour if her father and brothers were not careful to lead her by comparatively easy roads. Look beneath you, and you will feel convinced that it is impossible for a girl to have passed that way. This is our road," he added peremptorily, "and it is the only one by which we shall discover our enemy."
"Let us go, then," the Mexicans exclaimed.
Curumilla, according to his habit, said nothing; he had not even stopped to listen to the discussion, but walked on.
"Wah!" he suddenly said.
His friends eagerly hurried up. The chief held in his hand a piece of striped calico, no larger than a shilling.
"You see," Valentine said, "we are in a good direction, so we will not leave it."
This discovery stopped all discussion. The day gradually passed away, the red globe of the sun appeared in the distance between the stems of the trees, and after marching two hours longer, the darkness was complete.
"What is to be done?" Don Miguel asked; "We cannot spend the night perched up here, like parakeet. Let us choose a convenient spot to camp; tomorrow, at daybreak, we will ascend again and continue the chase."
"Yes," Valentine said, with a laugh, "and during the night, while we are quietly asleep down there, if any incident occurs that compels Red Cedar to turn back, he will slip through our fingers like a snake, and we know nothing about it. No, no, my friend, you must make up your mind to perch here for the night like a parroquet, as you say, if you do not wish to lose the fruit of all your trouble and fatigue."
"Oh, oh, if it is so," Don Miguel exclaimed, "I consent. I would sooner sleep a week in a tree than let that villain escape."
"Do not be alarmed; he will not keep us at work all that time; the boar is at bay, and will soon be found. However large the desert may be, it possesses no unexplored refuge to men who are accustomed to traverse it in every direction. Red Cedar has done more than a common man to escape us. Now all is over with him, and he understands that it is only a question of time."
"May Heaven grant it, my friend. I would give my life to avenge myself on that monster."
"He will soon be in your power, I assure you."
At this moment Curumilla laid his hand on Valentine's arm.
"Well, chief, what is it?" the latter asked.
"Listen!"
The hunters did so. They soon heard, at a considerable distance, confused cries, which momentarily became more distinct, and soon merged into a fearful clamour.
"What is happening now?" Valentine asked, thoughtfully.
The shouts increased fearfully, strange lights illumined the forest, whose guests, disturbed in their sleep, flew heavily here and there, uttering plaintive cries.
"Attention!" the hunter said, "Let us try and discover what all this means."
But their uncertainty did not last long. Valentine all at once left the branch behind which he was concealed, and uttered a long, shrill cry, which was replied to with fearful yells.
"What is it?" Don Miguel asked.
"Unicorn!" Valentine answered.
Nathan's flight was discovered by a singular accident. The Comanches are no more accustomed than other Indians to have grand rounds and night patrols during the night, which are inventions of civilised nations quite unknown on the prairie. In all probability, the Indians would not have perceived their prisoner's disappearance till daybreak.
Nathan fully built on this. He was too well acquainted with Indian habits not to know what he had to depend on in this respect. But he had not taken hatred into calculation, that vigilant sentry which nothing can send to sleep.
About an hour after Nathan's successful ascent, White Gazelle, aroused by the cold, and more probably by the desire of assuring herself that the prisoner could not escape, rose, and crossed the camp alone, striding over the sleeping warriors, and feeling her way as well as she could in the dark; for most of the fires had gone out, and those which still burned spread only an uncertain light. Impelled by that feeling, of hatred which so rarely deceives those who feel its sharpened sting, she at length found her way through this inextricable labyrinth, and reached the tree to which the prisoner had been fastened. The tree was deserted. The cords which had bound Nathan lay cut a few paces off, while Gazelle was stupefied for a moment at this sight, which she was so far from expecting.
"Oh!" she muttered savagely, "it is a family of demons! But how has he escaped? Where can he have fled?"
"Those villains are quietly asleep," she said, seeing the warriors reposing, "while the man they were ordered to watch is laughing at them far away."
She spurned them with her foot.
"Accursed dogs!" she yelled, "wake up! The prisoner has escaped!"
The men did not stir.
"Oh, oh!" she said, "What means this?"
She stooped down and carefully examined them: all was revealed to her at once.
"Dead!" she said; "he has assassinated them. What diabolical power must this race of reprobates possess!"
After a moment of terror, she sprang up furiously and rushed through the camp, shouting in a shrill voice:
"Up, up! Warriors, the prisoner has fled!"
All were on their feet in a moment. Unicorn was one of the first to seize his weapons, and hurried towards her, asking the meaning of those unusual sounds. In a few words White Gazelle informed him, and Unicorn, more furious than herself, aroused his warriors, and sent them in all directions in pursuit of Nathan.
But we know that, temporarily at least, the squatter's son had nothing to fear from this vain search. The miraculous flight of a man from the middle of a camp of warriors, unperceived by the sentries, had something so extraordinary about it, that the Comanches, superstitious as all Indians, were disposed to believe in the intervention of the Genius of Evil. The whole camp was in confusion: every one ran in a different direction, brandishing torches. The circle widened more and more. The warriors, carried away by their ardour, left the clearing and entered the forest.
All at once a shrill cry broke through the air, and everybody stopped as if by enchantment.
"Oh," White Gazelle asked, "what is that?"
"Koutonepi, my brother," Unicorn replied briefly, as he repeated the signal.
"Let us run to meet him," the girl said.
They hurried forward, closely followed by a dozen warriors, and soon stood under the tree where Valentine and his companions were standing. The hunter saw them coming, and hence called to them.
"Where are you?" Unicorn asked.
"Up this larch tree," Valentine shouted; "stop and look."
The Indians looked up.
"Wah!" Unicorn said with astonishment, "What is my brother doing there?"
"I will tell you, but first help me to come down; we are not comfortably situated for conversing, especially for what I have to tell you, chief."
"Good; I await my brother."
Valentine fastened his lasso to a branch and prepared to slide down, but Curumilla laid a hand on his shoulder.
"What do you want, chief?"
"Is my brother going down?"
"You see," Valentine said, pointing to the lasso.
Curumilla shook his head with an air of dissatisfaction.
"Red Cedar!" he said.
"Ah,Canarios!" the hunter exclaimed, as he struck his forehead, "I did not think about him. Why, I must be going mad. By Jove, chief! You are a precious man, nothing escapes your notice—wait."
Valentine stooped, and forming his hands into a speaking-trumpet, shouted—
"Chief, come up."
"Good."
The sachem seized the lasso, and by the strength of his wrists raised himself to the branch, where Valentine and Curumilla received him.
"Here I am," he said.
"By what chance are you hunting in the forest at this time of night?" the hunter asked him.
Unicorn told him in a few words what had occurred. At this narration Valentine frowned, and in his turn informed the chief of what he had done.
"It is serious," Unicorn said, with a shake of his head.
"It is," Valentine answered; "it is plain the men we seek are not far from here. Perhaps they are listening to us."
"It is possible," Unicorn muttered; "but what is to be done in the darkness?"
"Good! Let us be as clever as they. How many warriors have you down there?"
"Ten, I believe."
"Good. Have you among them any in whom you can trust?"
"All," the sachem answered, proudly.
"I do not allude to courage, but to experience."
"Wah! I have Spider."
"That's the man. He will take our place here with his warriors; he will cut off the communication aloft, while my comrades and I follow you. I should like to inspect the spot where your prisoner was tied up."
All was arranged as Valentine proposed. Spider established himself on the trees with his warriors, with orders to keep a good look-out; and Valentine, now sure of having raised an impassible barrier before Red Cedar, prepared to go to the camp, accompanied by Unicorn. Curumilla again interposed.
"Why go down?" he said.
Valentine was so well acquainted with his comrade's way of speaking, that he understood him at half a word.
"True," he said to Unicorn; "let us go to the camp, proceeding from branch to branch. Curumilla is right; in that way, if Red Cedar is concealed in the neighbourhood, we shall discover him."
The Comanche Sachem nodded his head in assent, and they set out. They had been walking for about half an hour, when Curumilla, who was in front, stopped and uttered a suppressed cry. The hunters raised their heads, and perceived, a few yards above them, an enormous black mass, carelessly swaying about.
"Well," Valentine said, "what is that?"
"A bear," Curumilla replied.
"Indeed!" said Don Pablo; "it is a splendid black bear."
"Let us give him a bullet," Don Miguel remarked.
"Do not fire, for Heaven's sake!" Don Pablo exclaimed eagerly, "it would give an alarm and warn the fellows we are looking for of the spot where we are."
"Still, I should like to collar it," Valentine observed, "were it only for its fur."
"No," Unicorn peremptorily said, who had hitherto been silent, "bears are the cousins of my family."
"In that case it is different," said the hunter, concealing with difficulty an ironical smile.
The prairie Indians, as we think we have said before, are excessively superstitious. Among other articles of faith, they believe they spring from certain animals, which they treat as relatives, and for which they profess a profound respect, which does not prevent them, however, from killing them occasionally, as, for instance, when they are pressed by hunger, as frequently happens; but we must do the Indians the justice of saying, that they never proceed to such extremities with their relatives without asking their pardon a thousand times, and first explaining to them that hunger alone compelled them to have recourse to this extreme measure to support life.
Unicorn had no need of provisions at this moment, for his camp was choked with them, hence he displayed a praiseworthy politeness and gallantry to his cousin Bruin. He bowed to him, and spoke to him for some minutes in the most affectionate way, while the bear continued to sway about, apparently not attaching great importance to the chief's remarks, and rather annoyed than flattered by the compliments his cousin paid him. The chief, internally piqued by this indifference in such bad taste, gave a parting bow to the bear, and went on. The little party advanced for some time in silence.
"I do not care," Valentine suddenly said; "I do not know why, but I should have liked to have your cousin's hide, chief."
"Wah!" Unicorn answered, "there are buffaloes in camp."
"I know that very well," Valentine said, "so that is not my reason."
"What is it, then?"
"I don't know, but that bear did not seem to me all right, and had a suspicious look about it."
"My brother is jesting."
"No; on my word, chief, that animal did not seem to me true. For a trifle, I would return and have it out."
"Does my brother think, then, that Unicorn is a child, who cannot recognise an animal?" the sachem asked, haughtily.
"Heaven forbid my having such a thought, chief; I know you are an experienced warrior, but the cleverest men may be taken in."
"Oh! Oh! what does my brother suppose, then?"
"Will you have my honest opinion?"
"Yes, my brother will speak; he is a great hunter, his knowledge is immense."
"No, I am only an ignorant fellow, but I have carefully studied the habits of wild beasts."
"Well," Don Miguel asked, "your opinion is that the bear—?"
"Is Red Cedar, or one of his sons," Valentine quickly interrupted.
"What makes you think so?"
"Just this: at this hour wild beasts have gone down to drink; but even supposing that bear had returned already, do you not know that all animals fly from man? This one, dazzled by the light, startled by the cries it heard in the usually quiet forest, ought to have tried to escape if it obeyed its instincts, which would have been easy to do, instead of impudently dancing before us at a height of one hundred feet from the ground; the more so, because the bear is too prudent and selfish an animal to confide its precious carcase so thoughtlessly to such slender branches as those on which it was balancing. Hum! The more I reflect, the more persuaded I am that this animal is a man."
The hunters, and Unicorn himself, who listened with the utmost attention to Valentine's words, were struck with the truth of his remarks; numerous details which had escaped them now returned to their minds, and corroborated the Trail-hunter's suspicions.
"It is possible," Don Miguel said, "and for my part I am not indisposed to believe it."
"Good gracious!" Valentine went on, "You can understand that on so dark a night as this it was easy for the chief, in spite of all his experience, to be deceived—especially at such a distance as we were from the animal, which we only glimpsed; still, we committed a grave fault, and I first of all, in not trying to acquire a certainty."
"Ah!" the Indian said, "my brother is right; wisdom resides in him."
"Now it is too late to go back—the fellow will have decamped," Valentine remarked, thoughtfully; "but," he added a moment after, as he looked round, "where on earth is Curumilla?"
At the same instant a loud noise of breaking branches, followed by a suppressed cry, was heard a little distance off.
"Oh, oh!" Valentine said, "Can the bear be at any tricks?"
The cry of the jay was heard.
"That is Curumilla's signal," said Valentine; "what the deuce can he be up to?"
"Let us go back and see," Don Miguel remarked.
"By Jove! Do you fancy I should desert my old companion so?" Valentine exclaimed, as he replied to his friend by a similar cry to the one he had given.
The hunters hurried back as quickly as the narrow and dangerous path they were following allowed. Curumilla, comfortably seated on a branch whose foliage completely hid him from anyone who might be spying overhead, was laughing to himself. It was so extraordinary to see the Ulmen laugh, and the hour seemed so unsuited for it, that Valentine was alarmed, and at the first moment was not far from believing that his worthy friend had suddenly gone mad.
"Halloh, chief," he said, as he looked round, "tell me why you are laughing so. Were it only to follow your example, I should be glad to know the cause of this extreme gaiety."
Curumilla fixed his intelligent eye on him, and replied, with a smile full of good humour—
"The Ulmen is pleased."
"I can see that," Valentine replied, "but I do not know why, and want to do so."
"Curumilla has killed the bear," the Aucas said, sententiously.
"Nonsense!" Valentine remarked, in surprise.
"My brother can look, there is the chief's cousin."
Unicorn looked savage, but Valentine and his friends peered in the direction indicated by the Araucano. Curumilla's lasso, securely fastened to the branch on which the hunters were standing, hung downwards, with a black and clumsy mass swaying from its extremity. It was the bear's carcass.
Curumilla, during the conversation between Unicorn and his relative, carefully watched the animal's movement; like Valentine, its motions did not seem to him natural enough, and he wished to know the truth. Consequently, he waited the departure of his friends, fastened his lasso to a branch, and while the bear was carelessly descending from its perch, fancying it had got rid of its visitors, Curumilla lassoed it. At this unexpected attack the animal tottered and lost its balance—in short, it fell, and remaining suspended in the air; thanks to the slip knot, which pressed its throat and saved it from broken bones; as a recompense, however, it was strangled.
The hunters began drawing up the lasso, for all burned to know were they deceived. After some efforts the animal's corpse was stretched out on a branch. Valentine bent over it, but rose again almost immediately.
"I was sure of it," he said, contemptuously.
He kicked off the head, which fell, displaying in its stead Nathan's face, whose features were frightfully convulsed.
"Oh!" they exclaimed, "Nathan."
"Yes," Valentine remarked. "Red Cedar's eldest son."
"One!" Don Miguel said, in a hollow voice.
Poor Nathan was not lucky in his disguises; in the first he was all but burnt alive, in the second he was hanged.
The hunters stood for a moment silent, with their eyes fixed on their enemy. Unicorn, who doubtless owed Nathan a grudge for the way in which he had deceived him by passing for one of his relatives, broke the sort of charm that enthralled them, by drawing his scalping knife and raising the poor fellow's hair with uncommon dexterity.
"It is the scalp of a dog of the Long-knives," he said, contemptuously as he placed his bleeding trophy in his girdle: "his lying tongue will never again deceive anybody."
Valentine was deep in thought.
"What are we to do now?" Don Miguel asked.
"Canelo!" Don Pablo exclaimed, "That is not difficult to guess, father—start at once in pursuit of Red Cedar."
"What does my brother say?" Unicorn asked, as he turned deferentially to Valentine.
The latter raised his head.
"All is over for this night," he replied; "that man was ordered to amuse us while his friends fled. Trying to pursue them at this moment would be signal folly; they have too great a start for us possibly to catch them up, and the night is so black that we should want a sentry on every branch. We will content ourselves for the present by keeping our line of scouts as we placed them. At daybreak the council of the tribe will assemble, and decide on the further measures to be taken."
All followed the hunter's advice, and they returned towards the camp, which they reached an hour later. On entering the clearing, Unicorn tapped Valentine on the shoulder.
"I have to speak with my brother," he said.
"I am listening to my brother," the hunter replied; "his voice is a music that always rejoices my heart."
"My brother will be much more rejoiced," the chief answered, smiling, "when he hears what I have to tell him."
"The sachem can only be the bearer of good news to me; what has he to tell me?"
"Sunbeam reached the camp today."
Valentine started.
"Was she alone?" he asked, eagerly.
"Alone! She would not have dared to come," the chief remarked, with some haughtiness.
"That is true," Valentine said, anxiously; "then my mother—"
"The hunter's mother is here; I have given her my calli."
"Thanks, chief," he exclaimed, warmly; "oh! You are truly a brother to me."
"The great pale hunter is a son of the tribe; he is the brother of all of us."
"Oh, my mother, my good mother! How did she come hither? Oh, I must run to see her."
"Here she is," said Curumilla.
The Araucano, at the first word uttered by Unicorn, guessing the pleasure he should cause his friend, had gone, without saying a word, to seek Madame Guillois, whom anxiety kept awake, though she was far from suspecting that her son was near her.
"My child!" the worthy woman said, as she pressed him to her heart.
After the first emotion had passed over, Valentine took his mother's arm in his, and led her gently back to the calli.
"You are not wise, mother," he said, with an accent of reproach. "Why did you leave the village? The season is advanced, it is cold, and you do not know the deadly climate of the prairies; your health is far from strong, and I wish you to nurse yourself. I ask you to do so, not for yourself but for me. Alas! What would become of me, were I to lose you!"
"My dear child," the old lady replied, tenderly. "Oh! How happy I am to be thus loved. What I experience at present amply repays all the suffering your absence occasioned me. I implore you to let me act as I like; at my age, a woman should not calculate on a morrow. I will not separate far from you again; let me, at any rate, have the happiness of dying in your arms, if I am not permitted to live."
Valentine regarded his mother attentively. These ill-omened words struck him to the heart. He was frightened by the expression of her face, whose pallor and extreme tenuity had something fatal about it. Madame Guillois perceived her son's emotion, and smiled sadly.
"You see," she said, gently, "I shall not be a burden to you long; the Lord will soon recall me to him."
"Oh, speak not so, mother. Dismiss those gloomy thoughts. You have, I hope many a long day to pass by my side."
The old lady shook her head, as aged persons do when they fancy themselves certain of a thing.
"No weak illusions, my son," she said, in a firm voice; "be a man—prepare yourself for a speedy and inevitable separation. But promise me one thing."
"Speak, mother."
"Whatever may happen, swear not to send me away from you again."
"Why, mother, you order me to commit a murder. In your present state you could not lead my mode of life for two days."
"No matter, my son, I will not leave you again: take the oath I demand of you."
"Mother!" he said, hesitating.
"You refuse me, my son!" she exclaimed, in pain.
Valentine felt almost heart-broken; he had not the courage to resist longer.
"Well," he murmured, sorrowfully, "since you insist, mother, be it so; I swear that we shall never be separated again."
A flush of pleasure lit up the poor old lady's face, and for a moment she looked happy.
"Bless you, my son," she said. "You render me very happy by granting what I ask."
"Well," he said, with a stifled sigh, "it is you who wish it, mother: your will be done, and may Heaven not punish me for having obeyed you. Now it is my turn to ask; as henceforth the care of your health concerns me alone."
"What do you want?" she said, with an ineffable smile.
"I wish you to take a few hours' indispensable rest, after your fatigues of the day."
"And you, dear child?"
"I shall sleep too, mother; for if today has been fatiguing, tomorrow will be equally so; so rest in peace, and feel no anxiety on my account."
Madame Guillois tenderly embraced her son, and threw herself on the bed prepared for her by Sunbeam's care. Valentine then left the calli, and rejoined his friends, who were reposing round a fire lit by Curumilla. Carefully wrapping himself in his buffalo robe he laid on the ground, closed his eyes, and sought sleep—that great consoler of the afflicted, who often call it in vain for a long time ere it deigns to come for a few hours, and enable them to forget their sorrows. He was aroused, towards daybreak, by a hand being softly laid on his shoulder, and a voice timidly murmuring his name. The hunter opened his eyes, and sat up quickly.
"Who goes there?" he said.
"I! White Gazelle."
Valentine, now completely awake, threw off his buffalo robe, got up and shook himself several times.
"I am at your orders," he said. "What do you desire?"
"To ask your advice," she replied.
"Speak: I am listening."
"Last night, while Unicorn and yourself were looking for Red Cedar on one side, Black Cat and I were looking on the other."
"Do you know where he is?" he quickly interrupted her.
"No; but I suspect it."
He gave her a scrutinising glance, which she endured without letting her eyes sink.
"You know that I am now entirely devoted to you," she said, candidly.
"Pardon me—I am wrong: go on, I beg you."
"When I said I wished to ask your advice, I was wrong; I should have said I had a prayer to address to you."
"Be assured that if it be possible for me to grant it, I will do so without hesitation."
White Gazelle stopped for a moment; then, making an effort over herself, she seemed to form a resolution, and went on:
"You have no personal hatred to Red Cedar?"
"Pardon me. Red Cedar is a villain, who plunged a family I love into mourning and woe: he caused the death of a maiden who was very dear to me, and of a man to whom I was attached by ties of friendship."
White Gazelle gave a start of impatience, which she at once repressed. "Then?" she said.
"If he fall into my hands, I will remorselessly kill him."
"Still, there is another person who has had, for many years, terrible insults to avenge on him."
"Whom do you allude to?"
"Bloodson."
"That is true; he told me he had a fearful account to settle with this bandit."
"Well," she said quickly, "be kind enough to let my uncle, I mean Bloodson, capture Red Cedar."
"Why do you ask this of me?"
"Because the hour has arrived to do so, Don Valentine."
"Explain yourself."
"Ever since the bandit has been confined in the mountains with no hope of escape; I was ordered by my uncle to ask you to yield this capture to him, when the moment came for it."
"But suppose he let him escape!" said Valentine.
She smiled with an indefinable expression.
"That is impossible," she answered, "you do not know what a twenty years' hatred is."
She uttered these words with an accent that made the hunter, brave as he was, tremble.
Valentine, as he said, would have killed Red Cedar without hesitation, like a dog, if chance brought them face to face in a fair fight; but it was repulsive to his feelings and honour to strike a disarmed foe, however vile and unworthy he might be. While inwardly recognising the necessity of finishing once for all with that human-faced tiger called Red Cedar, he was not sorry that another assumed the responsibility of such an act, and constituted himself executioner. White Gazelle carefully watched him, and anxiously followed in his face the various feelings that agitated him, trying to guess his resolution.
"Well?" she asked at the end of a moment.
"What is to be done?" he said.
"Leave me to act; draw in the blockading force, so that it would be impossible for our foe to pass, even if he assumed the shape of a prairie dog, and wait without stirring."
"For long?"
"No; for two days, three at the most; is that too long?"
"Not if you keep your promise."
"I will keep it, or, to speak more correctly, my uncle shall keep it for me."
"That is the same thing."
"No, it is better."
"That is what I meant."
"It is settled, then!"
"One word more. You know how my friend Don Miguel Zarate suffered through Red Cedar, I think?"
"I do."
"You know the villain killed his daughter?"
"Yes," she said, with a tremor in her voice, "I know it; but trust to me; Don Valentine; I swear to you that Don Miguel shall be more fully avenged than ever he hoped to be."
"Good; if at the end of three days I grant you, justice is not done on that villain, I will undertake it, and I swear in my turn that it will be terrible."
"Thanks, Don Valentine, now I will go."
"Where to?"
"To join Bloodson, and carry him your answer."
White Gazelle leaped lightly on her horse, which was fastened ready saddled to a tree, and set off at a gallop, waving her hand to the hunter for the last time in thanks.
"What a singular creature!" Valentine muttered.
As day had dawned during this conversation, the Trail-hunter proceeded toward Unicorn's calli, to assemble the great chiefs in council. So soon as the hunter entered the lodge, Don Pablo, who had hitherto remained motionless, pretending to sleep, suddenly rose.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed as he clasped his hands fervently. "How to save poor Ellen? If she falls into the hands of that fury, she is lost."
Then, after a moment's reflection, he ran toward Unicorn's calli: Valentine came out of it at the moment the young man reached the door.
"Where are you going to at that rate, my friend?" he asked him.
"I want a horse."
"A horse?" Valentine said in surprise; "What to do?"
The Mexican gave him a glance of strange meaning.
"To go to Bloodson's camp," he said resolutely.
A sad smile played round the Trail-hunter's lips. He pressed the young man's hand, saying in a sympathising voice—"Poor lad!"
"Let me go, Valentine, I implore you," he said earnestly.
The hunter unfastened a horse that was nibbling the young tree shoots in front of the lodge. "Go," he said, sadly, "go where your destiny drags you."
The young man thanked him warmly, leaped on the horse, and started off at full speed. Valentine looked after him for some time, and when the rider had disappeared, he gave vent to a profound sigh, as he murmured:
"He, too, loves—unhappy man!"
And he entered his mother's calli, to give her the morning kiss.
We must now return to Red Cedar. When the squatter heard the yells of the redskins, and saw their torches flashing through the trees in the distance, he at the first start of terror thought himself lost, and burying his head in his hands, he would have fallen to the ground, had not Fray Ambrosio caught hold of him just in time.
"Demonios!" the monk exclaimed, "take care, gossip, gestures are dangerous here."
But the bandit's despondency lasted no longer than a flash of lightning; he drew himself up again, almost as haughty as he had been previously, saying in a firm voice—"I will escape."
"Bravely spoken, gossip," the monk said; "but we must act."
"Forward!" the squatter howled.
"What do you mean?" the monk cried, with a start of terror; "why, that leads to the redskins' camp."
"Forward, I tell you."
"Very good, and may the devil protect us!" Fray Ambrosio muttered.
The squatter, as he said, marched boldly toward the camp; they soon reached the spot where they let down a lasso for Nathan, and which they had beaten a retreat from in their first movement of terror. On reaching it, the squatter parted the branches, and looked down. All the camp was aroused; Indians could be seen running about in all directions.
"Oh," Red Cedar muttered, "I hoped all these demons would start in pursuit of us; it is impossible to cross there."
"We cannot think of it," said Nathan, "we should be hopelessly lost."
"Let us do something," said the monk.
Ellen, exhausted with fatigue, seated herself on a branch, and her father gazed at her in despair.
"Poor child," he said, in a low voice, "how she suffers!"
"Do not think about me, father," she said; "save yourself, and leave me here."
"Leave you!" he cried, savagely; "never! Not if I died; no, no, I will save you."
"What have I to fear from these men, to whom I never did any harm?" she continued; "they will have pity on my weakness."
Red Cedar burst into an ironical laugh. "Ask the jaguars if they pity the antelopes," he said. "You do not know the savages, poor child. They would torture you to death with ferocious joy."
Ellen sighed, and let her head droop.
"Time is slipping away; let us decide on something," the monk repeated.
"Go to the demon!" the squatter said brutally; "You are my evil genius."
"How ungrateful men are!" the monk said, ironically, as he raised his hypocritical eyes to Heaven; "I, who am his dearest friend."
"Enough," Red Cedar said, furiously; "we cannot remain here, so let us go back."
"What, again?"
"Do you know any other road, demon?"
"Where is Nathan?" the squatter suddenly asked; "has he fallen off?"
"Not such a fool," the young man said, with a laugh; "but I have changed my dress."
He parted the leaves that hid him, and his comrades gave a cry of surprise. Nathan was clothed in a bearskin, and carried the head in his hand.
"Oh, oh!" said Red Cedar, "That is a lucky find; where did you steal that, lad?"
"I only had the trouble to take it off the branch where it was hung to dry."
"Take care of it, for it may be of use ere long."
"That is what I thought."
After taking a few steps, Red Cedar stopped, stretched out his arm to warn his comrades, and listened. After two or three minutes, he turned to his comrades and whispered—"Our retreat is cut off; people are walking on the trees, I heard branches creaking and leaves rustling."
They gazed at each other in terror.
"We will not despair," he went on, quickly, "all is not yet lost; let us go higher, and on one side, till they have passed; during that time, Nathan will amuse them; the Comanches rarely do an injury to a bear."
No one made any objection, so Sutter started first, and the monk followed. Ellen looked at her father sorrowfully. "I care not," she said.
"I say again, I will save you, child," he replied with great tenderness.
He took the maiden in his powerful arms, and laid her softly on his shoulder.
"Hold on," he muttered, "and fear nothing."
Then, with a dexterity and strength doubled by a father's love, the bandit seized the bough over his head with one hand, and disappeared in the foliage, after saying to his son: "Look out, Nathan, play your part cleverly, lad, our safety depends on you."
"Don't be frightened, old one," the young man replied, as he put on the bear's head; "I am not more stupid than an Indian; they will take me for their cousin."
We know what happened, and how this trick, at first so successful, was foiled by Curumilla. On seeing his son fall, the squatter was momentarily affected by a blind rage, and pointed his rifle at the Indian. Fortunately the monk saw the imprudent gesture soon enough to check him. "What are you about?" he hoarsely whispered, as he struck up the barrel; "you will destroy your daughter."
"That is true," the squatter muttered.
Ellen, by an extraordinary hazard, had seen nothing; had she done so, it is probable that her brother's death would have drawn from her a cry of agony, which must have denounced her companions.
"Oh," Red Cedar said, "still that accursed Trail-hunter and his devil of an Indian. They alone can conquer me."
The fugitives remained for an hour in a state of terrible alarm, not daring to stir, through fear of being discovered. They were so close to their pursuers that they distinctly heard what they said, but at length the speakers retired, the torches were put out, and all became silent again.
"Ouf!" said the monk, "they have gone.
"Not all," the squatter answered; "did you not hear that accursed Valentine?"
"That is true; our retreat is still cut off."
"We must not despair yet; for the present we have nothing to fear here; rest a little while, while I go on the search."
"Hum!" Fray Ambrosio muttered; "why not go all together? That would be more prudent, I think."
Red Cedar laughed bitterly. "Listen, gossip," he said to the monk, as he seized his arm, which he pressed like a vice: "you distrust me, and you are wrong. I wished once to leave you, I allow, but I no longer wish it. We will perish or escape together."
"Oh, oh! Are you speaking seriously, gossip?"
"Yes; for, trusting to the foolish promises of a priest, I resolved to reform; I altered my life, and led a painful existence; not injuring anybody, and toiling honestly. The men I wished to forget remembered me in their thirst for revenge. Paying no heed to my wish to repent, they fired my wretched jacal and killed my son. Now they track me like a wild beast, the old instincts are aroused in me, and the evil leaven that slept in my heart is fermenting afresh. They have declared a war to the death. Well, by heaven, I accept it, and will wage it without pity, truce, or mercy, not asking of them, if they captured me, less than I would give them if they fell into my hands. Let them take care, for I am Red Cedar! He whom the Indians call theMan-eater(Witchasta Joute) and I will devour their hearts. So, at present, be at your ease, monk, we shall not part again: you are my conscience—we are inseparable."
The squatter uttered those atrocious words with such an accent of rage and hatred, that the monk saw he really spoke the truth, and his evil instincts had definitively gained the upper hand. A hideous smile of joy curled his lips. "Well, gossip," he said, "go and look out, we will await you here."
During the squatter's absence not a word was uttered. Sutter was asleep, the monk thinking, and Ellen weeping. The poor girl had heard with sorrow mingled with horror her father's atrocious sentiments. She then measured the fearful depth of the abyss into which she was suddenly hurled, for Red Cedar's determination cut her off eternally from society, and condemned her to a life of grief and tears. After about an hour's absence Red Cedar re-appeared, and the expression of his face was joyous.
"Well?" the monk anxiously asked him.
"Good news," he replied; "I have discovered a refuge where I defy the cleverest bloodhounds of the prairies to track me."
"Is it far from here?"
"A very little distance; but that will prove our security. Our enemies will never suppose we had the impudence to hide so close to them."
"That is true; we will go there, then."
"When you please."
"At once."
Red Cedar told the truth. He had really discovered a refuge, which offered a very desirable guarantee of security. Had we not ourselves witnessed a similar thing in the Far West, we should not put faith in the possibility of such a hiding place. After going about one hundred and fifty yards, the squatter stopped before an enormous oak that had died of old age, and whose interior was hollow.
"It is here," he said, cautiously parting the mass of leaves, branches, and creepers that completely concealed the cavity.
"Hum!" the monk said, as he peered down into the hole, which was dark as pitch; "Have we got to go down there?"
"Yes," Red Cedar replied; "but reassure yourself, it is not very deep."
In spite of this assurance the monk still hesitated.
"Take it or leave it," the squatter went on; "do you prefer being captured?"
"But we shall not be able to stir down there?"
"Look around you."
"I am looking."
"Do you perceive that the mountain is perpendicular here?"
"Yes, I do."
"Good; we are on the edge of the precipice which poor Nathan told us of."
"Ah!"
"Yes; you see that this dead tree seems, as it were, welded to the mountain?"
"That is true. I did not notice it at first."
"Well; going down that cavity, for fifteen feet at the most, you will find another which passes the back of the tree, and communicates with a cavern."
"Oh!" the monk exclaimed gleefully, "How did you discover this hiding place?"
The squatter sighed. "It was long ago," he said.
"Stay," Fray Ambrosio objected; "others may know it beside yourself."
"No," he answered, shaking his head; "only one man knows it beside myself, and his discovery cost him his life."
"That is reassuring."
"No hunter or trapper ever comes this way, for it is a precipice; if we were to take a few steps further in that direction, we should find ourselves suspended over an abyss of unknown depth, one of the sides of which this mountain forms. However, to quiet your fears, I will go down first."
Red Cedar threw into the gaping hollow a few pieces of candlewood he had procured; he put his rifle on his back, and, hanging by his hands, let himself down to the bottom of the tree, Sutter and the monk curiously watching him. The squatter struck a light, lit one of the torches, and waved it about his head; the monk then perceived that the old scalp hunter had spoken the truth. Red Cedar entered the cavern, in the floor of which he stuck his torch, so that the hollow was illumined, then came out and rejoined his friends by the aid of his lasso.
"Well," he said to them, "what do you think of that?"
"We shall be famous there," the monk answered.
Without further hesitation he slipped into the tree and disappeared in the grotto. Sutter followed his example, but remained at the bottom of the tree to help his sister down. The maiden appeared no longer conscious of what was going on around her. Kind and docile as ever, she acted with automatic precision, not trying to understand why she did one thing more than another; her father's words had struck her heart, and broken every spring of her will. When her father let her down the tree, she mechanically followed her brother into the cave.