 CHAPTER XX I had returned to my blanket and was about to stretch myself upon it when the hoop of agruya drew my attention. Looking up I saw one of these birds flying towards the camp. It was coming through a break in the trees that opened from the river. It flew low and tempted a shot with its broad wings and slow, lazy flight. A report rang upon the air. One of the Mexicans had fired his escopet. But the bird flew on, plying its wings with more energy as if to bear itself out of reach. There was a laugh from the trappers, and a voice cried out, Your fool! Do you think you could hit a spread blanket with that beetle-shaped blunderbox? Pish! I turned to see who had delivered this odd speech. Two men were poisoning their rifles, bringing them to bear upon the bird. One was the young hunter whom I have described. The other was an Indian whom I had not seen before. The cracks were simultaneous, and the crane dropping its long neck came whirling down among the trees where it caught upon a high branch and remained. From their position neither party knew that the other had fired. A tent was between them, and the two reports had seemed as one. A trapper cried out, Well done, Gary! Lord help the thing that's a four-old kill-bar's muzzle when you squints through her hind-sights. The Indian just then stepped round the tent. Hearing this side-speech, and perceiving the smoke still oozing from the muzzle of the young hunter's gun, he turned to the latter with the interrogation. Did you fire, sir? This was said in well accentuated and most un-Indian-like English, which would have drawn my attention to the man had not his singularly imposing appearance riveted me already. Who is he, I inquired from one near me. Don't know. Fresh arrive, was the short answer. Do you mean that he is a stranger here? Just so. He come in there awhile ago, and don't believe anybody knows him. I guess the captain does. I see them shake hands. I looked at the Indian with increasing interest. He seemed a man of about thirty years of age, and not much under seven feet in height. He was proportioned like an Apollo, and on this account appeared smaller than he actually was. His features were of the Roman type, and his fine forehead, his aquiline nose, and broad jaw-bone, gave him the appearance of talent, as well as firmness and energy. He was dressed in a hunting shirt, leggings, and moccasins, but all these differed from anything worn either by the hunters or their Indian allies. The shirt itself was made out of the dressed hide of the red deer, but differently prepared from that used by the trappers. It was bleached almost to the whiteness of a kid-glove. The breast, unlike theirs, was close, and beautifully embroidered with stained porcupine quills. The sleeves were similarly ornamented, and the cape and skirts were trimmed with the soft snow-white fur of the Irmine. A row of entire skins of that animal hung from the skirt border, forming a fringe both graceful and costly, but the most singular feature about this man was his hair. It fell loosely over his shoulders and swept the ground as he walked. It could not have been less than seven feet in length. It was black, glossy, and luxuriant, and reminded me of the tails of those great Flemish horses I had seen in the funeral carriages of London. He wore upon his head the war-eagle bonnet with its full circle of plumes, the finest triumph of savage taste, this magnificent headdress added to the majesty of his appearance. A white buffalo robe hung from his shoulders with all the graceful draping of a toga, its silky fur corresponded to the color of his dress, and contrasted strikingly with his own dark tresses. There were other ornaments about his person. His arms and accoutrements were shining with metallic brightness, and the stock and butt of his rifle were richly inlaid with silver. I had been thus minute in my description as the first appearance of this man impressed me with a picture that can never be afaced from my memory. He was the beau ideal of a picturesque and romantic savage, and yet there was nothing savage either in his speech or bearing, on the contrary the interrogation which he had just addressed to the trapper was put in the politest manner. The reply was not so courteous. Did I fire? Didn't you hear a crack? Didn't you see the thing fall? Look yonder! Gary, as he spoke, pointed up to the bird. We must have fired simultaneously. As the Indian said this he appealed to his gun, which was still smoking at the muzzle. Look, yeah, our engine, whether we fired simultaneously or extraneously or catawampously ain't the flappin' a beaver's tail to me, but I took sight on that bird, I hut that bird, and where my bullet brought the thing down. I think I must have hit it too," replied the Indian, modestly. That's like, with that hour-spangled gim-crack, said Gary, looking disdainfully at the other's gun, and then proudly at his own brown weather-beaten piece, which he had just wiped and was about to reload. Gim-crack or no, answered the Indian, she sends a bullet straighter and farther than any piece I have hitherto met with. I'll warrant she has sent hers through the body of the crane. Look here, mister, for I suppose we must call a gentleman, mister, who speaks so fine and looks so fine, though he bees an engine. It's mighty easy to settle who hut that bird. That thing's a fifty or thereabouts. Kilvars a ninety. And hard to tell which has plugged the varment. We'll soon see. And so, saying, the hunter stepped off towards the tree on which hung the Gruya high up. How are you to get it down? cried one of the men, who had stepped forward to witness the settlement of this curious dispute. There was no reply, for every one saw that Gary was poising his rifle for a shot. The crack followed, and the branch, shivered by his bullet, bent downward under the weight of the Gruya. But the bird, caught in a double fork, still stuck fast on the broken limb. A murmur of approbation followed the shot. These were men not accustomed to, hurrah loudly, at a trivial incident. The Indian now approached, having reloaded his piece, taking aim, he struck the branch at the shattered point, cutting it clean from the tree. The bird fell to the ground, amidst expressions of applause from the spectators but chiefly from the Mexican and Indian hunters. It was at once picked up and examined. Two bullets had passed through its body, either would have killed it. A shadow of unpleasant feeling was visible on the face of the young trapper, in the presence of so many hunters of every nation, to be thus equaled beaten in the inn of his favorite weapon and by an engine, still worse by one of them are gingerbread guns. The mountain men have no faith in an ornamented stock or a big bore. Spangled rifles, they say, are like spangled razors made for selling to greenhorns. It was evident, however, that the strange Indian's rifle had been made to shoot as well. It required all the strength of nerve which the trapper possessed to conceal his chagrin. Without saying a word he commenced wiping out his gun with that stoical calmness peculiar to men of his calling. I observed that he proceeded to load with more than usual care. It was evident that he would not rest satisfied with the trial already made, but would either beat the engine or be himself whipped into shucks. So he declared in a muttered speech to his comrades. His piece was soon loaded, and swinging her to the hunter's carry, he turned to the crowd, now collected from all parts of the camp. "'There's one kind of shootin,' said he, "'that's just as easy as fallin' off a log. Any man can do it as can look straight through hindsight's. But then there's another kind that ain't so easy. It needs nerve.'" Here the trapper paused, and looked towards the Indian, who was also reloading. "'Look here, stranger,' continued he, addressing the latter, "'have you got a comrade on the ground as knows you're shooting?' The Indian, after a moment's hesitation, answered, "'Yes.' "'Can your comrade depend on your shot?' "'Oh, I think so. Why do you wish to know that? Why, I'm a going to show you a shot we sometimes practice at Bent's Fort, just to tickle the greenhorns.'" "'Tain't much of a shot, neither. But it tries the nerves a little, I reckon.' "'Hoy! Rube!' "'What do we want?' This was spoken in an energetic and angry-like voice that turned all eyes to the quarter once it proceeded. At the first glance there seemed to be no one in that direction. In looking more carefully among the logs and stumps, an individual was discovered seated by one of the fires. It would have been difficult to tell that it was a human body, had not the arms at that moment been in motion. The back was turned toward the crowd, and the head had disappeared sunk forward over the fire. The object from where we were standing looked more like the stump of a cottonwood dressed in dirt-colored buck-skin than the body of a human being. On getting nearer, and round to the front of it, it was seen to be a man, though a very curious one, holding a long rib of deer-meat in both hands, which he was polishing with a very poor set of teeth. The whole appearance of this individual was odd and striking. His dress, if dress it could be called, was simple as it was savage. It consisted of what might have once been a hunting-shirt but which now looked more like a leatherened bag with the bottom ripped open, and the sleeves sewed into the sides. It was of a dirty brown color, wrinkled at the hollow of the arms, patched round the armpits, and greasy all over. It was fairly caked with dirt. There was no attempt at either ornament or fringe. There had been a cape, but this had evidently been drawn upon from time to time for patches and other uses until scarcely a vestige of it remained. The leggings and moccasins were on a par with the shirt and seemed to have been manufactured out of the same hide. They too were dirt-brown, patched, wrinkled, and greasy. They did not meet each other, but left a piece of the ankle bare, and that also was dirt-brown, like the buckskin. There was no undershirt, waistcoat, or other garment to be seen, with the exception of a close-fitting cap, which had once been cat-skin, but the hair was all worn off it, leaving a greasy leathery-looking surface that corresponded well with the other parts of the dress. Cap, shirt, leggings, and moccasins looked as if they had never been stripped off since the day they were first tried on. And that might have been many a year ago. The shirt was open, displaying the naked breast and throat and these, as well as the face, hands and ankles, had been tanned by the sun and smoked by the fire to the hue of rusty copper. The whole man, clothes and all, looked as if he had been smoked on purpose. His face bespoke a man of sixty, the features were sharp and somewhat aquiline, and the small eye was dark, quick, and piercing, his hair was black and cut short, his complexion had been naturally brunette, though there was nothing of the Frenchman or Spaniard on his physiognomy. He was more likely of the black Saxon breed. As I looked at this man, for I had walked towards him prompted by some instinct of curiosity, I began to fancy that there was a strangeness about him, independent of the oddness of his attire, there seemed to be something peculiar about his head, something wanting. What was it? I was not long in conjecture. When fairly in front of him I saw what was wanting. It was his ears. This discovery impressed me with a feeling akin to awe. There was something awful in a man without ears, it suggests some horrid drama, some terrible scene of cruel vengeance, it suggests the idea of crime committed and punishment inflicted. These thoughts were wandering through my mind when all at once I remembered a remark which Seguin had made on the previous night. This then, thought I, is the person of whom he spoke. My mind was satisfied. After making answer as above the old fellow sat for some time with his head between his knees, chewing, mumbling, and growling, like a lean old wolf angry at being disturbed in his meal. Come here, Rube. I want ye a bit, continued Gary, in a tone of half and treaty. And so ye will want me a bit. This child don't move a peg till he has cleaned his seer rib. He don't now. Don't gun it, man, make haste, then! And the impatient trapper dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground and stood waiting in sullen silence. After chewing and mumbling and growling a few minutes longer, old Rube, for that was the name by which the Leathery Center was known, slowly erected his lean carcass and came walking up to the crowd. What do we want, Billy? He inquired, going up to the trapper. I want ye to hold this, answered Gary, offering him a round, white, shell about the size of a watch, a species of which there were many strewed over the ground. It's a bent boy ye? No, it is not. Ain't whisked in your powder, are ye? I've been beat shooting, replied the trapper, in an undertone, by that our engine. The old man looked over to where the strange indium was standing erect and majestic in all the pride of his plumage. There was no appearance of triumph or swagger about him, as he stood leaning on his rifle, in an attitude at once calm and dignified. It was plain from the way old Rube surveyed him that he had seen him before, though not in that camp, after passing his eyes over him, from head to foot, and there resting them a moment a low murmur escaped his lips, which ended abruptly in the word, Coco. A Coco, do ye think, inquired the other, with an apparent interest. Are ye blind, Billy? Don't ye see his moccasin? Yes, ye're right. But I was in thy nation two years ago, I see no man such as that. He went there. Where then? Where there's no great show of redskins. He may shoot well. He did once on a time, plum-center. You knew him, did ye? Oh yes, once, putty squaw, handsome gal. Where do ye want me to go? I thought that Gary seemed inclined to carry the conversation further. There was an evident interest in his manner when the other mentioned the squaw. Perhaps he had some tender recollection. But seeing the other preparing to start off, he pointed to an open glade that stretched eastward, and simply answered sixty. Take care of my claws, do ye hear? Them engines has made him scarce. This child can't spare another. The old trapper said this with a flourish of his right hand. I noticed that the little finger had been chopped off. Never fear old Hoss, was the reply, and at this the smoky carcass moved away with the slow and regular pace that showed he was measuring the yards. When he had stepped the sixtieth yard he faced about and stood erect. Placing his heels together, he then extended his right arm, raising it until his hand was on a level with his shoulder, and holding the shell in his fingers flat side to the front, shouted back, Now Billy, shoot, and be hanged to ye. The shell was slightly concave. The concavity turned to the front. The thumb and finger reached half round the circumference, so that a part of the edge was hidden, and the surface turned towards the marksman was not larger than the dial of a common watch. This was a fearful sight. It is one not so common among the mountain men as travelers would have you believe. The feat proves the marksman's skill, first if successful, by showing the strength and steadiness of his nerves, secondly by the confidence which the other reposes in it, thus declared by stronger testimony than any oath. In any case, the feat of holding the mark is at least equal to that of hitting it. There are many hunters willing to risk taking the shot, but few who care to hold the shell. It was a fearful sight, and my nerves tingled as I looked on. Many others felt as I, no one interfered. There were a few present who would have dared even had these two men been making preparations to fire at each other. Both were men of mark among their comrades, trappers of the first class. Gary, drawing a long breath, planted himself firmly the heel of his left foot opposite to and some inches in advance of, the hollow of his right. Then jerking up his gun and throwing the barrel across his left palm, he cried out to his comrade, steady old bone and senior, how's that ya? The words were scarcely out when the gun was leveled. There was a moment's death-like silence, all eyes looking to the mark, then came the crack and the shell was seen to fly, shivered into fifty fragments. There was a cheer from the crowd. Old rubes stopped to pick up one of the pieces, and after examining it for a moment shouted in a loud voice, Plum Center, by the young trapper had in effect hit the mark in the very center, as the blue stain of the bullet testified. CHAPTER XXI All eyes were turned upon the strange Indian. During the scene described he has stood silent and calmly looking on. His eye now wanders over the ground apparently in search of an object. A small convulvulus, known as the prairie gourd, is lying at his feet. It is globe-shaped, about the size of an orange, and not unlike one in color. He stoops and takes it up. He seems to examine it with great care, balancing it upon his hand, as though he were calculating its weight. What does he intend to do with this? Will he fling it up and send his bullet through it in the air? What else? His motions are watched in silence. Nearly all the scalp hunters, sixty or seventy, are on the ground. Seguin only, with the doctor and a few men, is engaged, some distance off, pitching a tent. Gary stands upon one side slightly elated with his triumph, but not without feelings of apprehension that he may yet be beaten. Old Rube has gone back to the fire and is roasting another rib. The gourd seems to satisfy the Indian for whatever purpose he intends it. A long piece of bone, the thigh-joint of the war eagle, hangs suspended over his breast. It is curiously carved and pierced with holes like a musical instrument. It is one. He places this to his lips, covering the holes with his fingers. He sounds three notes, oddly inflected, but loud and sharp. He drops the instrument again and stands looking eastward into the woods. The eyes of all present are bent in the same direction. The hunters, influenced by a mysterious curiosity, remain silent or speak only in low mutterings. Like an echo the three notes are answered by a similar signal. It is evident that the Indian has a comrade in the woods, yet not one of the band seems to know out of him or his comrade. Yes, one does. It is Rube. Looky here, boys! He cries, squinting over his shoulders. I'll stake this rib against a grisky and a poor bull, that he'll see the puttiest gal as he ever set your eyes on. There is no reply. We are gazing too intently for the expected arrival. A rustling is heard as if someone parting the bushes. The tread of a light foot, the snapping of twigs. A bright object appears among the leaves. Someone is coming through the underwood. It is a woman. It is an Indian girl, attired in a singular and picturesque costume. She steps out of the bushes and comes boldly towards the crowd. All eyes are turned upon her with looks of wonder and admiration. We scan her face and figure and her striking attire. She is dressed not unlike the Indian himself, and there is resemblance in other respects. The tunic worn by the girl is of finer materials, of fond skin. It is richly trimmed and worked with split quills, stained to a variety of bright colors. It hangs to the middle of the thighs, ending in a fringe work of shells that tinkle as she moves. Her limbs are wrapped in leggings of scarlet cloth, fringed like the tunic, and reaching to the ankles where they meet the flaps of her moccasins. These last are white, embroidered with stained quills and fitting closely to her small feet. A belt of wampum closes the tunic on her waist, exhibiting the globular developments of a full-grown bosom and the undulating outlines of a womanly person. Her headdress is similar to that worn by her companion, but smaller and lighter, and her hair, like his, hangs loosely down, reaching almost to the ground. Her neck, throat, and part of her bosom are nude and clustered over with bead strings of various colors. The expression of her countenance is high and noble, her eyes oblique, the lips meet with a double curve, and the throat is full and rounded. Her complexion is Indian, but a crimson hue, struggling through the brown upon her cheek, gives that pictured expression to her countenance, which may be observed in the quadroon of the West Indies. She is a girl, though full-grown and boldly developed, a type of health and savage beauty. As she approaches, the men murmur their admiration. There are hearts beating under hunting shirts that rarely deign to dream of the charms of woman. I am struck at this moment with the appearance of the young trapper, Gary. His face has fallen. The blood has forsaken his cheeks. His lips are white and compressed, and dark rings have formed round his eyes. They express anger, but there is still another meaning in them. Is it jealousy? Yes. He is stepped behind one of his comrades as if he did not wish to be seen. One hand is playing involuntarily with the handle of his knife. The other grasps the barrel of his gun, as though he would crush it, between his fingers. The girl comes up, the Indian hands her the gourd, muttering some words in an unknown tongue, unknown at least to me. She takes it without making any reply and walks off towards the spot where Rube had stood, which had been pointed out to her by her companion. She reaches the tree and halts in front of it facing round as the trapper had done. There was something so dramatic, so theatrical in the whole proceeding, that up to the present time we had all stood waiting for the denouement in silence. Now we knew what it was to be, and the men began to talk. He's going to shoot the gourd from the hand of the gal, suggested a hunter. No great shot after all added another, and indeed this was the silent opinion of most on the ground. Why, it don't beat Gary if he did hit it, exclaimed a third. What was our amazement at seeing the girl fling off her plumed bonnet, place the gourd upon her head, fold her arms over her bosom, and standing, fronting us as calm and immobile as if she had been carved upon the tree? There was a murmur in the crowd, the Indian was raising his rifle to take aim when a man rushed forward to prevent him. It was Gary. No you don't. No, cried he, clutching the levelled rifle. She's deceived me, that's plain, but I won't see the gal that once loved me, or said she did. In the trap that a way, no. Bill Gary ain't a-going to stand by and see it. What is this, shouted the Indian, in a voice of thunder, who dares to interrupt me? I dares, replied Gary, she's your now, I suppose. You may take her where you like, and take this, too, continued he tearing off the embroidered pipe-case and flinging it at the Indian's feet. But you're not a-going to shoot her down whilst I stand by. By what right do you interrupt me? My sister is not afraid, and... Your sister? Yes, my sister. And is Yon Gal your sister, eagerly, inquired Gary, his manner and the expression of his countenance all at once changing? She is. I have said she is. And are you El Sol? I am. I ask your pardon. But... I pardon you. Let me proceed. Oh, sir, do not. No, no, she is your sister, and I know you have the right, but there's no necessity. I have heard of your shooting. I give in. You can beat me. For God's sake, do not risk it. As you care for her, do not. There is no risk. I will show you. No, no, if you must, then let me. I will hold it. Oh, let me! Stammered the hunter in tones of entreaty. Hello, Billy? What's the dreaded Rumpus? cried Rube, coming up. Hang it, man, let's see the shot. I've here in a it, a four. Don't be scared, you fool, he'll do it like a breeze, he will. And as the old trapper said this, he caught his comrade by the arm and swung him round out of the Indian's way. The girl, during all this, had stood still seemingly not knowing the cause of the interruption. Gary's back was turned to her, and the distance, with two years of separation, doubtless prevented her from recognizing him. Before Gary could turn to interpose himself, the rifle was at the Indian's shoulder and leveled, his finger was on the trigger, and his eyes glanced through the sights. It was too late to interfere. Any attempt at that might bring about the dreaded result. The hunter, as he turned, saw this, and halting in his tracks, stood straining and silent. It was a moment of terrible suspense to all of us, a moment of intense emotion. The silence was profound. Every breath seemed suspended. Every eye was fixed on the yellow object, not larger, I have said, than an orange. Oh, God, will the shot never come? It came. The flash, the crack, the stream of fire, the wild hurrah, the forward rush, were all simultaneous things. We saw the shivered globe fly off. The girl was still upon her feet. She was safe. I ran with the rest. The smoke for a moment blinded me. I heard the shrill notes of the Indian whistle. I looked before me. The girl had disappeared. We ran to the spot where she hid stood. We heard a rustling in the underwood, a departing footstep. We knew it was she, but guided by an instinct of delicacy and a knowledge that it would be contrary to the wish of her brother, no one followed her. We found the fragments of the calabash strewed over the ground. We found the leaden mark upon them. The bullet itself was buried in the bark of the tree, and one of the hunters commenced digging it out with the point of his bowie. When we turned to go back, we saw that the Indian had walked away and now stood chatting easily and familiarly with Segwin. As we re-entered the campground, I observed Gary stoop and pick up a shining object. It was the gage d'amour which he carefully readjusted around his neck in its wanted position. From his look and the manner in which he handled it, it was plain that he now regarded that souvenir with more reverence than ever. CHAPTER XXII I had fallen into a sort of reverie. My mind was occupied with the incidents I had just witnessed, and a voice, which I recognized as that of old Rube, roused me from my abstraction. Looky here, boys! Tained often as old Rube waste lead, but I'll bet that engine shot, or he may cut my ears off. A loud laugh hailed this illusion of the trapper to his ears, which, as we have observed, were already gone, and so closely had they been trimmed that nothing remained for either knife or shears to accomplish. How will you do it, Rube, cried one of the hunters, shoot the mark off of your own head? I'll let you see if you wait, replied Rube, stalking up to a tree, and taking from its rust a long, heavy rifle, which he proceeded to wipe out with care. The attention of all was now turned to the maneuvers of the old trapper. Conjecture was busy as to his designs. What feat could he perform that would eclipse the one just witnessed? No one could guess. I'll beat it, continued he, muttering, as he loaded his piece, or he may chop the little finger off old Rube's right paw. Another peel of laughter followed, as I'll perceive that this was the finger that was wanting. E.S. continued he, looking at the faces that were around him. He may scalp me if I don't. This last remark elicited fresh roars of laughter, for although the cat-skin was closely drawn upon his head, all present knew that old Rube was minus his scalp. But how are you going to do it? Tell us that, old Haas! E.C. this, do we? asked the trapper, holding out a small fruit of the cactus pitta-haya, which he had just plucked and cleaned up its spikelets. I.I. cried several voices in reply. E.D. Do we? Well? E.C. taint half as big as the engine squash. E.C. that, do we? Oh, certainly! Any fool can see that. Well, suppose I plug it at sixty, plump center. Wa! cried several, with shrugs of disappointment. Stick it on a pole, and any of us can do that, said the principal speaker. Here's Barney could knock it off what his old musket couldn't you, Barney. In truth, and I would try, answered a very small man, leaning upon a musket, and who was dressed in a tattered uniform that had once been sky blue. I had already noticed this individual with some curiosity, partly struck with his peculiar costume, but more particularly on account of the redness of his hair, which was the reddest I had ever seen. It bore the marks of a severe barric discipline, that is, it had been shaved, and was now growing out of his little round head, short and thick, and coarse in the grain, and the color of a scraped carrot. There was no possibility of mistaking Barney's nationality. In trapper phrase, any fool could have told that. What had brought such an individual to such a place? I asked this question, and was soon enlightened. He had been a soldier in a frontier post, one of Uncle Sam's sky blues. He had got tired of pork and pipe clay, accompanied with a two liberal allowance of the hide. In a word, Barney was a deserter. What his name was, I know not, but he went under the appellation of O'Cork, Barney O'Cork. A laugh greeted his answer to the hunter's question. Any of us, continued the speaker, could plug the persimmon that away. But that's a mighty heap of difference when you squints through hindsight's at a girl like Yon. You're right, Dick, said another hunter. It makes a fellow feel query about the joints. Holy Vismont! And wasn't she a real beauty? exclaimed a little Irishman, with an earnestness in his manner, that set the trappers roaring again. Pish! cried Rube, who had now finished loading. You're a set of channering fools, that's what you are. You pull-avert about a post. I've got an old squaw, as well as the engine. She'll hold the thing for this child, she will. Squaw? You a squaw? Yes, Hoss, I has a squaw, I wouldn't swap for two of hisen. I'll make tracks and fetch the old woman. Shut up your heads and wait, will ye? So saying, the smoky old sinner shouldered his rifle, and walked off into the woods. I, in common with others, latecomers, who were strangers to Rube, began to think that he had an old woman. There were no females to be seen about the encampment, but perhaps she was hit away in the woods. The trappers, however, who knew him, seemed to understand that the old fellow had some trick in his brain, and that it appeared, was no new thing for him. We were not kept long in suspense. In a few minutes Rube was seen returning, and by his side, the old woman, in the shape of a long, lank, bare-ribbed, high-boned Mustang that turned out on close inspection to be a mare. This then was Rube's squaw, and she was not at all unlike him, accepting the ears. She was long-eared in common with all her race, the same as that upon which Coyote charged the windmill. The long ears caused her to look mulesh, but it was only an appearance. She was a pure Mustang when you examined her attentively. She seemed to have been at an earlier period of that done-yellowish color known as clay bank, a common color among Mexican horses. But time and scars had somewhat metamorphosed her, and gray hairs predominated all over, particularly about the head and neck. These parts were covered with a dirty grizzle of mixed hues. She was badly windbroken. And at stated intervals of several minutes each, her back, from this basmodic action of the lungs, heaved up with a jerk, as though she were trying to kick with her hind legs and couldn't. She was as thin as a rail, and carried her head below the level of her shoulders. But there was something in the twinkle of her solitary eye, for she had but one, that told you she had no intention of giving up for a long time to come. She was evidently game to the backbone. Such was the old woman, Rube had promised to fetch, and she was greeted by a loud laugh as he led her up. Now, looky here, boys, said he, halting in front of the crowd. He may larth and gavel and grin till you're sick in the guts, you may, but this child's a Gwyn to take the shine out of that engine's shot, he is, or bust a tryon. Several of the bystanders remarked that this was likely enough, and that they only waited to see in what manner it was to be done. No one who knew him doubted old Rube to be, as in fact he was, one of the very best marksmen in the mountains. Fully equal, perhaps, to the Indian. But it was the style and circumstances which had given such ecla, to the shot of the latter. It was not every day that a beautiful girl could be found to stand fire as the squaw had done. And it was not every hunter, who would have ventured to fire at a mark so placed. The strength of the feet lay in its newness and peculiarity. The hunters had often fired at the mark held in one another's hands. There were few who would like to carry it on their head. How then was Rube to take the shine out of that engine's shot? This was the question that each was asking the other, and which was at length put directly to Rube himself. Shut up your meat-traps, answered he, and I'll show he. In the first place, then, he all see that this here prickly ain't more than half the size of the squash. Yes, certainly, answered several voices. That were one circumstance in his favour, won't it? It were, it were. Well here's another. The engine, E.C., shot his mark off of the head. Now this child's a-guin to knock hisen off the tail. Would your engine do that, eh, boys? No, no. Do that beat him, or do it not, then? It beats him, it does. Far better. Hooray! vociferated several voices, and missed yells of laughter. No one dissented, as the hunters, pleased with the joke, were anxious to see it carried through. Rube did not detain them long. Leaving his rifle in the hands of his friend Gary, he led the old mare up towards the spot that had been occupied by the Indian girl. Reaching this he halted. We all expected to see him turn the animal with her side towards us, thus leaving her body out of range. It soon became evident that this was not the old fellow's intention. It would have spoiled the look of the thing had he done so, and that idea was no doubt running in his mind. Choosing a place where the ground chanced to be slightly hollowed out, he led the Mustang forward until her forefeet rested in the hollow. The tail was thus thrown above the body. Having squared her hips to the camp, he whispered something at her head, and going round to the hind quarters, adjusted the pair upon the highest curve of the stump. He then came walking back. With the mare stand, no fear of that, she had been trained to stand in one place for a longer period than was now required of her. The appearance which the old mare exhibited, nothing visible but her hind legs and buttocks. For the mules had stripped her tail of the hair, had by this time wound the spectators up to the risible point, and most of them were yelling, Stop your giggle-goggle, will-yer, said Rube, clutching his rifle and taking his stand. The laughter was held in, no one wishing to disturb the shot. Now, old targets, don't waste your fodder, muttered the trapper, pressing his gun, which the next moment was raised and leveled. No one doubted but that Rube would hit the object at which he was aiming. It was a shot frequently made by Western riflemen, that is, a mark of the same size at sixty yards, and no doubt Rube would have done it, but just at the moment of his pulling trigger the mare's back heaved up in one of its periodic jerks, and the pedahia fell to the ground. But the ball had sped, and grazing the animal's shoulder, passed through one of her ears. The direction of the bullet was not known until afterwards, but its effect was visible at once, for the mare, stung in her tenderest part, uttered a sort of human-like scream, and wheezing about came leaping into camp, kicking over everything that happened to lie in her way. The yells and loud laughing of the trappers, the odd ejaculations of the Indians, the vayas and vivas of the Mexicans, the wild oaths of old Rube himself, all formed immediately of sounds that filled strangely upon the ear, and to give an idea of which is beyond the art of my pen. CHAPTER XXIII. OF THE SCALP-HUNTERS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CHAPTER XXIII. THE PROGRAM. Shortly after I was wandering out, to the cabalada, to see after my horse, when the sound of a bugle fell upon my ear. It was the signal for the men to assemble, and I turned back towards the camp. As I entered it, Seguin was standing near his tent, with the bugle still in his hand. The hunters were gathering around him. They were soon all assembled and stood in groups, waiting for the chief to speak. Comrades, said Seguin, to-morrow we break up this camp, for an expedition against the enemy. I have brought you together that you may know my plans, and lend me your advice. A murmur of applause followed this announcement. The breaking up of a camp is always joyous news to men, whose trade is war. It seemed to have a like effect upon this motley group of guerrilleros. The chief continued, It is not likely that you will have much fighting. Our dangers will be those of the desert, but we will endeavor to provide against them in the best manner possible. I have learned from a reliable source that our enemies are at this very time about starting upon, a grand expedition, to plunder the towns of Sonora and Chihuahua. It is their intention, if not met by the government troops, to extend their foray to Durango itself. Both tribes have combined in this movement, and it is believed that all the warriors will proceed southward, leaving their country unprotected behind them. It is my intention, then, as soon as I can ascertain that they have gone out, to enter their territory, and pierce to the main town of the Navajos. Bravo! Hooray! Bueno! Trebien! Good as wheat! And numerous other exclamations hailed this declaration. Some of you know my object in making this expedition. Others do not. I will declare it to you all. It is, then, to get a grist of scalps. What else?" cried a rough, brutal-looking fellow, interrupting the chief. No, Kerker, replied Seguin, bending his eye upon the man with an expression of anger. It is not that. We expect to meet only women. On his peril let no man touch a hair upon the head of an Indian woman. I shall pay for no scalps of women or children. Where, then, will be your profits? We cannot bring them prisoners. We'll have enough to do to get back ourselves, I reckon, across them deserts. These questions seem to express the feelings of others of the band who mutter their assent. You shall lose nothing. Whatever prisoners you take shall be counted on the ground, and every man shall be paid according to his number. When we return I will make that good. Oh, that's fair enough, Captain," cried several voices. Let it be understood, then, no women nor children. The plunder you shall have, it is yours by our laws, but no blood that can be spared. There is enough on our hands already. Do you all bind yourselves to this? Yes, yes, see, we-we, ya-ya, all, totos, totos," cried a multitude of voices, each man answering in his own language. Let those who do not agree to it speak. A profound silence followed this proposal. All had bound themselves to the wishes of their leader. I am glad that you are unanimous. I will now state my purpose fully. It is but just you should know it. I, let us know that, muttered Kirker. If Tink to Ray's horror were going. We go, then, to seek for our friends and relatives, who for years have been captives to our savage enemy. There are many among us who have lost kindred, wives, sisters and daughters. A murmur of assent, uttered chiefly by men in Mexican costume, testified to the truth of this statement. I myself continued Seguin, and his voice slightly trembled as he spoke, and among that number. Years, long years ago, I was robbed of my child by the Navajos. I have lately learned that she is still alive, and at their head town, with many other white captives. We go, then, to release and restore them to their friends and homes. A shout of approbation broke from the crowd, mingled with exclamations of, Bravo! We'll fetch them back. Viva la Capitan! Viva el Gefe! When silence was restored, Seguin continued, You know our purpose. You have approved it. I will now make known to you the plan I had designed for accomplishing it, and listen to your advice. Here the chief paused a moment while the men remained silent and waiting. There are three passes, continued he at length, by which we might enter the Indian country from this side. There is first the route of the western puerco, that would lead us direct to the Navajo towns. And why not take that way, asked one of the hunters, a Mexican? I know the route well, as far as the Pecos towns. Because we could not pass the Pecos towns without being seen by Navajo spies. There are always some of them there. Nay, more, continued Seguin, with a look that expressed a hidden meaning, we could not get far up the del Norte itself before the Navajos would be warned of our approach. We have enemies nearer home. Caray, that is true, said a hunter speaking in Spanish. Should they get word of our coming, even though the warriors had gone southward, you can see that we would have a journey for nothing. True, true, shouted several voices, for the same reason we cannot take the pass of Polvedera. Besides at this season there is but little prospect of game on either of these routes. We are not prepared for an expedition with our present supply. We must pass through a game country before we can enter on the desert. It is true, Captain, but there is as little game to be met if we go by the old mine. What other road then can we take? There is still another route better than all, I think. We will strike southward and then west across the Lanyos to the old mission. From thence we can go north into the Apache country. Yes, yes, that is the best way, Captain. We will have a longer journey, but with advantages we will find the wild cattle or the buffaloes upon the Lanyos. Moreover we will make sure of our time, as we can cash in the pinion hills that overlook the Apache war-trail and see our enemies pass out. When they have gone south we can cross the Gila and keep up the Azul or Prieto. Having accomplished the object of our expedition we may then return homeward by the nearest route. Bravo, Viva! That's just right, Captain. That's clearly our best plan, were a few among the many forums by which the hunters testified their approval of the program. There was no dissenting voice. The word Prieto struck like music upon their ears. That was a magic word. The name of the far-famed river, on whose waters the Trapper legends had long placed the El Dorado, the mountain of gold. Many a story of this celebrated region had been told at the hunter's campfire, all agreeing on one point, that there the gold lay in lumps, upon the surface of the ground, and filled the rivers with its shining grains. Often had the Trappers talked of an expedition to this unknown land, and small parties were said to have actually entered it, but none of these adventurers had ever been known to return. The hunters saw now, for the first time, the prospect of penetrating this region with safety, and their minds were filled with fancies, wild and romantic. Not a few of them had joined Seguin's band, in hopes that some day this very expedition might be undertaken, and the golden mountain reached. What then were the feelings when Seguin declared his purpose of travelling by the Prieto? At the mention of it a buzz of peculiar meaning ran through the crowd, and the men turned to each other with looks of satisfaction. So then we shall march, added the chief. Go now and make your preparations. We start by daybreak. As Seguin ceased speaking, the hunters departed, each to look after his traps and possibles, a duty soon performed, as these rude rangers were but little encumbered with camp-equipage. I sat down upon a log, watching for some time the movements of my wild companions and listening to their rude and babel-like converse. At length arrived sunset or night, for they are almost synonymous in these latitudes. Fresh logs were flung upon the fires till they blazed up. The men sat around them, cooking, eating, smoking, talking loudly, and laughing at stories that illustrated their own wild habits. The red light fell upon fierce dark faces, now fiercer and more swarthy under the glare of the burning cottonwood. By its light the savage expression was strengthened on every countenance. Beards looked darker, and teeth gleamed wider through them. Eyes appeared more sunken, and their glances more brilliant and fiend-like. Picture-ass costumes met the eye. Turbans, Spanish hats, plumes, and mottled garments, escapades, and rifles leaning against the trees. Saddles high-peaked, rusting upon logs and stumps, bridles hanging from the branches overhead. Wings of jerked meat, drooping in fastoons. In front of the tents, and haunches of venison still smoking and dripping their half-coagulated drops. The vermilion smeared on the foreheads of the Indian warriors, gleamed in the night light, as though it were blood. It was a picture at once savage and warlike, warlike, but with an aspect of ferocity at which the sensitive heart drew back. It was a picture such as may be seen only in a bivouac of guerrilleros, of brigands, of man-hunters. Some said Segwin, touching me on the arm. Our supper is ready. I see the doctor beckoning us. I was not slow to answer the call, for the cool air of the evening had sharpened my appetite. We approached the tent in front of which was a fire. Over this the doctor, assisted by gold and a pueblo peon, was just giving the finishing touch to a savoury supper. Part of it had already been carried inside the tent. We followed it, and took our seats upon saddles, blankets, and packs. Why, doctor, said Segwin, you have proved yourself a perfect metre de cuisine tonight. This is a supper for a luckulous. Ach, mein Kapten, ich hab Gott helpe. Mein Herr Gold assist me, most wonderful. Well, Mr. Holler and I will do full justice to your dishes. Let us to them at once. Oui, oui, bien, Monsieur Kapten, said Goad, hurrying in with the multitude of vayans. The Canadian was always in his element when there was plenty to cook and eat. We were soon engaged on fresh steaks of wild cows, roasted ribs of venison, dried buffalo tongues, tortillas, and coffee. The coffee and tortillas were the labours of the pueblo, in the preparation of which vayans he was Goad's master. But Goad had a choice dish. Un petit morceau, in reserve, which he brought forth with a triumphant flourish. Voici, Monsieur, cried he, setting it before us. What is it, Goad? In fricassee, Monsieur. Of what? Le frogue. What d'Yankee called bouffrog. A fricassee of bouffrogs. Oui, oui, mon metre. Boulevaux? No, thank you. I will trouble you, Monsieur Goad, said Segwin. Ec, ec, mein Goad, frax vergoot, and the doctor held out his platter to be helped. Goad, in wandering by the river, had encountered a pond of giant frogs, and the fricassee was the result. I had not then overcome my national antipathy to the victims of St. Patrick's Curse, and to the voyager's astonishment I refused to share the dainty. During our supper conversation I gathered some facts of the doctor's history, which, with what I had already learned, rendered the old man an object of extreme interest to me. Up to this time I had wondered what such a character could be doing in such company as that of the scalp-hunters. I now learned a few details that explained all. His name was Rector, Friedrich Rector. He was a Strasburger, and in the city of Belles had been a medical practitioner of some repute, the love of science but particularly of his favorite branch, Botany, had lured him away from his renish home. He had wandered to the United States, then to the far west, to classify the flora of that remote region. He had spent several years in the great valley of the Mississippi, and falling in with one of the St. Louis caravans had crossed the prairies to the oasis of New Mexico. In his scientific wanderings along the Del Norte he had met with the scalp-hunters, and attracted by the opportunity thus afforded him a penetrating into regions hitherto unexplored by the devotees of science, he had offered to accompany the band. This offer was gladly accepted on account of his services as their medical, and for two years he had been with them, sharing their hardships and dangers. Many a seen apparel had he passed through, many a privation had he undergone, prompted by a love of his favorite study, and perhaps too by the dreams of future triumph, when he would one day spread his strange flora before the savants of Europe. Poor Richter, poor Friedrich Richter, yours was the dream of a dream. It never became a reality. Our supper was at length finished, and washed down with a bottle of Paso wine. There was plenty of this, as well as Taos whisky in the encampment, and the roars of laughter that reached us from without proved that the hunters were imbibing freely of the latter. The doctor drew out his great mirsham, goad filled a red clay stone, while Segwin and I lit our husk cigarettes. But tell me, said I, addressing Segwin, who was the Indian, he who performed the wild feat of shooting the— Ah, El Sol, he is a cocoa. A cocoa? Yes, of the Maricopa tribe. But that makes me no wiser than before, I knew that much already. You knew it? Who told you? I heard old Rube mention the fact to his comrade Gary. I, true, he should know him, Segwin remained silent. Well, continued I, wishing to learn more, who other Maricopas, I have never heard of them. It is a tribe but little known, a nation of singular men. They are foes of the Apache and Navajo, their country lies down the Gila. They came originally from the Pacific, from the shores of the Californian Sea. But this man is educated, or seems so. He speaks English and French as well as you or I. He appears to be talented, intelligent, polite, in short a gentleman. He is all you have said. I cannot understand this. I will explain to you, my friend. That man was educated at one of the most celebrated universities in Europe. He has traveled farther and through more countries, perhaps, than either of us. But how did he accomplish all this, an Indian? By the aid of that which has often enabled very little men, although El Sol is not one of those, to achieve very great deeds, or at least to get the credit of having done so, by gold. Gold! And where got he the gold? I have been told that there was very little of it in the hands of the Indians. The white men have robbed them of all they once had. That is, in general, a truth, and true of the Maricopas. There was a time when they possessed gold in large quantities and pearls, too, gathered from the depths of the Vermillion Sea, it is gone. The Jesuit Padres could tell wither. But this man, El Sol, he is a chief. He has not lost all his gold. He still holds enough to serve him. And it is not likely that the Padres will coax it from him for either beads or Vermillion. No, he has seen the world, and has learnt the all-pervading value of that shiny metal. But his sister? Is she, too, educated? No. Poor Luna is still a savage. But he instructs her in many things. He has been absent for several years. He has returned but lately to his tribe. Their names are strange, the sun, the moon. They were given by the Spaniards of Sonora, but they are only translations or synonyms of their Indian appellations. That is common upon the frontier. Why are they here? I put this question with hesitation as I knew there might be some peculiar history connected with the answer. Partly replied Seguin, from gratitude I believe to myself. I rescued El Sol when a boy out of the hands of the Navajos. Perhaps there is still another reason. But come, continued he, apparently wishing to give a turn to the conversation, you shall know our Indian friends, you are to be companions for a time. He is a scholar and will interest you. Take care of your heart with the gentle Luna. Vincente, go to the tent of the Coco Chief. Ask him to come and drink a cup of Paso wine. Tell him to bring his sister with him. The servant hurried away through the camp. While he was gone, we conversed about the feet which the Coco had performed with his rifle. I never knew him to fire, remarked Seguin, without hitting his mark. There was something mysterious about that. His aim is unerring, and it seems to be on his part an act of pure volition. There may be some guiding principle in the mind, independent of either strength, of nerve, or sharpness of sight. He and another are the only persons I ever knew to possess this singular power. The last part of this speech was uttered in a half soliloquy, and Seguin, after delivering it, remained for some moments silent and abstracted. Before the conversation was resumed, El Sol and his sister entered the tent, and Seguin introduced us to each other. In a few moments we were engaged, El Sol, the Doctor, Seguin, and myself, in an animated conversation. The subject was not horses, nor guns, nor scalps, nor war, nor blood, nor ought connected with the horrid calling of that camp. We were discussing a point in the Pacific Science of Botany, the relationship of the different forms of the Cactus family. I had studied the science, and I felt that my knowledge of it was inferior to that of any of my three companions. I was struck with it then, and more when I reflected on it afterwards, the fact of such a conversation, the time, the place, and the men who carried it on. For nearly two hours we sat smoking and talking on like subjects. While we were thus engaged, I observed upon the canvas the shadow of a man. Looking forth as my position enabled me without rising, I recognized in the light that streamed out of the tent a hunting shirt, with a worked pipe holder hanging over the breast. La Luna sat near her brother's sowing-par-flesh soles upon a pair of moccasins. I noticed that she had an abstracted air, and its short intervals glanced out from the opening of the tent. While we were engrossed with our discussion, she rose silently, though not with any appearance of stealth, and went out. After a while she returned. I could read the love-light in her eye as she resumed her occupation. El Sol and his sister at length left us, and shortly after, Edwin, the doctor, and I rolled ourselves in our sarapes, and lay down to sleep. CHAPTER XXV. THE WAR TRAIL. The band was mounted by the earliest dawn, and as the notes of the bugle died away our horses plashed through the river, crossing to the other side. We soon devouched from the timber-bottom, coming out upon sandy plains that stretched westward to the Mibre Mountains. We rode over these plains in a southerly direction, climbing long ridges of sand that reversed them from east to west. The drift lay in deep furrows, and our horses sank above the fetlocks as we journeyed. We were crossing the western section of the Hornada. We traveled in Indian file. Habit has formed this disposition among Indians and hunters on the march. The tangled paths of the forest, and the narrowed defiles of the mountains admit of no other. Even when passing a plain, our cavalcade was strung out for a quarter of a mile. The Etaho followed in charge of the Arieros. For the first day of our march we kept on without nooning. There was neither grass nor water on the route, and a halt under the hot sun would not have refreshed us. Early in the afternoon a dark line became visible stretching across the plain. As we drew nearer, a green wall rose before us, and we distinguished the groves of cottonwood. The hunters knew it to be the timber on the Paloma. We were soon passing under the shade of its quivering canopy and reaching the banks of a clear stream we halted for the night. Our camp was formed without either tents or lodges. Those used on the Del Norte had been left behind in cash. An expedition like ours could not be combered with camp baggage. Each man's blanket was his house, his bed, and his cloak. Fires were kindled and ribs roasted, and fatigued with our journey the first day's ride has always this effect. We were soon wrapped in our blankets and sleeping soundly. We were summoned next morning by the call of the bugle-sounding Reveley. The band partook somewhat of a military organization, and everyone understood the signals of light cavalry. Our breakfast was soon cooked and eaten. Our horses were drawn from their pickets, saddled and mounted, and at another signal we moved forward on the route. The incidents of our first journey were repeated with but little variety for several days in succession. We traveled through a desert country, here and there covered with wild sage and mesquite. We passed on our route clumps of cacti and thickets of creosote bushes that admitted their foul odors as we crushed through them. On the fourth evening we camped at a spring, the Ojo de Vaca, lying on the eastern borders of the Yanos. Over the western section of this great prairie passes the Apache War Trail, running southward into Sonora, near the trail and overlooking at a high mountain rises out of the plain. It is the Pinon. It was our design to reach this mountain and cachet among the rocks, near a well-known spring, until our enemies should pass. But to affect this we would have to cross the War Trail and our own tracks would betray us. Here was a difficulty which had not occurred to Seguin. There was no other point except the Pinon from which we could certainly see the enemy on their route and be ourselves hidden. This mountain, then, must be reached, and how were we to affect it without crossing the trail. After our arrival at Ojo de Vaca, Seguin drew the men together to deliberate on this matter. Let us spread, said a hunter, and keep wide over the prairie until we've got Claire past the Apache Trail. They won't notice a single track here and there, I reckon. Aye, but they will, though, rejoined another. Do you think an engine's a going to pass a shod horse track without following it up? No sirree. We can muffle the hoofs as far as that goes, suggested the first speaker. Wah! That'd only make it worse. I tried that dodge once before, and nearly lost my hair for it. He's a blind engine, can be fooled that away. It won't do no how. They're not going to be so particular when they're on the War Trail, I warn't you. I don't see why it shouldn't do well enough. Most of the hunters agreed with the former speaker. The Indians would not fail to notice so many muffled tracks and suspect there was something in the wind. The idea of muffling was therefore abandoned. What next? The trapper Rube, who up to this time had said nothing, now drew the attention of all by abruptly exclaiming, Pish! Well, what of you to say, old horse? Inquired one of the hunters. That you're a set of fools, one and all of you. I could take the full of that prairie, a horses across the past trail, without making a sign that any engine's a going to follow, particularly an engine on the War Beat as them is now. How? asked Seguin. I'll tell your how, Cap, if you'll tell me what he wants to cross the trail for. Why to conceal ourselves in the Pin-On range, what else? And how are you going to cache a in the pinion without water? There was a spring on the side of it, at the foot of the mountain. That's true as scriptor, I know's that. But at that very spring the engines will cool their lappers as they go down southward. How are you going to get at it with this caviar without making a sign? This child don't see that very clear. You are right, Rube. We cannot touch the Pin-On spring without leaving our marks too plainly, and it is the very place where the War Party may make a halt. I see's no confundered use, and the hull on us crossing the prairie now. We can't hunt Buffler till they've passed anyways. So it's this child's idea that a dozen of us will be enough to cache a in the pinion, and watch for the niggers that go in south. A dozen might do it safe enough, but not the whole caviar. And would you have the rest to remain here? Not here. Let them go northward from here. And then strike west through the Mesquite Hills. There's a creek runs there. About twenty miles or so this side the trail. They can get water and grass and cache a there till we sends for them. But why not remain by this spring where we have both in plenty? Captain, just because some of the engine party may take a notion in their heads to come this way themselves. I reckon we had better make blind tracks before leaving here. The force of Rube's reasoning was apparent to all, and to none more than Seguin himself. It was resolved to follow his advice at once. The Vedette Party was told off, and the rest of the band with the Atahoe after blinding the tracks around the spring struck off in a northwesterly direction. They were to travel on to the Mesquite Hills that lay some ten or twelve miles to the north west of the spring. There they were to cache by a stream well known to several of them and wait until warned to join us. The Vedette Party of whom I was one moved westward across the prairie. Rube, Gary, El Sol, and his sister was Sanchez, a Sidi Bant bullfighter, and half a dozen others composed the party, one himself was our head and guide. Before leaving the Oho Devaka we had stripped the shoes off the horses, filling the nail holes with clay, so that their tracks would be taken for those of wild mustangs, such were the precautions of men who knew that their lives might be the forfeit of a single footprint. As we approached the point where the war trail intersected the prairie, we separated and deployed to distances of half a mile each. In this manner we rode forward to the Pinon Mountain, where we came together again and turned northward along the foot of the range. It was sundown when we reached the spring, having ridden all day across the plain. We described it as we approached close to the mountain foot, and marked by a grove of cotton woods and willows. We did not take our horses near the water, but having reached a defile in the mountain we rode into it and cached to them in a thicket of nut pine. In this thicket we spent the night. With the first light of morning we made a reconnaissance of our cache. In front of us was a low ridge covered with loose rocks and straggling trees of the nut pine. This ridge separated the defile from the plain, and from its top screened by a thicket of the pines we commanded a view of the water as well as the trail, and the Janos stretching away to the north, south, and east. It was just the sort of hiding place we required for our object. In the morning it became necessary to descend for water. For this purpose we had provided ourselves with a mule bucket and extra swiges. We visited the spring and filled our vessels, taking care to leave no traces of our footsteps in the mud. We kept constant watch during the first day, but no Indians appeared. Deer and antelopes with a small gang of buffaloes came to the spring branch to drink, and then roamed off again over the green meadows. It was a tempting sight, for we could easily have crept within shot, but we dared not touch them. We knew that the Indian dogs would scent their slaughter. In the evening we went again for water, making the journey twice as our animals began to suffer from thirst. We adopted the same precautions as before. The next day we again watched the horizon to the north with eager eyes. Seguin had a small pocket-glass, and we could see the prairie with it for a distance of nearly thirty miles, but as yet no enemy could be described. The third day passed with a like result, and we began to fear that the warriors had taken some other trail. Another circumstance rendered us uneasy. We had eaten nearly the whole of our provisions, and we're now chewing the raw nuts of the Pinon. We dared not kindle a fire to roast them. Indians can read the smoke at a great distance. The fourth day arrived, and still no sign on the horizon to the north. Our tesajo was all eaten, and we began to hunger. The nuts did not satisfy us. The game was in plenty at the spring and mottling the grassy plain, one proposed to lie among the willows and shoot an antelope or a black-tailed deer, of which there were troops in the neighborhood. We dare not, said Seguin. Their dogs would find the blood. It might betray us. I can procure one without letting a drop, rejoined a Mexican hunter. How? inquired several in a breath. The man pointed to his lasso. But your tracks you would make deep footmarks in the struggle? We can blind them, captain, rejoined the man. You may try, then, assented the chief. The Mexican unfastened the lasso from his saddle, and taking a companion proceeded to the spring. They crept in among the willows and lay in wait. We watched them from the ridge. They had not remained more than a quarter of an hour when a herd of antelopes was seen approaching from the plain. These walked directly for the spring, one following the other in Indian file. They were soon close in to the willows where the hunters had concealed themselves. Here they suddenly halted, throwing up their heads and snuffing the air. They had scented danger, but it was too late for the foremost to turn and lope off. Yonder goes the lasso, cried one. We saw the noose flying in the air and settling over his head. The herd suddenly wheeled, but the loop was around the neck of their leader, and after three or four skips he sprang up and falling upon his back lay motionless. The hunter came out from the willows, and taking up the animal, now choked dead, carried him towards the entrance of the defile. His companion followed, blinding the tracks of both. In a few minutes they had reached us. The antelope was skinned and eaten raw in the blood. Our horses grow thin with hunger and thirst. We fear to go too often to the water, though we become less cautious as the hours pass. Two more antelopes are lassoed by the expert hunter. The night of the fourth day is clear moonlight. The Indians often march by moonlight, particularly when on the war trail. We keep our vedette stationed during the night as in the day. On this night we look out with more hopes than usual. It is such a lovely night. A full moon, clear and calm. We are not disappointed. Near midnight the vedette awakes us. There are dark forms on the sky, away to the north. It may be buffaloes, but we see that they are approaching. We stand, one at all, straining our eyes through the white air, and away over the silvery sward. There are glancing objects, arms it must be. Horses. Horsemen. They are Indians. Oh, God, comrades, we are mad. Our horses they may nay. We bound after our leader down the hill over the rocks and through the trees. We run for the thicket where our animals are tied. We may be too late, for horses can hear each other miles off. And the slightest concussion vibrates afar through the elastic atmosphere of these high plateaus. We reach the caballada. What is Seguin doing? He is torn the blanket from under his saddle and is muffling the head of his horse. We follow his example without exchanging a word, for we know this is the only plan to pursue. In a few minutes we feel secure again and return to our watch station on the height. We had shaved our time closely, for on reaching the hilltop we could hear the exclamations of Indians, the thump-thump of hoofs on the hard plain, and an occasional nay as their horses scented the water. The foremost were advancing to the spring and we could see the long line of mounted men stretching in their deploying to the far horizon. Closer they came and we could distinguish the penins and glittering points of their spears. We could see their half-naked bodies gleaming in the clear moonlight. In a short time the foremost of them had ridden up to the bushes, halting as they came and giving their animals to drink. Then one by one they wheeled out of the water and trotting a short distance over the prairie, flung themselves to the ground and commenced unharnessing their horses. It was evidently their intention to camp for the night, for nearly an hour they came filing forward, until two thousand warriors with their horses dotted the plain below us. We stood observing their movements, we had no fear of being seeing ourselves, we were lying with our bodies behind the rocks and our faces partially screened by the foliage of the penone trees. We could see and hear with distinctness all that was passing, for the savages were not over three hundred yards from our position. They proceeded to pick at their horses in a wide circle, fire out on the plain. There the grama grass is longer and more luxuriant than in the immediate neighborhood of the spring. They stripped the animals and bring away their horse furniture, consisting of hair bridles, buffalo robes, and skins of the grizzly bear. Few have saddles. Humans do not generally use them on a war expedition. Each man strikes his spear into the ground and rests against it his shield, bow, and quiver. He places his robe or skin beside it, that is his tent and bed. The spears are soon aligned upon the prairie, forming a front of several hundred yards, and thus they have pitched their camp with a quickness and regularity fire outstripping the chasseurs of vincennes. They are encamped in two parties. There are two bands, the Apache and Navajo. The latter is much the smaller, and rests farther off from our position. We hear them cutting and chopping with their tomahawks among the thickets at the foot of the mountain. We can see them carrying faggots out upon the plain, piling them together, and setting them on fire. Many fires are soon blazing brightly. The savages squat around them cooking their suppers. We can see the paint glittering on their faces and naked breasts. There are many hues. Some are red, as though they were smeared with blood. Some appear of a jetty blackness. Some black on one side of the face and red or white on the other. Some are mottled like hounds, and some are striped and checkered. Their cheeks and breasts are tattooed with the forms of animals, wolves, panthers, bears, buffaloes, and other hideous devices, plainly discernible under the blaze of the pinewood fires. Some have a red hand painted on their bosoms, and not a few exhibit as their device the death's head and crossbones. All these are their coats of arms, symbolical of the medicine of the wearer, adopted no doubt from like silly fancies to those which put the crest upon the carriage on the lackeys button or the brass seal stamp of the merchant's clerk. There is vanity in the wilderness. In savage as in civilized life there is a snobdom. What do we see? Bright helmets, brazen and steel, with knotting plumes of the ostrich, these upon savages, once came these. From the curaseers of Chihuahua, poor devils, they were roughly handled upon one occasion by these savage lancers. We see the red meat spluttering over the fires upon spits of willow rods. We see the Indians fling the pinon nuts into the cinders, and then draw them forth again, parched and smoking. We see them light their claystone pipes and send forth clouds of blue vapor. We see them gesticulate as they relate their red adventures to one another. We hear them shout and chatter and laugh like mountabanks, how unlike the forest Indian. For two hours we watch their movements and listen to their voices. Then the horse-guard is detailed and marches off to the caballada. And the Indians, one after another, spread their skins, roll themselves in their blankets, and sleep. The fires cease to blaze. But by the moonlight we can distinguish the prostrate bodies of the savages. White objects are moving among them. They are dogs prowling after the debris of their supper. These run from point to point snarling at one another and barking at the coyotes that sneak around the skirts of the camp. Out upon the prairie the horses are still awake and busy. We can hear them stamping their hoofs and cropping the rich pasture. Erect forms are seen standing at intervals along the line. These are the guards of the caballada. Three days in the trap. Our attention was now turned to our own situation. Others and difficulties suddenly presented themselves to our minds. What if they should stay here to hunt? The thoughts seemed to occur to all of us at the same instant, and we faced each other with looks of apprehension and dismay. It is not improbable, said Seguin, in a low and emphatic voice. It is plain that they have no supply of meat, and how are they to pass to the south without it? They must hunt here or elsewhere. Why not here? If so, we're in a nice trap, interrupted a hunter, pointing first to the embouchure of the defile and then to the mountain. How are we to get out? I'd like to know that. Our eyes followed the direction indicated by the speaker. In front of the ravine in which we were, extended the line of the Indian camp, not a hundred yards distant from the rocks that lay around its entrance. There was an Indian sentinel still nearer, but it would be impossible to pass out, even were he asleep, without encountering the dogs that prowled in numbers around the camp. Behind us the mountain rose vertically like a wall. It was plainly impossible. We were fairly in the trap. Karai exclaimed one of the men, We will die of hunger and thirst if they stay to hunt. We may die sooner, rejoined another, if they take a notion in their heads to wander up the gully. This was not improbable, though it was but little likely. The ravine was a sort of cul-de-sac that entered the mountain in a slanting direction and ended at the bottom of the cliff. There was no object to attract our enemies into it, unless indeed they might come up in search of pinion-nuts. Some of their dogs, too, might wander up hunting for food or attracted by the scent of our horses. These were probabilities, and we trembled as each of them was suggested. If they do not find us, said Seguin, encouragingly, we may live for a day or two on the pinions. When these fail us, one of our horses must be killed. How much water have we? Think our luck, Captain, the gourds are nearly full. But our poor animals must suffer. There is no danger of thirst, said El Sol, looking downward, while these last, and he struck with his foot a large round mass that grew among the rocks. It was the spheroidal cactus. See, continued he, there are hundreds of them. All present knew the meaning of this and regarded the cacti with a murmur of satisfaction. Comrades, said Seguin, it is of no use to weary ourselves. Let those sleep who can. One can keep watch yonder, while another stays up here. Go, Sanchez! And the chief pointed down the ravine to a spot that commanded a view of its mouth. The sentinel walked off and took his stand in silence. The rest of us descended, and after looking to the muffling of our horses, returned to the station of the vedette upon the hill. Here we rolled ourselves in our blankets, and, lying down among the rocks, slept out the night. We were awake before dawn and peering through the leaves with feelings of keen solicitude. There is no movement in the Indian camp. It is a bad indication. Had they intended to travel on, they would have been stirring before this. They are always on their route before daybreak. These signs strengthen our feelings of apprehension. The gray light begins to spread over the prairie. There is a white band along the eastern sky. There are noises in the camp. There are voices. Dark forms move about among the upright spears. Tall savages stride over the plain. Their robes of skins are wrapped around their shoulders to protect them from the raw air of the morning. They carry faggots. They are rekindling the fires. Our men talk and whispers as we lie straining our eyes to catch every movement. It's plain they intend to make a stay of it. I, we're in for it. That's sartan. Wah! I wonder how long there are going to squat here anyhow. Three days at the least. Maybe four or five. Great gollies will be frozen half the time. What would they be doing here so long? I warrant ye they'll clear out as soon as they can. So they will. But how can they in less time? They can get all the meat they want in a day. See? Yonder's buffalo a plenty. Look! Away, yonder! And the speaker points to several black objects outlined against the brightening sky. It is a herd of buffaloes. That's true enough. In half a day I warrant they can get all the meat they want. But how are they going to jerk it in less than three? That's what I want to know. Esverdad, says one of the Mexicans, a Ciballero. Tres días, almenos. It is true, three days at the least. I, hombre, and with a smart chance a sunshine at that, I guess. This conversation is carried on by two or three of the men in a low tone but loud enough for the rest of us to overhear it. It reveals a new phase of our dilemma on which we have not before reflected. Had the Indians stay to jerk their meat we will be in extreme danger from thirst as well as of being discovered in our cash. We know that the process of jerking buffalo beef takes three days and that with a hot sun, as the hunter has intimated. This, with the first day required for hunting, will keep us four days in the ravine. The prospect is appalling. We feel that death or the extreme torture of thirst is before us. We have no fear of hunger, our horses are in the grove, and our knives and our belts. We can live for weeks upon them. But will the cacti assuage the thirst of men and horses for a period of three or four days? This is a question no one can answer. It has often relieved the hunter for a short period, enabling him to crawl on to the water, but for days the trial will soon commence. The day has fairly broken. The Indians spring to their feet. About one half of them draw the pickets of their horses and lead them to the water. They adjust their bridles, pluck up their spears, snatch their bows, shoulder their quivers, and leap on horseback. After a short consultation they gallop off to the eastward. In half an hour's time we can see them running the buffalo far out upon the prairie, piercing them with their arrows and impaling them on their long lances. Those who have remained behind lead their horses down to the spring branch and back again to the grass. Now they chop down young trees and carry faggots to the fires. See they are driving long steaks into the ground and stretching ropes from one to the other. For what purpose? We know too well. Ha! Look yonder, mutters one of the hunters, as this is first noticed. Yonder goes the jerking-line. Now we're caged in a mess, I reckon. For toto santos as verdad, carumbo, carajo, chingaro, grouse the ciballero, who well knows the meaning of those steaks and lines, we watch with a fearful interest the movements of the savages. We have now no longer any doubt of their intention to remain for several days. The steaks are soon erected, running for a hundred yards or more along the front of the encampment. The savages await the return of their hunters, some mount and scour off toward the scene of the buffalo battu, still going on, far out upon the plain. We peer through the leaves with great caution, for the day is bright, and the eyes of our enemies are quick and scan every object. We speak only in whispers, though our voices could not be heard if we conversed a little louder, but fear makes us fancy that they might. We are all concealed except our eyes. These glance through small loopholes in the foliage. The Indian hunters have been gone about two hours. We now see them returning over the prairie and straggling parties. They ride slowly back. Each brings his load before him on the withers of his horse. They have large masses of red flesh, freshly skinned and smoking. Some carry the sides and quarters, others the hump ribs, the tongue, the heart and liver, the petite morceau, wrapped up in the skins of the slaughtered animals. They arrive in camp and fling their loads to the ground. Now begins a scene of noise and confusion, the savages run to and fro, hooping, chattering, laughing and dancing. They draw their long scalping knives and hew off broad steaks. They spit them over the blazing fires. They cut out the hump ribs. They tear off the white fat and stuff the buddens. They split the brown liver, eating it raw. They break the shanks with their tomahawks and delve out the savoury marrow, and through all these operations they hoop and chatter and laugh, and dance over the ground like so many madmen. This scene lasts for more than an hour. Fresh parties of hunters mount and write off. Those who remain cut the meat into long thin strips and hang it over the lines already prepared for this purpose. It is thus left to be baked by the sun into tasa ho. We know part of what is before us. It is a fearful prospect, but men like those who compose the band of Seguin do not despond while the shadow of a hope remains. It is a barren spot indeed, whence they cannot find resources. We needn't holler till we're hurt, says one of the hunters. If your call an empty belly a hurt, rejoins another, I've got it all ready. I could just eat a rod jackass without skinning him. Some fellers cries a third. Let's grumble for a meal of these penions. Following this suggestion we commence searching for the nuts of the pine. We find to our dismay that there is but a limited supply of this precious food, not enough either on the trees or the ground, to sustain us for two days. By gosh! exclaims one, we will have to draw for our critters. Well, and if we have to, time enough yet a bit, I guess, we'll divide our claws a while first. The water is distributed in a small cup. There is still a little left in the wadges, but our poor horses suffer. Let us look to them, says Seguin, and drawing his knife he commences skinning one of the cacti. We follow his example. We carefully pair off the volutes and spikelets. A cool, dummy liquid exudes from the open vessels. We break the short stems and, lifting the green, globe-like masses, lay them to the thicket and place them before our animals. These seize the succulent plants greedily, crunch them between their teeth, and swallow both sap and fibers. It is food and drink to them. Thank heaven! We may yet save them. This act is repeated several times, until they have had enough. We keep two vedettes constantly on the lookout. One upon the hill, the other commanding the mouth of the defile. The rest of us go through the ravine, along the sides of the ridge, in search of the cones of the pinion. Thus our first day is spent. The Indian hunters keep coming into their camp until a late hour, bringing with them their burdens of buffalo flesh. Fires blaze over the ground, and the savages sit around them, cooking and eating, nearly all the night. On the following day they do not rouse themselves until a late hour. It is a day of lassitude and idleness, for the meat is hanging over the strings, and they can only wait upon it. They lounge around the camp, mending their bridles and lassos, or looking to their weapons. They lead their horses to the water, and then picket them on fresh ground. They cut large pieces of meat and broil them over the fires. Hundreds of them are at all times engaged in this last occupation. They seem to eat continually. Their dogs are busy too, growling over the knife-stripped bones. They are not likely to leave their feast. They will not stray up the ravine while it lasts. In this thought we find consolation. The sun is hot all the second day, and scorches us in the dry defile. It adds to our thirst. But we do not regret this so much. Knowing it will hasten the departure of the savages. Towards evening the tasahu begins to look brown and shriveled. Another such day, and it will be ready for packing. Our water is out, and we chew the succulent slices of the cactus. We relieve our thirst without quenching it. Our appetite of hunger is growing stronger. We have eaten all the pinions, and nothing remains but to slaughter one of our horses. Let us hold out, until tomorrow, suggest one. Give the poor brutes a chance. Who knows but what they may flit in the morning. This proposition is voted in the affirmative. No hunter cares to risk losing his horse, especially when out upon the prairies. Nod by hunger we lie waiting for the third day. The morning breaks at last, and we crawl forward as usual to watch the movements at the camp. The savages sleep late, as on yesterday, but they arouse themselves at length, and after watering their animals, commence cooking. We see the crimson stakes and the juicy ribs smoking over the fires, and the savoury odours are wafted to us on the breeze. Our appetites are wedded to a painful keenness. We can't endure no longer. A horse must die. Who's? Mountain law will soon decide. Eleven white pebbles and a black one are thrown into the water-bucket, and one by one we are blinded and led forward. I tremble as I place my hand in the vessel. It is like throwing the dive for my own life. Thank heaven my morrow is safe. One of the Mexicans has drawn the black. There's luck in that, exclaims a hunter. Good fat mustang better than poor bull any day. The devoted horse is, in fact, a well-conditioned animal, and placing our vedettes again, we proceed to the thicket to slaughter him. We set about it with great caution. We tie him to a tree, and hopple his fore and hind feet, lest he may struggle. We propose bleeding him to death. The Sybilero has unsheathed his long knife, while a man stands by, holding the bucket to catch the precious fluid, the blood. Some have cups in their hands, ready to drink it as it flows. We are startled by an unusual sound. We look through the leaves. A large gray animal is standing by the edge of the thicket gazing in at us. It is wolfage-looking. Is it a wolf? No. It is an Indian dog. The knife is stayed. Each man draws his own. We approach the animal and endeavor to coax it nearer, but no, it suspects our intentions, utters a low growl, and runs away down the defile. We follow it with our eyes. The owner of the doomed horse is the vedette. The dog must pass him to get out, and he stands with his long lance ready to receive it. The animal sees himself intercepted, turns, and runs back, and again turning, makes a desperate rush to pass the vedette. As he nears the ladder he utters a loud howl. The next moment he is impaled upon the lance. Several of us rush up the hill to ascertain if the howling has attracted the attention of the savages. There is no unusual movement among them. They have not heard it. The dog is divided and devoured before his quivering flesh has time to grow cold. The horse is reprieved. Again we feed our animals on the cooling cactus. This occupies us for some time. When we return to the hill, a glad sight is before us. We see the warriors seated around their fires, renewing the paint upon their bodies. We know the meaning of this. The Tosaho is nearly black. Thanks to the hot sun it will soon be ready for packing. Some of the Indians are engaged in poisoning the points of their arrows. All these signs inspire us with fresh courage. They will soon march, if not tonight, by daybreak on the morrow. We lie congratulating ourselves and watching every movement of their camp. Our hopes continue rising as the day falls. Ha! There is an unusual stir. Some order has been issued. Wa! La! Mira! Mira! See? Look! Look! Are the half-whispered ejaculations that break from the hunters as this is observed. By the living catamount there are going to missile. We see the savages pull down the Tosaho and tie it in bunches. Then every man runs out for his horse. The pickets are drawn, the animals are led in and watered. They are bridled. The robes are thrown over them and girthed. The warriors pluck up their lances, sling their quivers, seize their shields and bows, and leap lightly upon horseback. The next moment they form with the rapidity of thought, and wheeling in their tracks, right off in single file, heading to the southward, the larger band has passed, the smaller the Navajos follow in the same trail. No! The latter has suddenly filed to the left and is crossing the prairie towards the east, towards the spring of the Ojo de Vaca. End of CHAPTER XXVI. CHAPTER XXVII. Our first impulse was to rush down the ravine, satisfy our thirst at the spring, and our hunger on the half-polished bones that were strewn over the prairie. Prudence, however, restrained us. "'Wait till they're clear gone,' said Gary. "'They'll be out of sight in three skips of a goat.' "'Yes, stay where we are a bit,' added another. Some of them may ride back, something may be forgotten. This was not improbable, and in spite of the promptings of our appetites we resolved to remain a little longer in the defile. We descended straightway into the thicket to make preparations for moving, to saddle our horses and take off their mufflings, which by this time had nearly blinded them. Poor brutes, they seemed to know what relief was at hand. While we were engaged in these operations our vedette was kept at the top of the hill to watch both bands and warn us when their heads should sink to the prairie level. "'I wonder why the Navajos have gone by the Ojo de Vaca,' remarked our chief, with an apparent anxiety in his manner. It is well our comrades did not remain there. "'They'll be tired of waiting on us where they are,' rejoined Gary, unless black-tails is plentyer among them muskeets than I think for.' "'Vaya!' exclaimed Sanchez. "'They may thank the Santasima. They were not in our company. "'I'm spent to a skeleton—Mira, Karai. Our horses were at length bridled and saddled, and our lassoes coiled up. Still the vedette had not warned us. We grew every moment more impatient. Come!" cried one. "'Hang it! They're far enough now. They're not a going to be gaping back all the way. They're looking ahead, I'm bound.' "'Golly! There's fine shines a-for'em. We could resist no longer. We called out to the vedette. He could just see the heads of the hind most. "'That will do,' cried Seguin. Come, take your horses. The man obeyed with alacrity, and we all moved down the ravine, leading our animals. We pressed forward to the opening. A young man, the pueblo servant of Seguin, was ahead of the rest. He was impatient to reach the water. He had gained the mouth of the defile. When we saw him fall back with frightening looks, dragging at his horse and exclaiming, "'Miamo! Miamo! Todavia son!' "'Master! Master! They are here yet!' "'Who!' inquired Seguin, running forward in haste. The Indians! Master! The Indians! You are mad! Where did you see them?' "'In the camp, Master! Look yonder!' I pressed forward with Seguin to the rocks that lay along the entrance of the defile. We looked cautiously over. A singular sight met our eyes. The campground was lying as the Indians had left it. The stakes were still standing. The shaggy hides of the buffaloes, and pile of their bones, were strewn upon the plain. Hundreds of coyotes were loping back and forth, snarling at one another, or pursuing one of their number which had picked up a nicer morsel than his companions. The fires were still smoldering, and the wolves galloped through the ashes, raising them in yellow clouds. But there was a sight stranger than all this, a startling sight to me. Five or six forms, almost human, were moving about among the fires, collecting the debris of skins and bones, and quarreling with the wolves that barked round them in troops. Five or six others, similar forms, were seated around a pile of burning wood, silently gnawing at half-roasted ribs. Can they be? Yes, they are human beings. I was for a moment awestruck as I gazed at the shriveled and doorfish bodies, the long ape-like arms and huge, disproportioned heads, from which fell their hair in snaky tangles, black and matted. But one or two appeared to have any article of dress, and that was a ragged breach clout. The others were naked as the wild beasts around them, naked from head to foot. It was a horrid sight to look upon these fiend-like dwarves squatting around the fires, holding up half-naked bones in their long-wrinkled arms, and tearing off the flesh with their glistening teeth. It was a horrid sight indeed, and it was some moments before I could recover sufficiently from my amazement to inquire who or what they were. I did so at length. Los Yamparacos answered the cibolero. Who, I asked again? Los Indios, Yamparacos, Sr. The diggers. The diggers, said a hunter, thinking that would better explain the strange apparitions. Yes, they are digger Indians, added Seguin. Come on, we have nothing to fear from them. But we have something to get from them, rejoined one of the hunters, with a significant look. Digger plough good as any other. Worth just as much as Pash chief. No one must fire, said Seguin, in a firm tone. It is too soon yet. Look yonder. And he pointed over the plain, where two or three glancing objects, the helmets of the retreating warriors, could still be seen above the grass. How are we going to get them, then, Captain? inquired the hunter. They'll beat us to the rocks. They can run like scared dogs. Better let them go, poor devil, said Seguin, seemingly unwilling that blood should be spilled so wantonly. No, Captain, rejoined the same speaker. We won't fire, but we'll get them if we can. Boys, follow me down this way. And the man was about guiding his horse in among the loose rocks, so as to pass unperceived between the dwarves and the mountain. But the brutal fellow was frustrated in his design, for at that moment El Sol and his sister appeared in the opening, and their brilliant habiliments caught the eyes of the diggers. Like startled deer they sprang to their feet and ran, or rather flew, toward the foot of the mountain. The hunters galloped to intercept them, but they were too late. Before they could come up the diggers had dived into the crevices of the rocks, or were seen climbing, like chamois, along the cliffs far out of reach. One of the hunters only, Sanchez, succeeded in making a capture. His victim had reached a high ledge, and was scrambling along it when the lasso of the bullfighters settled round his neck. The next moment he was plucked out into the air and fell with a crunch upon the rocks. I rode forward to look at him. He was dead. He had been crushed by the fall, in fact mangled to a shapeless mass, and exhibited a most loathsome and hideous sight. The unfeeling hunter wrecked not of this. With a coarse jest he stooped over the body and severed the scalp. Stuck it, reeking and bloody, behind the waist of his calzaneros. End of Chapter 27. We all now hurried forward to the spring, and dismounting turned our horses heads to the water, leaving them to drink at will. We had no fear of their running away. Our own thirst required slaking as much as theirs, and crowding into the branch we poured the cold water down our throats and cupfuls. We felt as though we should never be surfeted. But another appetite equally strong lured us away from the spring, and we ran over the campground in search of the means to gratify it. We scattered the coyotes and white wolves with our shouts, and drove them with missiles from the ground. We were about stooping to pick up the dust-covered morsels when a strange exclamation from one of the hunters caused us to look hastily ground. Mela Ray, camarados, mira, el arco. The Mexican who uttered these words stood pointing to an object that lay upon the ground at his feet. We ran up to ascertain what it was. Caspita, again ejaculated the man. It is a white bow. A white bow, by gosh, echoed Gary. A white bow shouted several others, eyeing the object with looks of astonishment and alarm. That belonged to a big warrior outside of eye, said Gary. Eye added another, and one that'll ride back for it as soon as, Holies, look yonder, he's coming by. Our eyes rolled over the prairie together eastward as the speaker pointed. An object was just visible low down on the horizon, like a moving blazing star. It was not that. At a glance we all knew what it was. It was a helmet flashing under the sun-beam, as it rose and fell to the measured gallop of a horse. To the willows, men, to the willows, shouted Seguin. Drop the bow. Leave it where it was. To your horses. Lead them. Crouch. Crouch. We all ran to our horses and, seizing the bridles, half led, half dragged them within the willow thicket. We leaped into our saddle so as to be ready for any emergency and sat peering through the leaves that screened us. Shall we fire as he comes up, Captain? asked one of the men. No. We can take him nicely, just as he stoops for the bow. No. Not for your lives. What then, Captain? Let him take it and go, was Seguin's reply. Why, Captain? What's that for? Fools, do you not see that the whole tribe would be back upon our trail before midnight? Are you mad? Let him go. You may not notice our tracks as our horses are not shot. If so, let him go as he came, I tell you. But how, Captain, if he squints, yonder away. Gary, as he said this, pointed to the rocks at the foot of the mountain. Sacre. The digger, exclaimed Seguin. His countenance changing expression. The body lay on a conspicuous point, on its face. The crimson skull turned upward and outward so that it could hardly fail to attract the eye of any one coming in from the plain. Several coyotes had already climbed up on the slab where it lay, and were smelling around it, seemingly not caring to touch the hideous morsel. He's bound to see it, Captain, added the hunter. If so, we must take him with the lance, the lasso, or alive. No gun must be fired. They might still hear it, and would be honest before we could get round the mountain. No. Sling your guns. Let those who have lances and lassoes get them in readiness. When would you have us make the dash, Captain? Leave that to me. Perhaps he may dismount for the bow. If not, he may ride into the spring to water his horse. Then we can surround him. If he sees the digger's body, he may pass up to examine it more closely. In that case we can intercept him without difficulty. Be patient. I shall give you the signal. During all this time the Navajo was coming up at a regular gallop. Once the dialogue ended he had got within about three hundred yards of the spring, and still pressed forward without slackening his pace. We kept our gaze fixed upon him in breathless silence, eyeing both man and horse. It was a splendid sight. The horse was a large cold black Mustang, with fiery eyes and red open nostrils. He was foaming at the mouth, and the white flakes had clouted his throat, counter, and shoulders. He was wet all over, and glittered as he moved with the play of his proud flanks. The rider was naked from the waist up, accepting his helmet and plumes, and some ornaments that glistened on his neck, bosom, and wrists. A tunic-like skirt. Bright and embroidered, covered his hips and thighs. Below the knee his legs were naked, ending in a buskinned moccasin that fitted tightly round the ankle. Unlike the Apaches there was no paint upon his body, and his bronze complexion shone with the hue of health. His features were noble and warlike, his eye bold and piercing, and his long black hair swept away behind him, mingling with the tail of his horse. He rode upon a Spanish saddle with his lance poised on the stirrup, and resting lightly against his right arm. His left was thrust through the strap of a white shield, and a quiver with its feathered shafts peeped over his shoulder. His bow was before him. It was a splendid sight, both horse and rider, as they rose together over the green swells of the prairie, a picture more like that of some Homeric hero than a savage of the Wild West. Wa! exclaimed one of the hunters in an undertone. How they glitter! Look at that, our headpiece! It's fairly a-blazin'! I, rejoined Gary, we may thank the piece of brass. We'd have been in as ugly a fix as he's in now if we hadn't sighted it in time. What! continued the trapper, his voice rising into earnestness. Dekoma, by the Eternal, the second chief of the Navajos. I turned towards Seguin to witness the effect of this announcement. The Maricopa was leaning over to him muttering some words in an unknown tongue, and gesticulating with energy. I recognized the name Dekoma, and there was an expression of fierce hatred in the chief's countenance as he pointed to the advancing horseman. Well, then, answered Seguin, apparently assenting to the wishes of the other, he shall not escape whether he sees it or know. But do not use your gun. They are not ten miles off, yonder behind the swell. We can easily surround him. If not, I can overtake him on this horse. And here's another. As Seguin uttered the last speech he pointed to Moral. Silence, he continued, lowering his voice, hissh, shh. The silence became deathlike. Each man sat pressing his horse with his knees, as if thus to hold him at rest. The Navajo had now reached the border of the deserted camp. In inclining to the left he galloped down the line, scattering the wolves as he went. He sat leaning to one side, his gaze searching the ground. When nearly opposite to our ambush, he described the object of his search, and, sliding his feet out of the stirrup, guided his horse so as to shave closely past it. Then without reigning in or even slacking his pace, he bent over until his plume swept the earth, and, picking up the bow, swung himself back into the saddle. Beautiful, exclaimed the bullfighter. By gosh it's a pity to kill him, muttered a hunter. And a low murmur of admiration was heard among the men. After a few more springs the Indians suddenly wheeled, and was about to gallop back when his eye was caught by the ensanguined object upon the rock. He reigned in with a jerk till the hips of his horse almost rested upon the prairie, and sat gazing upon the body with the look of surprise. Beautiful, again exclaimed Sanchez. Carambo, beautiful. It was in effect as fine a picture as ever the eye looked upon. The horse with his tail scattered upon the ground, with crest erect and breathing nostril, quivering under the impulse of his masterly rider, the rider himself with his glancing helmet and waving plumes, his bronze complexion, his firm and graceful seat, and his eye fixed in the gaze of wonder. It was as Sanchez had said a beautiful picture, a living statue, and all of us were filled with admiration as we looked upon it. Not one of the party, with perhaps an exception, should have liked to fire the shot that would have tumbled it from its pedestal. Horse and man remained in this attitude for some moments. Then the expression of the rider's countenance suddenly changed. His eye wandered with an inquiring and somewhat terrified look. It rested upon the water, still muddy with the trampling of our horses. One glance was sufficient, and with a quick, strong jerk, upon the bridle, the savage horseman wheeled and struck out for the prairie. Our charging signal had been given at the same instant, and springing forward we shot out of the copep's wood in a body. We had to cross the rivulet. Seguin was some paces in advance as we rode forward to it. I saw his horse suddenly balk, stumble over the bank, and roll headlong into the water. The rest of us went splashing through. I did not stop to look back. I knew that now the taking of the Indian was life or death to all of us, and I struck my spur deeply and strained forward in the pursuit. For some time we all rode together in a dense clump, when fairly out on the plain we saw the Indian had of us about a dozen lengths of his horse, and one and all felt with dismay that he was keeping his distance, if not actually increasing it. We had forgotten the condition of our animals, they were faint with hunger, and stiff from standing so long in the ravine, moreover they had just drunk to a surfeit. I soon found that I was forging ahead of my companions. The superior swiftness of Moro gave me the advantage. El Sol was still before me. I saw him circling his lasso, I saw him launch it, and suddenly jerk up, I saw the loop sliding over the hips of the flying Mustang. He had missed his aim. He was recoiling the rope as I shot past him, and I noticed his look of chagrin and disappointment. My Arab had now warmed to the chase, and I was soon far ahead of my comrades. I perceived, too, that I was closing upon the Navajo. Every spring brought me nearer, until there were not a dozen lengths between us. I knew not how to act. I held my rifle in my hands and could have shot the Indian in the back, but I remembered the injunction of Seguin, and we were now closer to the enemy than ever. I did not know but that we might be inside of them. I dared not fire. I was still undecided whether to use my knife or endeavour to unhorse the Indian with my clubbed rifle, when he glanced over his shoulder and saw that I was alone. Suddenly he wheeled, and throwing his lance to a charge came galloping back. His horse seemed to work without the rain, obedient to his voice and the touch of his knees. I had just time to throw up my rifle and parry the charge, which was a right point. I did not parry it successfully. The blade grazed my arm, tearing my flesh. The barrel of my rifle caught in the sling of the lance, and the piece was whipped out of my hands. The wound, the shock, and the loss of my weapon had discomposed me in the manage of my horse, and it was some time before I could gain the bridle to turn him. My antagonist had wheeled sooner, as I knew by the hiss of an arrow that scattered the curls over my right ear. As I faced him again another was on the string, and the next moment it was sticking through my left arm. I was now angry, and drawing a pistol from the holster I cocked it and galloped forward. I knew it was the only chance for my life. The Indian at the same time dropped his bow and bringing his lance to the charge spurred on to meet me. I was determined not to fire until near and sure of hitting. We closed at full gallop, our horses almost touched. I leveled and pulled trigger. The cap snapped upon my pistol. The lance blade glittered in my eyes. Its point was at my breast. Something struck me sharply in the face. It was the ring loop of a lasso. I saw it settle over the shoulders of the Indian falling to his elbows. It tightened as it fell. There was a wild yell, a quick jerk of my antagonist's body. The lance flew from his hands, and the next moment he was plucked out of his saddle and lying helpless upon the prairie. His horse meant mine with a concussion that sent both of them to the earth. We rolled and scrambled about and rose again. When I came to my feet, El Sol was standing over the Navajo, with his knife drawn, and his lasso looped around the arms of his captive. The horse, the horse, secure the horse, shouted Segwin, as he galloped up, and the crowd dashed past me in pursuit of the Mustang which, with trailing bridle, was scouring over the prairie. In a few minutes the animal was lassoed and led back to the spot so near being made sacred with my grave. End of chapter 28