Before going further we will give some indispensable information respecting the Pueblos Indians, who are destined to play a great part in this story, which, we believe, through its novelty, will interest the reader.

These Indians hold the centre between the redskins of North America, and that race of Toltecs, on whom were grafted all the branches whose amalgamation composes the great indigenous nation of Mexico. Though living chiefly by trade and agriculture, they have not resigned all their warlike tastes.

The Pueblos are established all along the northern line of Mexico, the principal tribes being the Navajos, Apaches, Yutas, Caignas, and Comanches. The Apaches differ a little from the redskins properly so called, with whom they have a common character, however; and so do the Comanches.

The latter tribe is the most redoubtable in the desert, and calls itself proudly the Queen of the Prairies. The Comanches alone of all the Indians have managed to shield themselves from a taste for strong liquors, which are so pernicious to the red race. The Comanches possess a haughty and independent character, as the reader will be enabled to judge in the progress of our story. We will only mention here one of their customs, which will be sufficient to let them be appreciated at their full value.

Polygamy is allowed among the Comanches; each chief has six, eight or ten wives; but, among this people a marriage is arranged neither by soft words nor presents; the Comanche warrior reaches a surer and more solemn pledge. This is how he acts:

So soon as he fancies himself beloved by a woman, he kills one of his horses, plucks out its heart, and nails it all bleeding to the door of the girl he is courting. She takes it down, roasts it, and then divides it equally, giving one half to her lover, eating the other herself, and the marriage is concluded.

Up to the present, none have been able to enslave this nation, which is the terror of all the Mexican frontiers. After this explanation, we will go on with our story.

Doña Clara was aroused at an early hour by the sound of the chichikouis and other Indian instruments, with which was incessantly mingled the barking of the countless pack of dogs that always accompanies the redskins. At sunrise Black Cat entered the prisoner's cabin, and, after bowing to her, told her in his honeyed voice, while gazing eagerly at her, that he was about to make the great medicine of the Bah-oh-akan-es, in order to obtain from the Master of Life the surrender of his enemy into his hands; and that if, instead of remaining alone with her grief, she desired to witness the ceremony, she could follow him.

The young Mexican, not wishing the chief to notice the delight she experienced at this proposal, appeared to submit, and not to accept his offer.

The whole population of the village was astir, the women and children running in all directions, uttering deafening yells. Even the warriors and old men seemed to have forgotten the Indian stoicism. In a few minutes the village was deserted, so eager were all to proceed to a vast plain running along the banks of the Gila, where the great medicine talisman was to be accomplished.

Black Cat, cunning as he was, was deceived by the apparent weakness of his prisoner, and her feigned despondency. After giving her a piercing glance to assure himself that she was not playing with him, he made her a sign to leave the hut and mix with the aged women, who, like all the rest, wished to witness the ceremony; and he then retired, without having the slightest suspicion.

Doña Clara placed herself at the foot of a tree, whose tufted branches bent over the river; and there, with palpitating heart, restless mind, and eye and ears on the watch, she impatiently awaited the hour of her deliverance, although feigning to be attracted by all that went on around her.

The Indians had built a small hut, covered externally with buffalo robes, and having a low and narrow door. In order to reach this hut, a path forty feet long and one wide had been traced, crossing the village road at right angles. The grass had been torn up all along this path, and collected at its termination opposite the hut. Forty pair of moccasins had also been placed, one behind the other, in two rows, all the extent of the path.

By the side of the mound of grass burned a fire, in which the flat stones were heated. When they were red hot, they were carried into the hut, and placed on a hearth made for the purpose.

The entire population of the village, with the exception of a few women, whom their age kept apart, were seated along the two sides of the path, with a large number of dishes of Indian corn, broth, grease, and meat before them. The sorcerer was standing on the mound of grass.

At a signal he rose, and proceeded to the sweating lodge, being careful always to place his feet on the moccasins. At the door of the lodge Black Cat was standing, naked to the waist. The sorcerer, after remaining a few minutes in the lodge, came out again, holding a cutlass in his hand. He walked silently towards Black Cat, who, on seeing him, rose and stretched his left hand, saying:

"I gladly give the first joint of the forefinger of this hand to Natosh, if he will surrender my enemy to me, and allow me to lift his scalp."

"Natosh has heard thee: he accepts," the sorcerer replied, laconically.

With a blow of his cutlass he cut off the joint, which he threw over his head, uttering some mysterious words; while Black Cat, apparently insensible to the pain, continued his prayers. This operation terminated, the sorcerer took a rod made of willow branches and fastened by the tail of a prairie wolf: he dipped it in each of the dishes, and scattered the contents in the direction of the four winds, while invoking the Lord of life, fire, water, and air. These dishes, which no one had yet touched, were then divided among the spectators, who devoured them in a twinkling.

After this, the oldest warriors entered the medicine lodge: the women carefully covered them, and threw over the red-hot stones water which they drew from the sacred vessels, with sprigs of wormwood. After this ceremony, all the inhabitants began dancing round the hut, accompanying themselves with their chichikouis. During this time, he had placed on the pile of grass in front of the lodge, a buffalo head with its muzzle to the wind: then, taking a long pole covered with a brand new red blanket, which he offered to the Master of Life, he proceeded, followed by his relations and friends, to plant it before the sweating lodges.

The songs and dances continued. The sounds of the chichikouis became more animated. A species of frenzy seemed to seize on all the Indians, and the old women, who, till this moment, had remained passive spectators of the ceremony, rushed in disorder towards the lodge, uttering loud yells, and mingled with the noisy crowd.

Doña Clara remained alone at the foot of the tree, near the riverbank. No one paid any further attention to her. It seemed as if she had been forgotten in the general excitement. She took an anxious glance around: by a species of intuition she felt that the help she expected would arrive from the direction of the river. Carelessly and slowly, stooping every second to cull one of the charming flowers – something like our violets – which are the last to enamel the prairie, she approached the bank. All at once she felt herself pulled back by the skirt of her dress, and felt terribly alarmed. At the same time as this mysterious hand seized her, a voice whispered the simple words:

"To the right, and stoop."

The maiden guessed, rather than heard the words; but she obeyed without hesitation. Two minutes after, following a small path that opened before her, she found herself sheltered behind an enormous rock, on the riverbank. Two horses, saddled in the Indian fashion, were fastened to a picket near the rock. At a sign from Eagle-wing, Doña Clara leaped on to one of the horses, while the Indian bestrode the other.

"Good," he said, in his sympathising voice; "brave heart!" And letting loose the bridles of both horses, he said:

"Quicker than the storm!"

The half-tamed mustangs started more rapidly than the wind, making the pebbles strike fire under their hoofs. It was broad day, the prairie extended for an enormous distance, flat, naked, and undiversified; and at only a few paces off, the whole population of the village would not fail soon to notice them. The position was most perilous and critical; the two fugitives knew it, and redoubled their ardour, boldly braving danger. All at once a yell of rage vibrated in the air.

"Courage!" the chief said.

"I have it," the girl replied, with clenched teeth, as she urged her horse to increased speed. "They shall never capture me alive."

The Apaches, who had left their village for a religious festival, had not brought their arms with them, and their horses naturally remained in the stables. This was an hour's respite granted the fugitives.

So soon as the Indians had perceived Doña Clara's flight, the ceremony was interrupted, and all rushed tumultuously toward the village, noisily demanding their weapons and horses. Within a few minutes the most active were in the saddle, and galloping in the traces of Doña Clara and Eagle-wing.

The most celebrated European riders can form no idea of what a pursuit is on the prairies. The Indians are the finest horsemen in the world. Riveted to their steeds, which they squeeze and hold up between their nervous knees, they become identified with them, communicating their passions to them, as it were, by an electric fluid, and, like the Centaurs in the fable, they perform prodigies on horseback; rocks, ravines, hedges, currents – nothing stops or checks this furious race which is allied to madness: a living whirlwind, they fly through space with headlong speed, enveloped in a halo of dust.

Two hours passed thus, and the fugitives, bent over their horses' necks, were unable to take a moment's rest. Their half-maddened steeds, with their coats white with foam, and bleeding nostrils, reeled with fatigue and terror; their trembling sinews scarce supported them, and yet, urged on by their riders, they devoured the space, guessing instinctively that the furious band of Indians was pursuing them at a short distance.

Scarce a thousand yards separated the two parties. Black Cat, furious at having been cheated by a woman, was two horses' length in advance, and was followed by seven or eight Indians, whose horses, fresher than those of the others, had forged ahead. Eagle-wing turned round, and saw four warriors a hundred paces from him.

"Forward!" he shouted to the maiden, as he struck her horse's croup with his whip; and it bounded forward, with a supreme effort, uttering a snort of pain.

At the same time the Coras turned back, and rushing like lightning on his enemies, ere they had time to place themselves in a posture of defence, he discharged his rifle at them. An Apache fell dead. The sachem, whose horse was exhausted, felled a second foe with the butt of his gun; then, with extraordinary skill, he leaped onto the steed of the first warrior he had killed, caught the other by the bridle, and went off again, leaving the Apaches astounded by this act of boldness.

Ten minutes later he rejoined Doña Clara, who had seen with a terror, mingled with admiration, the heroic action of her defender. The maiden, beneath her apparent weakness, concealed a thoroughly manly soul. With her cheeks slightly tinged, her eyebrows contracted, her teeth clenched, and animated by the fixed idea of escaping her ravishers, fatigue seemed to have no mastery over her. It was with a feeling of indescribable joy that she mounted the fresh steed the Indian brought her.

Owing to Eagle-wing's bold stroke, the fugitives had a considerable advance on their pursuers; for the Apaches, as they came up to the spot where their two companions had been killed, leaped off their horses, and surrounded their corpses with lamentations.

Eagle-wing understood that this flight could not last, and that sooner or later they must die or yield; he therefore altered his tactics.

At a little distance from the spot where they now were the Gila was contracted; the river, reduced to a width of one hundred and fifty yards at the most, ran between two wooded hills.

"We are lost," he hurriedly said to his companion, "if we continue to fly thus. A desperate resolve can alone save us."

"Let us try it at all risks," the maiden answered, intrepidly, with quivering lip and flashing eye.

"Come!" he continued.

Doña Clara followed him without hesitation to the rugged bank of the river, when the warrior stopped.

"There," he said, hoarsely, as he pointed with a gesture full of nobility to the Apaches coming up at full speed, "slavery, infamy, and death. Here," he continued, as he pointed to the river, "death, perhaps, but liberty."

"Let us be free or die!" she replied.

As we have said, the river ran between two elevated banks, and the fugitives were now standing like two equestrian statues on the top of a hillock twenty or five-and-twenty feet in height, from which they must throw themselves into the river, an enormous leap for the horses which ran a risk of being crushed in falling, and dragging their riders down with them. But any other means of flight had become impossible.

The Apaches, spread all over the plain, had succeeded in surrounding the fugitives.

"Has my sister decided?" the Indian asked.

Doña Clara took a glance around her.

The redskins, headed by Black Cat, were scarce one hundred and fifty yards distant.

"Let us go, in Heaven's name," she said.

"May Natosh protect us!" the Indian said.

They energetically pressed the flanks of their horses, lifting them at the same moment, and the two noble animals leaped into the river, uttering a snort of terror. The Apaches arrived at this moment on the brow of the hill, and could not restrain a yell of disappointment and wrath at the sight of the desperate act.

The waters had closed over the fugitives, sending up to heaven a cloud of spray, but the horses soon reappeared swimming vigorously toward the other bank. The Indians had halted on the hill, insulting by their yells and threats the victims who escaped by such a prodigy of daring. One of them, urged by his fury, and unable to pull up his horse in time, plunged into the Gila; but, having taken his precautions badly, the fall was mortal to the horse.

The Indian slipped off, and began striking out for the bank. Instead of continuing his flight, as he should have done, Eagle-wing, impelled by that spirit of bravado natural to the redskins, re-entered the river without hesitation, and, at the moment when the Apache warrior reappeared on the surface, he bent over, seized him by his long hair, and buried his knife in his throat. Then, turning to his enemies, who watched with a shudder this terrible drama, he drew up the wretch to his saddle-bow, scalped him, and brandishing this sanguinary trophy with an air of triumph, he uttered his war yell.

The Apaches poured a shower of bullets and arrows round the Coras Sachem, who, standing motionless in the middle of the river, still waved his horrible trophy. At length he turned his horse's head, and rejoined his companion, who was awaiting him timorously on the bank.

"Let us go," he said, as he fastened the scalp to his waist belt. "The Apaches are dogs, who can do nought but bark."

"Let us go," she replied, as she turned her head away in horror.

At the moment when they started again without troubling themselves about their enemies, who, scattered along the other bank, were eagerly seeking a ford, Eagle-wing perceived a cloud of dust, which, on dissipating, permitted him to see a party of horsemen galloping up at lightning speed.

"There is no hope left," he muttered.

CHAPTER XIV
THE SUCCOUR

We will leave Eagle-wing and Doña Clara for a moment, and return to Bloodson's Teocali.

A few minutes before sunrise, Valentine awoke. "Up," he said to his companions, "it is the hour for starting."

Don Pablo and Shaw opened their eyes and got ready; but Curumilla was not there.

"Oh, oh," the hunter said; "the chief is up already, I fancy. Let us go down to the plain. We shall probably soon come across him."

The three men left the grotto, and began, by the uncertain rays of the moon, sliding down the abrupt sides of the Teocali, leaving their comrades asleep. A few minutes later, they reached the plain, where Curumilla was waiting for them, holding four horses by the bridle. Valentine gave a start of surprise.

"We had agreed to go on foot, chief," he said. "Have you forgotten that?"

"No," the other replied, laconically.

"Then, why the deuce did you saddle these horses, which are useless to us?"

The Indian shook his head.

"We shall be better on horseback," he said.

"Still," Don Pablo observed, "I fancy that it's better to follow a trail on foot, as you said yourself yesterday, Don Valentine."

The latter reflected for an instant; then, turning to the young man, he answered him with a significant toss of the head:

"Curumilla is a prudent man. We have lived together for nearly fifteen years, and I have always found it best to follow his advice. Only once I wanted to have my own way, and then I all but lost my scalp. We will mount, Don Pablo. The chief has his reasons for acting as he is now doing, as the result will in all probability prove."

The hunters leaped into the saddle, and, after a farewell glance at the Teocali, where their friends were resting, they let their horses feel the spur.

"In what direction are we going?" Don Pablo asked.

"Let us first gain the riverbank," Valentine answered. "So soon as we have got there, we shall see what we have to do. But, mind we do not separate; for in the darkness it will be almost impossible to find each other."

On the prairies, the only roads that exist, and can be followed, are paths traced for ages by buffaloes, elks, and wild beasts. These paths form labyrinths; of which the Indians alone hold the thread; hunters, however well acquainted they may be with the prairies, only enter them with the utmost precautions. When they fancy they recognise a path, they will not leave it under any pretext, certain that if they Were so imprudent as to turn to the right or left, they would not fail to lose themselves, and have infinite difficulty in finding their road again.

Valentine was, perhaps, the only white hunter on the prairies who, owing to the profound knowledge he possessed of the desert, could enter this maze with impunity. However, as all the paths inevitably lead to the banks of rivers, and this direction was the one the little party was to follow, Valentine's remark was only intended to moderate Don Pablo's ardour, and compel him to march at his side.

After a hurried ride of two hours, the hunters at length found themselves on the banks of the Gila, which rolled its yellow and turbid waters along beneath them. At the moment when they reached the river, the sun rose majestically on the horizon in a mist of purpled clouds.

"Let us stop here a moment," Valentine said, "in order to form our plan of action."

"We do not need a long discussion for that." Don Pablo replied.

"You think so?"

"Hang it all, the only thing to be done, I fancy, is to follow Red Cedar's trail."

"True: but to follow it we must first find it."

"Granted: so let us look for it."

"That is what we are about to do."

At this moment furious yells were heard not far from them. The hunters, surprised, looked about them anxiously, and soon saw a band of Indians running in every direction along the river bank. These were not more than half a league distant.

"Oh, oh," Valentine said, "what's the meaning of this?"

"They are Apaches," Shaw remarked.

"I can see that," the Frenchman said. "But what the deuce is the matter with those devils? On my honour, they seem mad."

"Wah!" Curumilla suddenly exclaimed, who was also looking, though not speaking, as was his wont.

"What's, the matter now?" Valentine asked, as he turned to the chief.

"Look," the latter replied, as he stretched out his arm, "Doña Clara!"

"What, Doña Clara!" the hunter exclaimed, with a start of surprise.

"Yes," Curumilla observed, "my brother must look."

"It is, in truth, Doña Clara," Valentine said after a minute; "what on earth can she be doing here?"

And without caring for the Indians, who, on seeing him, would not fail to start in pursuit, he hurried at full gallop in the direction of the maiden. His comrades followed him; not caring for the width of the stream at this spot, they plunged in, resolved to reach the other bank, and fly to the help of the maiden, under a shower of arrows which the Indians fired at them, while uttering yells of rage at these new enemies, who rose as if by enchantment before them.

Eagle-wing and Doña Clara were still flying, unheeding the shouts of the hunters; the horsemen the Coras had perceived were Apache warriors returning to their village from a buffalo hunt. Although they were ignorant of what had happened, the sight of their friends galloping along the river bank, and the two riders escaping at full speed, revealed the truth to them, that is to say, that prisoners had escaped, and warriors of their tribe were in pursuit of them.

The river was soon crowded with Apache warriors, who crossed it to catch up with the fugitives. The pursuit was beginning to reassume alarming proportions for Eagle-wing and Doña Clara, in spite of the considerable advance they still had on their enemies.

The Gila is one of the largest and most majestic rivers in the Far West; its course is winding and capricious – it is full of rapids, cataracts, and islets formed by the change of bed which it effects when, by an abundant overflow of water, it spreads far and wide over the country, inundating it for four or five leagues around.

Eagle-wing had seen that the only chance of safety left him was not on the prairie, where he had, not a single covert to attempt a desperate resistance, but on one of those little islets of the Gila, whose rocks and thick scrubs would offer a temporary shelter, that could not be violated with impunity. His vagabond course had, therefore, no other object but to return to the river by a zigzag route.

Valentine and his comrades had not lost one of the fugitive's movements; although they were themselves hotly pursued, they anxiously followed the incidents of this terrible struggle.

"They are lost!" Don Pablo suddenly shouted. "That Indian is mad, on my soul. See, he is trying to turn back in this direction – it is running into the wolf's throat!"

"You are mistaken," Valentine answered; "the tactics of that man are, on the contrary, extremely simple, and at the same time most clever. The Apaches have guessed them; for look, they are trying to cut him off from the river as far as they can."

"'Tis true, by heavens!" Shaw said; "We must help that man in his manoeuvre."

"That depends on ourselves," Valentine answered, quickly; "let us turn and suddenly attack the Apaches; perhaps that diversion will enable our friends to succeed."

"Well, that is an excellent idea," remarked Don Pablo; "how wise it was of Curumilla to make us ride."

"What did I say to you?" Valentine said with a smile. "Oh! the chief is an invaluable man."

Curumilla smiled proudly, but maintained silence.

"Are you ready to follow me and be killed, if necessary to save Doña Clara?" Valentine went on.

"Cascaras!" the hunters answered.

"Forward, then, in heaven's name! Each of us must be worth ten men!" the Frenchman shouted, as he suddenly turned his horse on its hind legs. The four men rushed at full speed on the Apaches, uttering a formidable yell. On arriving within range they discharged their rifles, and four Apaches fell.

The Indians, intimidated by this sudden attack, which they were far from anticipating, dispersed in every direction to avoid the shock of their daring adversaries; then, collecting in a compact mass, they charged in their turn, uttering their war cry, and brandishing their weapons. But the hunters received them with a second discharge, which hurled four more Indians on the sand, and then started in different directions to collect again, one hundred and fifty yards further on.

"Courage, my friends!" Valentine cried, "Those scoundrels do not know how to use their weapons; if we liked We could hold them in check the whole day."

"That will not be necessary," Don Pablo remarked; "look there!"

In fact, the fugitives, profiting by the moment's respite which the hunters' attack on the Apaches granted them, had reached an islet about one hundred yards in circumference, in the middle of the stream, where they were temporarily in safety.

"It is now our turn," Valentine loudly shouted; "a final charge to drive those devils back, and then to the islet!"

"Hurrah! Hurrah!" the hunters then shouted, and they rushed on the Apaches.

There were a few minutes of hand-to-hand fighting, but the Apaches at length broke, and the hunters, freed by prodigies of valour, retreated to the riverbank, from which they were not more than twenty yards distant. The others plunged into the river, but suddenly Valentine's horse stood up, gave a prodigious bound, and fell back on its rider – the noble animal was literally riddled with arrows.

The Apaches uttered a formidable yell of joy, on seeing one of their enemies rolling on the ground, and they rushed up to scalp him. But Valentine had risen to his feet immediately; kneeling behind the body of his horse, which he converted into a breastwork, he discharged at the Indians first his rifle, and then his pistols, being supported by the fire of the hunters, who had reached the islet.

The Apaches, exasperated at being held in check by one man, rushed upon him, as if to crush him beneath their weight. Valentine, to whom his firearms were now useless, seized his rifle by the barrel, and employed it like a mace, falling back step by step, but always keeping his front to the enemy.

By a prodigious chance, Valentine had not yet received a wound, save a few unimportant scratches, for the Indians were so close together that they could not use their arms for fear of wounding one another. But Valentine felt his strength deserting him, his ears buzzed, his temples throbbed as if bursting; a veil was gradually spread over his eyes, and his wearied arms only dealt uncertain blows.

Human strength has its limits, and however great the energy and will of a man may be, the moment arrives when further fighting becomes impossible, his strength betrays his courage, and he is forced to confess himself vanquished.

Valentine was reduced to this supreme point. His rifle broke in his hands; he was disarmed, and at the mercy of his ferocious enemies. All was over with the gallant Frenchman.

But the hunters, whom the Indians had forgotten in the heat of the action, seeing the imminent peril of their companion, resolutely hurried to his aid. While Eagle-wing, Don Pablo, and Shaw attacked the Indians and compelled them to fall back, Curumilla carried off his friend on his shoulders.

The contest began again, more obstinate and terrible than before, but, after extraordinary efforts, the hunters succeeded in regaining the islet, in spite of the stubborn resistance of the redskins.

Valentine had fainted, and Curumilla carried him to a perfectly sheltered spot, and silently busied himself with recalling him to life. But fatigue alone had produced the hunter's syncope, so he soon reopened his eyes, and ten minutes later he was perfectly restored.

When the Apaches saw their enemies in safety, they ceased a contest henceforth useless, and retired out of rifle range. The day passed without fresh incidents, and the hunters were able to intrench themselves as well as they could on the islet, which they had succeeded in reaching with so much toil.