Not only was the attempt of the hunters to escape not so desperate as the reader might be inclined to suppose, but it even offered, up to a certain point, great chances of success.

The Apaches, when encamped in sight of an enemy, never keep watch, unless they form a weak detachment of warriors, and find themselves opposed to a far superior force; but even in that case these sentries are so careless that it is extremely easy to surprise them, which often happens, by the way, without rendering them any the more cautious.

In the case of which we write, hardly a few miles from their village, and having an effective strength of nearly eight hundred bold warriors, they could not suppose that five men, who had sought shelter in an island, without the means of quitting it, would attempt such a daring stroke.

Hence, after their attempted surprise of the whites had failed, they returned to sleep, some round the fires, others in the tents erected by their wives, waiting patiently for the morrow to attack their foes from all sides at once, which offered a certain chance of success.

In the meanwhile the hunters advanced toward the bank, concealed by the fog that enfolded them like a winding sheet, and hid their movements from the eyes interested in spying them. In this way they arrived in sight of the fires, whose uncertain gleams became weaker and weaker, and they saw their enemies lying down asleep.

Eagle-wing, at a hint from Sunbeam, steered the canoe to the foot of a rock, whose commanding mass stood about thirty feet over the river, and offered them under its flank a propitious shelter to disembark in security.

So soon as they landed, the hunters took Indian file, and with their rifles ready, they stealthily marched toward the camp, stopping at intervals to look anxiously around them, or listen to any suspicious sound.

Then, when all became quiet again, they resumed their venturesome march, gliding past tents and at times stepping over the sleepers at the fire, whom the slightest badly-calculated movement would have aroused.

It is impossible to form a correct idea of such a march unless you have made one yourself. A man gifted with the most energetic mind could not endure its terrible emotions for an hour. With oppressed chest, haggard eyes, and limbs agitated by a feverish and convulsive motion, the hunters passed through the midst of their ferocious enemies, knowing perfectly well that, if they were discovered, it would be all over with them, and that they would perish in the most horrible agony.

On reaching almost the extreme limit of the camp, an Indian, lying across the path they were following, suddenly made a movement and sat up, instinctively seizing his lance. One shout and the hunters were lost! Curumilla walked straight up to the Indian, who was stupefied by the sight of this funereal and fantastic procession, which he could not comprehend, and was followed by his comrades, whose step was so light that they seemed to glide over the ground without touching it.

The Apache, terrified by this apparition, which, in his superstitious belief, he attributed to the heavenly powers, crossed his arms on his chest and silently bowed his head. The band passed, the Indian not making a sigh or uttering a word. The hunters had scarce disappeared behind some rising ground, when the Apache ventured to lift his eyes; he was then convinced that he had had a vision, and without trying to account for what he had seen, he lay down and went quietly to sleep again. By this time the hunters had emerged from the camp.

"Now," said Valentine, "the worst is over."

"On the contrary," Don Pablo observed, "our position is more precarious than ever, since we are in the midst of our enemies, and have no horses."

Curumilla laid his hand on his shoulder, and looked at him softly. "My brother will be patient," he said, "he will soon have them."

"How so?" the young man asked.

"Sunbeam," the Aucas Chief continued, "must know where the horses of the tribe are."

"I know it," she replied, laconically.

"Very good; my sister will guide me."

"Chief, one moment: the deuce!" Valentine exclaimed, "I will not let you run this new danger alone; it would be a dishonour to my white skin."

"My brother can come."

"That is exactly what I mean to do. Don Pablo will remain here with Shaw and Eagle-wing near Doña Clara, while we attempt this new expedition. What do you think of it, Don Pablo?"

"That your plan, my friend, is worth nothing."

"Why so?"

"For this reason: we are here two paces from the Apaches, and one of them may awake at any moment. Just now we escaped only by a miracle; who knows how our enterprise will turn? If we separate, perhaps we may never come together again. My opinion is, that we should all go together to look for the horses; we should then save time in useless coming and going, and this will give us a considerable advantage."

"That is true," Valentine answered; "let us go together, and in that way we shall have finished sooner."

Sunbeam then began guiding the little party, but instead of re-entering the camp, as the hunters feared, she skirted it for some distance; then, making a sign to her companions to stop and wait, she advanced alone. Within five minutes she returned.

"The horses are there," she said, pointing to a spot in the fog; "they are hobbled, and guarded by a man walking up and down near them. What will my pale brothers do?"

"Kill the man, and seize the horses we want," Don Pablo said; "we are not in such a situation that we can be fastidious."

"Why kill the poor man, if he can be got rid of otherwise?" Doña Clara said, softly.

"That is true," Valentine supported her, "we are not wild beasts, hang it all!"

"The warrior shall not be killed," Curumilla said, in his grave voice; "my pale brothers must wait."

And seizing the lasso he always carried about him, the Aucas lay down on the ground, and began crawling through the tall grass. He soon disappeared in the fog.

The Apache sentry was strolling carelessly along, when Curumilla suddenly rose behind him, and seizing his neck in both his hands, he squeezed it with such force that the Apache, taken unawares, had not time to utter a cry.

In a turn of the hand he was thrown down, and garotted, and that so promptly that he was choked as much by the sudden attack as by the terror that had seized on him. The chief put his prisoner on his shoulders, and deposited him at Doña Clara's feet, saying – "My sister's wishes are accomplished, this man is safe and sound."

"Thank you," the maiden answered, with a charming smile.

Curumilla turned red with delight.

Without loss of time, the hunters seized the seven best horses they came across, which they saddled, and then shod with

parflèche

to avoid the sound of their hoofs on the sand.

This time, Valentine assumed the command of the party. So soon as the horses were urged into a gallop, all their chests, oppressed by the moving interludes of the struggle which had continued so long, dilated, and hope returned to their hearts. The hunters were at length in the desert; before them they had space, good horses, arms and ammunition. They fancied themselves saved, and were so to a certain extent, as their enemies still slept, little suspecting their daring escape.

The night was half spent, and the fog covered the fugitives. They had at least six hours before them, and they profited by them.

The horses, urged to their utmost speed, went two leagues without stopping. At sunrise the fog was dissipated by the first beams; and the hunters instinctively raised their heads. The desert was calm, nothing disturbed its majestic solitude; in the distance a few elks and buffaloes were browsing on the prairie grass, a sure sign of the absence of Indians, whom these intelligent animals scent at great distances.

Valentine, in order to let the horses breathe awhile, as well as draw breath himself, checked the headlong speed, which had no further object. The region on which the hunters found themselves in no way resembled that they had quitted a few hours previously; here and there, the monotony of the landscape was broken by lofty trees; on either side stretched out high hills. At times they forded some of the innumerable streams which fall from the mountains, and, after the most capricious windings, are swallowed up in the Gila.

At about eight o'clock Valentine noticed, a little to the left, a light cloud of bluish smoke rising in a spiral to the sky.

"What is that?" Don Pablo asked, anxiously.

"A hunter's encampment, doubtless," Valentine answered.

"No," Curumilla said; "that is not a paleface, but an Indian, fire."

"How the deuce can you see that, chief? I fancy all fires are the same, and produce smoke," Don Pablo said.

"Yes," Valentine remarked, "all fires produce smoke; but there is a difference in smoke – is there not, chief?" he added, addressing Curumilla.

"Yes," the latter answered laconically.

"All that is very fine," Don Pablo went on; "but can you explain to me, chief, by what you see, that the smoke is produced by a redskin fire?"

Curumilla shrugged his shoulders without replying – Eagle-wing took the word.

"The whites, when they light fires," he said, "take the first wood to hand."

"Of course," said Don Pablo.

"Most frequently they collect green wood: in that case the wood, which is damp, produces in burning a white thick smoke, very difficult to hide on the prairie; while the Indians only employ dry wood, whose smoke is light, thin, almost impalpable, and soon becomes confused with the sky."

"Decidedly, on the desert," Don Pablo said, with an air of conviction, "the Indians are better than us; we shall never come up to them."

"Humph!" said Valentine; "If you were to live with them a while, they would teach you plenty more things."

"Look," Eagle-wing continued; "what did I tell you?"

In fact, during this conversation the hunters had continued their journey, and at this moment were not more than a hundred yards from the spot where the fire burned which had given rise to so many comments. Two Indians, completely armed and equipped for war, were standing in front of the travellers, waving their buffalo robes in sign of peace.

Valentine quivered with joy on recognising them; these men were Comanches, that is to say, friends and allies, since the hunter was an adopted son of that nation. Valentine ordered his little party to halt, and carelessly throwing his rifle on his back, he pushed on, and soon met the still motionless Indians.

After exchanging the different questions always asked in such cases on the prairie, as to the state of the roads and the quantity of game, the hunter, though he was well aware of the fact, asked the Indians to what nation they belonged.

"Comanches," one of the warriors answered, proudly. "My nation is the Queen of the Prairies."

Valentine bowed, as if fully convinced. "I know," he said, "that the Comanches are invincible warriors. Who can resist them?"

It was the Indian's turn to bow, with a smile of satisfaction at this point-blank compliment.

"Is my brother a chief?" Valentine again asked.

"I am Pethonista (the Eagle)," the Indian said, regarding the hunter like a man persuaded that he was about to produce a profound sensation.

He was not mistaken; for the name was that of one of the most venerated chiefs of the Comanche nation.

"I know my brother," Valentine answered; "I am very happy to have met him."

"Let my brother speak; I am listening to him: the great white hunter is no stranger to the Comanches, who have adopted him."

"What?" the hunter exclaimed; "Do you know me too, chief?"

The warrior smiled.

"Unicorn is the most powerful Sachem of the Comanches," he said. "On leaving his village twelve hours ago, he warned his brother Pethonista that he expected a great white warrior adopted by the tribe."

"It is him," said Valentine. "Unicorn is a part of myself, and the sight of him dilates my heart. Personally, I have nothing to say to you, chief, since the sachem has instructed you; but I bring with me friends and two females – one is Sunbeam, the other the White Lily of the Valley."

"The White Lily is welcome among my people: my sons will make it a duty to serve her," the Indian answered nobly.

"Thanks, chief. I expected nothing less from you. Permit me to rejoin my companions, who are doubtless growing impatient, to tell them of the fortunate meeting with which the Master of Life has favoured me."

"Good. My brother can return to his friends, and I shall go before him to the village, in order to warn my young men of the arrival of a warrior of our nation."

Valentine smiled at this remark.

"My brother is the master," he said.

After bowing to the Indian chief, he returned to his companions, who did not know to what circumstance they should attribute his lengthened absence.

"They are friends," Valentine said, pointing to Pethonista, who had leaped on a mustang, and started at full speed. "Unicorn, on leaving his village, ordered the chief I have been speaking to, to do us the honours until his return. So look, Don Pablo, how he hurries to announce our arrival to the warriors of his tribe."

"Heaven be praised!" the young man said, "For ease and rest in safety. Suppose we push on?"

"Do not do so, my friend. On the contrary, if you will take my advice, we shall reduce our pace. The Comanches are doubtless preparing us a reception, and we should annoy them by arriving too soon."

"I do not wish that," Don Pablo replied. "In fact, we have nothing to fear now, so we can continue our journey at a trot."

"Yes; for nothing presses on us. In an hour at the most we shall have arrived."

"May Heaven be thanked for the protection it has deigned to grant us," the young man said, looking up with a glance of gratitude.

The little party continued to advance in the presumed direction of the village.

CHAPTER XVIII

LOVE!

An hour later, the hunters, on reaching the top of a hill, perceived, about a mile ahead of them, a large village, before which three hundred Indian warriors were ranged in battle array.

At the sight of the whites the warriors advanced at a gallop, making their horses curvet and dance, and discharging their muskets in the air. They uttered their war cry, and unfolded their buffalo robes, performing, in a word, all the usual evolutions in a friendly reception.

Valentine made his companions to imitate the Indians; and the hunters, who asked nothing better than to display their skill, descended the hill at headlong speed, shouting and discharging their rifles, amid the yells of joy from the redskins, who were delighted at this triumphal arrival among them.

After the usual salutations and expressions of welcome, the Comanches formed a semicircle round the hunters, and Pethonista advanced to Valentine, and held out his hand, saying: —

"My brother is an adopted son of the nation. He is at home. The Comanches are happy to see him. The longer he remains among them with the persons who accompany him, the more pleasure he will cause them. A calli is prepared for my brother, and a second for the White Lily of the Valley; a third for his friends. We have killed many buffaloes; my brothers will eat their meat with us. When our brother leaves us, our hearts will be swollen with sorrow. Hence my brother must remain as long as possible with his Comanche friends, if he wishes to see them happy."

Valentine, well versed in Indian customs, replied graciously to this harangue, and the two bands, smiling, made their entry into the village to the sound of the chichikouis, conches, and Indian instruments, mingled with the voices of the women and children, and the barking of the dogs, which produced the most horrible row imaginable.

On reaching the village square, the chief conducted the guests to the huts prepared to receive them, which stood side by side, after which he invited them to rest, with a politeness that a man more civilised than him might have envied, after telling them at twelve o'clock they would be summoned to the meal.

Valentine thanked Pethonista for the kind attention he displayed to him and his comrades: then, after installing Doña Clara in a hut with Sunbeam, he entered his own, after recommending the hunters to display the greatest prudence toward the Comanches, who, like all Indians, are punctilious, irascible, and susceptible to the highest degree.

Curumilla lay down without saying a word, like a good watchdog, across the door of the lodge inhabited by Doña Clara. So soon as the two females were alone, Sunbeam seated herself at the Mexican lady's feet, and, fixing on her a bright glance, full of tenderness, she said, in a soft and caressing voice —

"Is my sister, the White Lily of the Valley, satisfied with me? Have I faithfully fulfilled the obligation I contracted toward her?"

"What obligation was that, child?" the girl said, as she passed her hand through the Indian's long hair which she began plaiting.

"That of saving you, my sister, and conducting you in safety to the callis of my nation."

"Yes, yes, poor girl," she said, tenderly, "your devotion to me has been unbounded, and I know not how I can ever requite it."

"Do not speak of that," the Indian said, with a charming pout. "Now that my sister has nothing more to fear, I will leave her."

"You would leave me, Sunbeam?" Doña Clara exclaimed anxiously. "Why so?"

"Yes," the young woman answered, as she frowned, and her voice became stern, "I have a duty to accomplish. I have taken an oath, and my sister well knows that is sacred. I must go."

"But where are you going, my poor child? Whence arises this sudden thought of leaving me? What do you intend? Where are you about to proceed?"

"My sister must not ask me. Her questions would only grieve me, for I cannot answer her."

"Then you have secrets from me, Sunbeam. You will not give me your confidence? Fool! Do you fancy I do not know what you intend doing?"

"My sister knows my plan!" The Indian interrupted her with flashing eye, while a convulsive tremor passed over her limbs.

"Yes, I do," the other answered with a smile. "Unicorn is a renowned warrior, and my sister is doubtless anxious to rejoin him?"

The Indian shook her head in denial.

"No," she said, "Sunbeam is following her vengeance."

"Oh, yes, poor child," Doña Clara said, as she pressed the young squaw to her heart, "I know from what a fearful catastrophe Don Valentine saved you."

"Koutonepi is a great warrior. Sunbeam loves him; but Stanapat is a dog, son of an Apache devil."

The two women wept for several minutes, silently mingling their tears, but the Indian, overcoming grief, dried her red eyes with a passionate gesture, and tore herself from the arms that held her.

"Why weep?" she said. "Only cowards and weak people groan and lament. Indian squaws do not weep. When they are insulted they avenge themselves," she added, with an accent full of strange resolution. "My sister must let me depart! I can no longer be useful to her, and other cares claim my attention."

"Go, then, poor girl. Act as your heart orders you. I have no right either to retain you or prevent you acting as you please."

"Thanks," the Indian said. "My sister is kind. The Wacondah will not desert her."

"Cannot you tell me what you intend doing?"

"I cannot."

"At any rate, tell me in what direction you are going?"

The girl shook her head with discouragement.

"Does the leaf detached from the tree by a high wind know in what direction it will be carried? I am the leaf. So my sister must ask me no more."

"As you wish it, I will be silent; but before we separate, perhaps forever, let me make you a present, which will recall me to mind when I am far from you."

Sunbeam laid her hand on her heart with a charming gesture.

"My sister is there," she said, with emotion.

"Listen," the maiden continued: "last night I gave you a bracelet; here is another. These ornaments are useless to me, and I shall be happy if they please you."

She unfastened the bracelet, and fastened it on the Indian's arm. The latter allowed her to do it, and, after kissing the pearl several times, she raised her head and held out her hand to the young Mexican.

"Farewell!" she said to her, with a shaking voice. "My sister will pray to her God for me: He is said to be powerful, perhaps He will come to my help."

"Hope, poor child!" Doña Clara said, as she held her in her arms.

Sunbeam shook her head sadly, and, making a last sign of farewell to her companion, she bounded like a startled fawn, rushed to the door, and disappeared.

The young Mexican remained for a long time pensive after Sunbeam's departure; the Indian's veiled words and embarrassed countenance had excited her curiosity to the highest degree. On the other hand, the interest she could not forbear taking in this extraordinary woman, who had rendered her a signal service, or, to speak more correctly, a gloomy presentiment warned her that Sunbeam was leaving her to undertake one of those dangerous expeditions which the Indians like to carry out without help of any soul.

About two hours elapsed. The maiden, with her head bowed on her bosom, went over in her mind the strange events which had led her, incident by incident, to the spot where she now was. All at once a stifled sigh reached her ear; she raised her head with surprise, and saw a man standing before her, humbly leaning against a beam of the calli, and gazing on her with a strange meaning in his glance. It was Shaw, Red Cedar's son.

Doña Clara blushed and looked down in confusion; Shaw remained silent, with his eyes fixed on her, intoxicating himself with the happiness of seeing and contemplating her at his ease. The girl, seated alone in this wretched Indian hut, before the man who so many times had nobly risked his life for her, fell into profound and serious thought.

A strange trouble seized upon her – her breast heaved under the pressure of her emotion. She did not at all comprehend the delicious sensations which at times made her quiver. Her eye, veiled with a soft languor, rested involuntarily on this man, handsome as an ancient Antinous, who with his haughty glance, his indomitable character, whom a frown from her made tremble – the wild son of the desert, who had hitherto known no will but his own!

On seeing him, so handsome and so brave, she felt herself attracted to him by all the strength of her soul. Though she was ignorant of the word love, for some time an unconscious revolution had taken place in her mind: she now began to understand that divine union of two souls, which are commingled in one, in an eternal communion of thoughts of joy and suffering.

In a word, she was about to love!

"What do you want with me, Shaw?" she asked, timidly.

"I wish to tell you, señorita," he answered, in a rough voice, marked, however, with extraordinary tenderness, "that, whatever may happen, whenever you have need of a man to die for you, you will have no occasion to seek him for I will be there."

"Thanks," she answered, smiling, in spite of herself, at the strangeness of the offer and the way in which it was m