"Ah, you pity her!" she said with a demoniac smile; "the fate I reserve for her, then is very atrocious? Well, that is exactly what I want; she must live and suffer for a long time."

"This woman must have terribly insulted you?"

"More than I can tell you."

"Reflect on the horrible punishment to which you condemn her."

"All my reflections are made," the girl replied in a sharp voice; "I insist on it."

The Pirate hung his head silently.

"Will you obey me?" she asked.

"I must, for am I not your slave?"

She smiled proudly.

"Take care, Niña! I know not what has happened between this girl and yourself, but I am conscious that vengeance often produces very bitter fruits, Perhaps you will repent hereafter what you do today?"

"What matter? I shall be avenged. That thought will render me strong, and give me the courage to suffer."

"Then, you are quite resolved?"

"Irrevocably."

"I will obey."

"Thanks, my kind father," she said, eagerly; "thanks for your devotion."

"Do not thank me," the Pirate said, sadly; "perhaps you will curse me some day."

"Oh, never!"

"May Heaven grant it!"

With these words, the accomplices separated.

Pedro re-entered the tent allotted to him, while the Gazelle rejoined Ellen, who was still sleeping her untroubled sleep, smiling at the pleasant dreams that lulled her.

Curumilla lay down again at the entrance of the lodge.

CHAPTER XXVII
SHAW

We have said that Doña Clara had disappeared.

At the moment when the struggle was most obstinate, Valentine, taking Doña Clara in his arms, leaped from the top of the lodge on which he had hitherto been fighting, intrusted the maiden to Shaw, and rushed back into the fight at the head of the Comanches, who, recovering from the terror caused by the unforeseen attack of their implacable foes the Apaches, gradually assembled to the powerful war cry of their chief, Pethonista.

"Watch over her," Valentine said to Red Cedar's son; "watch over her, and, whatever may happen, save her."

Shaw took the maiden in his powerful arms, threw her over his shoulder, and with flashing eye and quivering lip, he brandished his axe, that fearful squatter's instrument he never laid aside, and rushed head foremost among the Apaches, resolved to die or break the human barrier that rose menacingly before him.

Like a boar at bay, he dashed madly forward, felling and trampling mercilessly on all who attempted to bar his progress. A living catapult, he advanced step by step over a pile of corpses, incessantly dropping his axe, which he raised again dripping with blood. He had only one thought left – to save Doña Clara or die!

In vain did the Apaches collect around him; like an implacable reaper, he cut them down as ripe corn, while laughing that dry and hoarse grin, a nervous contraction which affects a man who has reached the last stage of rage or madness.

In fact, at this moment, Shaw was no longer a man, but a demon. Trampling over the quivering bodies that fell beneath the terrible blows of his axe, feeling the body of her for whose safety he fought trembling on his shoulder, he struggled without stopping in his impossible task, but resolved to cut a hole, at all risks, through the human wall constantly arising before him.

Shaw was a man of tried courage, long habituated to fighting, and pitiless to the redskins. But alone, on this night, only illumined by the blood-red hue of the fire, and confined in a fatal circle, he felt a great fear involuntarily coming over him; he breathed with difficulty, his teeth were clenched, an icy perspiration ran down his body, and he felt on the point of succumbing.

Falling would have been death. He would have immediately disappeared under the avalanche of ferocious Indians yelling around him.

This discouragement did not last so long as a lightning flash. The young man, sustained by that hope which springs eternal in the human breast, as well as by his love for Doña Clara, prepared to continue the unequal contest.

Bounding like a jaguar, he hurled himself into the thick of the fight. This contest of a single man against a swarm of enemies had something grand and startling about it. Shaw, as if under the influence of a horrible nightmare, struggled in vain against the incessantly renewed cloud of foemen; in him every feeling of self had vanished, he no longer reflected, his life had become entirely physical, his movements were automatic, his arms rose and fell with the rigid regularity of a pendulum.

He had managed, without knowing how, to clear the fortifications of the village; at a few paces from him the Gila flowed silently on, and appeared to him in the moonlight like an immense silver ribbon. Could he reach the river, he was saved; but there is a limit which human strength, however great it may be, cannot go beyond, and Shaw felt that he was reaching this limit.

He took an anxious glance around; Apaches hemmed him in on all sides! He uttered a sigh, for he thought that he was about to die. At this solemn moment, when all was about to fail him, a final shriek burst from his chest. A cry of agony and despair, of terrifying meaning, and re-echoed for a second far and wide, so that it drowned all the battle sounds; it was the parting protest of a man who at length confesses himself conquered by fatality, and who, before succumbing, summons his fellow men to his aid, or implores the succour of Heaven.

A cry answered his! Shaw, astonished, unable to count on a miracle, as his friends were too far off and themselves too busy to help him, fancied himself the victim of a dream or hallucination; still, collecting all his strength, feeling hope well up again in his heart, he gave vent to a more startling shout than the former.

"Courage!"

This time, it was not echo that answered him.

Courage! This word alone was borne on the wings of the wind, weak as a sigh, and, in spite of the horrible yells of the Apaches, was distinctly heard by Shaw.

In moments of frenzy, or when a man is at bay, the senses acquire a perfection for which it is impossible otherwise to account. Like the giant Antæus, Shaw drew himself up, and seemed restored to that life which was on the point of leaving him. He redoubled his blows on his innumerable enemies, and at length succeeded in breaking through the barrier they opposed to him.

Several horsemen appeared galloping over the plain; shots illumined the darkness with their transient flash, and men, or rather demons, rushed suddenly on the throng of the Apaches, and commenced a frightful carnage. The redskins, surprised by their unexpected attack, rushed toward the village, uttering yells of terror: their prey had escaped them.

Shaw had fought bravely and firm as a rock up to the last moment; but when his enemies disappeared, he sank to the ground in a state of unconsciousness.

How long did he remain in this state? He could not say: but when he recovered his senses it was night. He fancied at first, that only a few hours had elapsed since the terrible struggle he had undergone, and he looked inquiringly around him. He was lying by a fire in the centre of a clearing; Doña Clara was a few paces from him, weak and pale as a spectre.

Shaw uttered a cry of surprise and terror on recognising the men who surrounded him, and who had probably saved him by answering his final shout. They were his two brothers, Fray Ambrosio, Andrés Garote, and a dozen Gambusinos.

By what strange accident had he rejoined his comrades at the moment when he had so great interest in shunning them? What evil chance had brought them across his path?

The young man let his head sink on his chest, and fell into a sad and gloomy reverie. His comrades, lying like him by the fire, maintained the most obstinate silence, and did not seem at all eager to cross-question him.

We will take advantage of the momentary respite allowed Shaw, to explain what had taken place on the island since we quitted it to follow Doña Clara, Ellen, and the two Canadian hunters.

Until sunrise no one perceived the flight of the girls. At breakfast, Nathan and Sutter, amazed at not seeing their sister appear, ventured on entering the hut of branches that served as shelter to the two females, and then all was explained. They went in a furious rage to Fray Ambrosio to tell him what had happened, and the monk completed the news they gave him by announcing in his turn the flight of Eagle-wing, Dick, and Harry.

The fury of the two brothers was unbounded, and they proposed to raise the camp at once, and go in pursuit of, the fugitives. Fray Ambrosio and his worthy friend Garote had infinite difficulty in making them understand that this would lead to no result; that, moreover, they had as guide an Indian thoroughly acquainted with the topography of the country, and the hiding places, and that it would be folly to suppose that the persons who had escaped had not so arranged their flight as to foil all attempts made to seize them again.

Another and more powerful reason obliged them to remain on the island, to which the squatter's sons were compelled to yield. Red Cedar, on going away, ordered that under no pretext should they quit the post he had selected; he had moreover promised to join his band again there, and if they left it, it would be impossible for him to find them, as he would not know in what direction they had gone.

The young men were forced to allow that Fray Ambrosio was right; but, in order to satisfy their conscience, they placed themselves at the head of a few resolute men, crossed the river, and beat up the neighbourhood. We need scarcely say that they found nothing, for at about a league from the Gila the traces were finally lost.

The young men were in despair; but Fray Ambrosio, on the other hand, was delighted. He had only one desire, that of seeing the band quit of Doña Clara, who, according to his views, impeded its progress and prevented it marching with the speed circumstances required; and now, instead of one woman, two had gone!

The worthy monk could scarce contain himself for joy; he, listened with, a sympathising air and expressions of condolence to the advice and complaints of his comrades at this extraordinary flight; but in his heart he was delighted.

Still, as there was no perfect happiness in this world, and wormwood must always be mixed with the honey of life, an unexpected incident suddenly troubled the beatitude of Fray Ambrosio.

At starting, Red Cedar, while concealing the object of his journey, had dropped hints to his comrades that he would bring them allies; moreover, he informed them, that his excursion would not last more than three or four days at the most. In the desert, especially in the Far West, there is no regular road; travellers are compelled, for the greater part of the time, to march axe in hand, and cut a path by force. The gambusinos knew this by experience, and hence were not surprised, because Red Cedar did not return at the period he had fixed.

They were patient, and as their provisions were beginning to give out, they scattered on either side the river, and organised great hunting expeditions to renew their stock. But days had slipped away, and Red Cedar did not return: a month had already passed, and no news or sign arrived to tell the gambusinos that he would come soon. Another fortnight also passed, and produced no change in the position of the gold-seekers.

By degrees the band began to grow discouraged, and soon, without anyone knowing how, the most sinister news circulated at first in a whisper, but then they acquired the almost certainty, that the squatter, surprised in an ambuscade by the redskins, had been massacred, and that, consequently, it was useless waiting for him any longer.

These rumours, to which Fray Ambrosio attached but slight importance at the outset, became presently so strong that he grew anxious in his turn, and tried to dissipate them; but this was difficult, not to say impossible. Fray Ambrosio knew no more than the rest about Red Cedar's movements; his fears were, at least, as great as those of his comrades; and whatever he might do, he was compelled to allow that he had no valid reason to offer them, and was completely ignorant of the fate of their common chief.

One morning the gambusinos, instead of setting out to hunt as they did daily, assembled tumultuously before the jacal, which served as headquarters for the monk and the squatter's sons, and told them plainly that they had waited long enough for Red Cedar: as he had given them no news of his movements for upwards of two months, he must be dead: that consequently the expedition was a failure; and as they had no inclination to fall, some fine morning, into the power of their foes, the redskins, they were going to return at once to Santa Fe.

Fray Ambrosio in vain told them that, even supposing Red Cedar was dead – which was not proved – although it was a misfortune, it did not cause the expedition to fail, as he alone held the secret of the placer, and promised to lead them to it. The gambusinos, who placed no confidence in his talents as guide, or in his courage as a partisan, would not listen to anything; and, whatever he might do to check them, they mounted their horses, and rode off from the island, where he remained with the squatter's sons, Andrés Garote, and five or six other men still faithful to him. Fray Ambrosio saw them land, and spur their horses into the tall grass, where they speedily disappeared. The monk fell to the ground in despair; he saw his plans for a fortune irredeemably ruined; plans which he had fostered so long, and which were crushed at the very moment when they seemed on the point of realisation.

Any other man than Fray Ambrosio, after such a disaster, would have yielded to despair; but he was gifted with one of those energetic natures which difficulties arouse instead of crushing; and, in lieu of renouncing his schemes, he resolved, as Red Cedar did not return, to go in search of him, and leave the island at once. An hour later, the little party set out on its march.

By an extraordinary coincidence, they set out on the very day when the Apaches started to attack the Comanche village; and as when accident interposes it does not do things by halves, it led them to the vicinity of the village at the moment when the desperate contest was going on which we have described in a previous chapter.

Their predacious instincts invited them to draw nearer the village under the protection of the darkness, in the hope of obtaining some Indian scalps, which were very valuable to them. It was then that the gambusinos heard Shaw's cry for help, to which they responded by hurrying up at full speed.

They rushed boldly into the medley, and saved the young man and the precious burthen he still held enclasped; then, after cutting the throats of several Indians, whom they conscientiously scalped, as they considered it imprudent to venture further, they started off again as quickly as they had come, and reached a forest where they concealed themselves, intending to ask Shaw, when he regained his senses, how he happened to be at the entrance of this village, holding Doña Clara in his arms, and fighting alone against a swarm of Indians.

The young man remained unconscious the whole day. Although the wounds he had received were not dangerous, the great quantity of blood he had lost, and the extraordinary efforts he had been obliged to make, plunged him into such a state of prostration, that several hours still elapsed after he had regained his senses before he seemed to have restored sufficient order in his ideas to be able to give an account of the events in which he had played so important a part.

It was, therefore, Fray Ambrosio's advice to grant time to recall his thoughts before beginning to cross-question him, and hence the affected indifference of the gambusinos toward him, an indifference which he profited by, to seek in his mind the means to part company with them, carrying off for the second time Doña Clara, who had so unhappily fallen into their hands again.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE DEPARTURE

On the day after the battle, at sunrise, there was a busy scene in the Comanche village. The criers or hachestos mounted on the piles of ruins, summoned the warriors, who arrived one after the other, still fatigued by the dances and combats of the previous night. The war whistles, the shells, the drums and chichikouis, made an infernal disturbance, and hence the entire population was speedily assembled.

Unicorn was a chief of great prudence. Being on the point of undertaking an expedition which might separate him for a long time from his friends, he did not wish to leave the women and children exposed defencelessly to an attack like that of the previous evening. As the season was advanced, he resolved to abandon the village definitively, and escort those who were not selected to accompany him, to the winter village of the nation, situated at no great distance off, in a virgin forest, and in an impregnable position.

The appearance of the village was most picturesque; the warriors, painted and armed for war, formed two companies of one hundred men each, collected on the square, having on each flank a squadron of twenty-five horsemen. Between the two detachments the women, children, and old men placed themselves, with the dogs fastened to the sledges, which bore all their valuable property, such as furniture, furs, &c.

Unicorn, surrounded by his staff, composed of the subordinate chiefs of the tribe, held in his hands the totem, and gave his orders with a word or a gesture, which were immediately executed with an intelligence and dexterity that would have done honour to the most civilised nation.

Valentine was also on the public square, with his comrades and prisoners. The two maidens, calm and smiling, were side by side, conversing together, while Curumilla was holding his head down, and frowning.

Bloodson had gone off at daybreak, with his band, to try and surprise, in his turn, the Apache village, which was no great distance off. It was a strange fact, but the hunters and Mexicans felt an extraordinary pleasure at the departure of this man, who had, however, rendered them an immense service. Certainly, it would have been impossible for them to explain this feeling, which all experienced. Still, when he was no longer among them, their chests expanded, and they breathed with greater ease; in a word, it seemed as if an immense weight had been suddenly removed.

And yet, we repeat, the hunters and Mexicans had only terms of praise in which to allude to this man's treatment of them. Whence came this instinctive repulsion with which he inspired them? – the truth was, that Bloodson had something about him which caused those to whom accident brought into contact with him to feel disgust mingled with fear.

A great noise was suddenly heard in the square, and two or three Indians came up to speak to the chief. Unicorn uttered an exclamation of anger and feigned the greatest disappointment.

"What is the matter, chief?" Valentine asked, with the most indifferent air he could assume.

"Our most valuable Apache prisoner," Unicorn said, "has found means to escape, I do not know how."

"That is a misfortune," Valentine said: "still, it may not be irreparable."

"How so?"

"Who knows? Perhaps he may have escaped very recently; if you were to send couriers in every direction, it is possible that he may be recaptured. Besides, if that measure did not produce the anticipated result," he added, as he gave the young Spaniard a cold and stern glance, which made her start, "it would, at any rate, tell us what has become of our Apache enemies, and if they have not left round the village spies ordered to watch our movements."

The sachem smiled at this proposal; he made a sign, and a dozen horsemen galloped out in the plain. While awaiting the return of the scouts, the final preparations for departure were made.

After overhearing the conversation between the Gazelle and the Pirates, Curumilla repeated it to Valentine. The latter thanked him, and begged him to watch the movements of the girl and Pedro Sandoval. The advice Valentine gave the chief, and which he readily followed was intended to unmask the Apaches, compel them to retire, and hence deprive the Pirate of the assistance he expected in effecting his escape.

In fact the Apaches on seeing their enemies spread all over the plain, not knowing their intentions, but fearing lest they should be surprised by them, fell back, and that so rapidly, that the scouts returned to the village without seeing anything, after a two hours' ride.

On the report they delivered of all being quiet in the neighbourhood and the road quite clear, Unicorn gave the signal for departure: the immense caravan slowly set out to the sound of musical instruments, mingled with the yells of the warriors and the barking of the dogs. Valentine, for greater security, placed the two females at the head of the column, in the group of horsemen formed by the subordinate chiefs.

The day had opened with a pure sky and dazzling sun; the atmosphere, perfumed by the exhalations from the prairie flowers, pleasantly dilated the lungs, and caused the hunters to feel in the highest spirits. The caravan was unfolded like an immense serpent on the prairie, advancing in good order through an enchanting landscape.

The hunters were crossing at this moment the spot called the Bad Lands, a continuation of the Black Coast, which the Gila intersects. The prairie extended along the river, then gradually ascended in rollers toward the mountains, and was covered with blocks of greyish-brown granite, displaying various strata. All around rose a marvellous chain of tall greyish and barren mountains, with extraordinarily shaped summits, and spotted with dark patches of conifera.

The Rio Gila, which was rather narrow found its way with difficulty through the lofty crests of schist, granite, and clay, and the nude and dead scenery that surrounded it was but slightly animated on the banks by the poplars and pine bushes that bordered it.

To the right was a village of prairie dogs: these pretty little animals, which are not at all savage, were seated on the flattened roofs of their house, watching the caravan, as they shook their tails rapidly and uttered their shrill cry, which is not a perfect bark; then they disappeared in the ground.

The caravan rapidly advanced toward a virgin forest, whose gloomy spurs stretched out nearly to the river's bank, and which they reached after two hours' march. On reaching the first trees, the caravan halted for a while, in order to make the final arrangements, before burying itself beneath the gloomy dome which would serve as its shelter for several months.

Before leaving his friends, the white hunters, the Comanche Chief had the neighbourhood beaten up, but no trail was visible; the Apaches seemed to have definitely declined further fighting, and gone off. In fact, it would have been signal folly for them to try and attack the Comanches, thrice as strong as themselves, rendered haughty by their last victory, and who, before entering the forest, would have liked nothing better than to have a parting fight with their implacable enemies. But nothing disturbed the calmness of the prairie.

"My brother can continue his journey," Unicorn said to Valentine; "the Apache dogs have fled with the feet of antelopes."

"Oh, we do not fear them," the hunter replied, disdainfully.

"Before the eighth sun, my brother will see me again," the chief continued.

"Good."

"Farewell."

And they separated. The Comanche warriors entered the forest; for a while the sound of their footsteps and the tinkling of the bells fastened to their dogs' necks re-echoed under the gloomy arcades of the forest; then silence was gradually re-established, and the hunters found themselves alone. They were six resolute and well-armed men, who feared no danger; they could continue their journey in perfect safety.

"Are we still far from the island where Red Cedar's band is encamped?" Valentine asked the Sachem of the Coras.

"Scarce four leagues," Eagle-wing answered. "Were it not for the countless turnings we shall have to take, we should reach it in an hour; but we shall not arrive till the last song of the maukawis."

"Good; you and Don Pablo will go on ahead with the squarer's daughter."

"Do you fear anything?" Don Pablo asked.

"Nothing; but I wish to speak a few minutes with the Spanish girl."

"All right."

The two men pushed on with the maiden, and Valentine took his place on the right of the Gazelle, who was riding thoughtfully, without paying any attention to her horse.

The revelations made by Curumilla had the more struck Valentine, because he did not at all comprehend the Gazelle's hatred of Ellen. Every feeling must have its reason, every hatred a cause; and both these escaped him. In vain did he seek in his memory a fact which might account for, if not excuse, the strange conduct of White Gazelle; he found nothing that would put him on the right track.

He recalled to mind that he had seen the girl several times in the vicinity of Don Miguel de Zarate's hacienda, at the Paso del Norte; he also remembered that Don Pablo had done her a slight service, when she craved his help, but her relations with the hacendero's son had terminated there.

He believed it certain that, although Red Cedar's daughter lived near the hacienda, the Gazelle had never seen her before they met at the Indian village. Still, as he knew Don Pablo's love for Ellen, a love of which the young man had never spoken to him, but which he had long seen; as, too, the position was grave, and Ellen might at any moment fall into danger, which must be avoided at any cost, Valentine resolved to have a conversation with the Spanish girl, and try to read clearly in her heart, were that possible.

But if gentle means failed, he would show her no indulgence, or let a gentle and unoffending creature be exposed to the perfidy of a cruel woman, whom no consideration seemed to arrest in her sinister plans.

Valentine looked round. Ellen was about two hundred yards ahead, between Eagle-wing and Don Pablo. Temporarily reassured, he turned to the Spanish girl, who at this moment was talking eagerly, and in a loud voice, with Pedro Sandoval. The girl blushed, and ceased speaking. Valentine, not appearing to notice the confusion his presence caused the speakers, bowed slightly to the Spaniard, and addressed her in a calm voice: —

"I beg your pardon," he said, "if I interrupt a doubtless interesting conversation; but I wish to have a few words with you."

The girl blushed still more deeply. Her black eye flashed fire under the long lash that veiled it, but she answered in a trembling voice, as she stopped her horse —

"I am ready to listen to you, señor caballero."

"Do not stop, I beg, señora," Valentine said. "This worthy man, who doubtless shares all your secrets," he added, with an ironical smile, "can hear our conversation, which, indeed, will relate to him."

"In truth," the girl answered, in a firmer voice, as she let her horse proceed, "I have nothing hidden from this worthy man, as you do him the honour of calling him."

"Very good, señora," the hunter continued with equal coldness. "Now, be good enough not to take in ill part what I am about to say to you, and answer a question I shall take the liberty of asking you."

"I presume you intend me to undergo an interrogation?"

"That is not my intention, at least at this moment; it will depend on you, madam, that we do not pass the limits of a friendly conversation."

"Speak, sir. If the question you ask me is one of those a woman may answer, I will satisfy you."

"Be good enough to tell me, madam, whether you found us cruel enemies last night?"

"Why this question?"

"Be so kind as to answer it first."

"I can only speak in terms of praise of your conduct."

"I thank you. And how did Miss Ellen treat you?"

"Admirably."

"Good. You are not ignorant, I think, that through your yesterday's aggression, an aggression which may be regarded as attempted murder and robbery, since, as you are not at war with the Indians, and as, belonging to our race, should regard us as friends – you are not ignorant, I say, that you have rendered yourself amenable to the prairie law, which says, 'an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.'"

"What do you wish to arrive at?"

"Pardon me. You are not ignorant, I assume, that, instead of treating you as I did, with the most perfect respect, I should have been quite justified in passing a rope round your neck, and hanging you, with your worthy friend, to the branches of the first tree: and there are some magnificent specimens in these parts!"

"Sir!" the girl exclaimed, as she drew herself up, and became livid with fury.

"Pardon me," Valentine continued impressively. "I am alluding here to an incontestable right, which you cannot deny: do not get in a passion, but answer me categorically, yes, or no."

"Well, sir, yes; you had that right, and you still have it. What checks you? Why do you not use it?" she added, as she gave him a defiant look.

"Because it does not suit me to do so at this moment," Valentine said, coldly and drily.

These stern words suddenly checked the passion that was boiling in the girl's heart: she let her eyes fall, and replied: —

"Is that all you have to say to me?"

"No, it is not all; and I have a final question to ask you."

"Speak, sir, as I am condemned to listen to you."

"I will not occupy much of your time."

"Oh, sir," she answered ironically, "my time cannot be employed better than in conversing with so polished a gentleman as yourself."

"I thank you for the good opinion you are kind enough to have of a poor hunter like myself," he replied, with a tinge of sarcasm; "and I now reach the second question I wished to ask you."