Part 34 (2/2)

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 anyone 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 la.s.so, or alive. No gun must be fired. They might still hear it, and would be on us before we could get round the mountain. No! sling your guns! Let those who have lances and la.s.soes get them in readiness.”

”When would you have us make the dash, captain?”

”Leave that to me. Perhaps he may dismount for the bow; or, if not, he may ride into the spring to water his horse, then we can surround him.

If he see the Digger's body, he may pa.s.s 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. As 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, coal-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, excepting 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 buskined 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 n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+eld, 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.

”Wagh!” exclaimed one of the hunters in an undertone; ”how they glitter!

Look at that 'ar headpiece! It's fairly a-blazin'!”

”Ay,” rejoined Garey, ”we may thank the piece o' bra.s.s. 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; ”Dacoma, by the Etarnal! The second chief of the Navajoes!”

I turned toward 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 recognised the name ”Dacoma,”

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 a.s.senting to the wishes of the other, ”he shall not escape, whether he sees it or no. 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 Moro. ”Silence!” he continued, lowering his voice. ”Hish-s.h.!.+”

The silence became death-like. 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; and 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 descried 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 reining 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 bull-fighter.

”By gos.h.!.+ it's a pity to kill him,” muttered a hunter; and a low murmur of admiration was heard among the men.

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