The Trail-Hunter: A Tale of the Far West. Gustave Aimard

not wish you to set out thus, but will give you a horse."

      "Thanks; my father is good. The Indian chief will remember—"

      "Come, you shall choose for yourself."

      "I have still a few words to say to my father."

      "Speak, chief; I am listening to you."

      "Koutonepi, the pale hunter, begged me to give my father an important warning."

      "What is it?"

      "A great danger threatens my father. Koutonepi wishes to see him as soon as possible, in order himself to tell him its nature."

      "Good! My brother will tell the hunter that I shall be tomorrow at the 'clearing of the shattered oak,' and await him there till night."

      "I will faithfully repeat my father's words to the hunter."

      The two men then quitted the garden, and hurriedly proceeded toward the hacienda. Don Miguel let the chief choose his own horse, and while the sachem was harnessing his steed in the Indian fashion, he withdrew to his bedroom, and sent for his son to join him. The young man had perfectly recovered from his wound. His father told him that he was obliged to absent himself for some days: he intrusted to him the management of the hacienda, while recommending him on no consideration to leave the farm, and to watch attentively over his sister. The young man promised him all he wished, happy at enjoying perfect liberty for a few days.

      After embracing his son and daughter for the last time Don Miguel proceeded to the patio, where in the meanwhile, the chief had been amusing himself by making the magnificent horse he had chosen curvet. Don Miguel admired for several moments the Indian's skill and grace, for he managed a horse as well as the first Mexican jinete; then mounted, and the two men proceeded together toward the Paso del Norte, which they must cross in order to enter the desert, and reach the clearing of the shattered oak.

      The journey passed in silence, for the two men were deeply reflecting. At the moment they entered Paso the sun was setting on the horizon in a bed of red mist, which foreboded a storm for the night. At the entrance of the village they separated; and on the morrow, as we have seen in our first chapter, Don Miguel set out at daybreak, and galloped to the clearing.

      We will now end this lengthy parenthesis, which was, however, indispensable for the due comprehension of the facts that are about to follow, and take up our story again at the point where we left it.

      CHAPTER XI.

      CONVERSATION.

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      Valentine Guillois, whom we have already introduced to the reader in previous works[1], had inhabited, or, to speak more correctly, traversed the vast solitudes of Mexico and Texas during the past five or six years. We saw him just now accompanied by the Araucano chief. These two men were the boldest hunters on the frontier. At times, when they had collected an ample harvest of furs, they went to sell them in the villages, renewed their stock of powder and ball, purchased a few indispensable articles, and then returned to the desert.

      Now and then they engaged themselves for a week, or even a fortnight, with the proprietors of the haciendas, to free them from the wild beasts that desolated their herds; but so soon as the ferocious animals were destroyed, and the reward obtained, no matter the brilliancy of the offers made them by the landowners, the two men threw their rifles on their shoulders and went off.

      No one knew who they were, or whence they came. Valentine and his friend maintained the most complete silence as to the events of their life which had preceded their appearance in these parts. Only one thing had betrayed the nationality of Valentine, whom his comrade called Koutonepi, a word belonging to the language of the Aucas, and signifying "The Valiant." On his chest the hunter wore the cross of the Legion of Honor. The deeds of every description performed by these hunters were incalculable, and their stories were the delight of the frontier dwellers during the winter night. The number of tigers they had killed was no longer counted.

      Chance had one day made them acquainted with Don Miguel Zarate under strange circumstances, and since then an uninterrupted friendship had been maintained between them. Don Miguel, during a tempestuous night, namely, had only owed his life to the accuracy of Valentine's aim, who sent a bullet through the head of the Mexican's horse at the moment when, mad with terror, and no longer obeying the bridle, it was on the point of leaping into an abyss with its master. Don Miguel had sworn eternal gratitude to his saviour.

      Valentine and Curumilla had made themselves the tutors of the hacendero's children, who, for their part, felt a deep friendship for the hunters. Don Pablo had frequently made long hunting parties in the desert with them; and it was to them he owed the certainty of his aim, his skill in handling weapons, and his knack in taming horses.

      No secrets existed between Don Miguel and the hunters: they read in his mind as in an ever open book. They were the disinterested confidants of his plans; for these rude wood rangers esteemed him, and only required for themselves one thing—the liberty of the desert. Still, despite the sympathy and friendship which so closely connected these different persons, and the confidence which formed the basis of that friendship, Don Miguel and his children had never been able to obtain from the hunters information as to the events that had passed prior to their arrival in this country.

      Frequently Don Miguel, impelled, not by curiosity, but merely by the interest he felt in them, had tried, by words cleverly thrown into the conversation, to give them an opening for confidence; but Valentine had always repelled those hints, though cleverly enough for Don Miguel not to feel offended by this want of confidence. With Curumilla they had been even more simple. Wrapped in his Indian stoicism, intrenched in his habitual sullenness, he was wont to answer all questions by a shake of the head, but nothing further.

      At length, weary of the attempt, the hacendero and his family had given up trying to read those secrets which their friends seemed obstinately determined to keep from them. Still the friendship subsisting between them had not grown cold in consequence, and it was always with equal pleasure that Don Miguel met the hunters again after a lengthened ramble in the prairies, which kept them away from his house for whole months at a time.

      The hunter and the Mexican were seated by the fire, while Curumilla, armed with his scalping knife, was busy flaying the two jaguars so skillfully killed by Don Miguel, and which were magnificent brutes.

      "Eh, compadre!" Don Miguel said with a laugh; "I was beginning to lose patience, and fancy you had forgotten the meeting you had yourself given me."

      "I never forgot anything, as you know," Valentine answered seriously; "and if I did not arrive sooner, it was because the road is long from my jacal to this clearing."

      "Heaven forbid that I should reproach you, my friend! Still I confess to you that the prospect of passing the night alone in this forest only slightly pleased me, and I should have been off had you not arrived before sunset."

      "You would have done wrong, Don Miguel: what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance to you. Who knows what the result might have been had I not been able to warn you?"

      "You alarm me, my friend."

      "I will explain. In the first place let me tell you that you committed, a few days back, a grave imprudence, whose consequences threaten to be most serious for you."

      "What is it?"

      "I said one, but ought to have said two."

      "I am waiting till you think proper to express yourself more clearly," Don Miguel said with a slight tinge of impatience, "before I answer."

      "You have quarrelled with a North American bandit."

      "Red Cedar."

      "Yes; and when you had him in your power you let him escape, instead of killing him out and out."

      "That