The Indian Scout: A Story of the Aztec City. Gustave Aimard

waters when the tempest menaces; the clouds were low, black, and charged with electricity; they coursed rapidly through the sky, incessantly veiling the wan disk of the moon, whose cold rays only rendered the gloom denser; the atmosphere was oppressive, and those nameless noises, dashed back by the echoes like the rolling of distant thunder, rose from the quebradas and unknown barrancas of the prairies; the beasts howled sadly all the notes of the human register, and the night birds, troubled in their sleep by this strange uneasiness of nature, uttered hoarse and discordant cries.

      In the camp of the Gambusinos all was calm; the sentries were watching, leaning on their rifles, and crouching near the expiring fire. In the centre of the camp two men were smoking their Indian pipes, and talking in a low voice. They were Brighteye and Marksman.

      At length, Brighteye knocked the ashes out of his pipe, thrust it into his girdle, stifled a yawn, and rose, throwing out his legs and arms to restore the circulation.

      "What are you going to do?" Marksman asked him, turning cautiously round.

      "Sleep," the hunter answered.

      "Sleep!"

      "Why not? the night is advanced; we are the only persons watching, I feel convinced; it is more than probable that we shall not see Don Miguel before sunrise. Hum! the best plan for the moment, at least, is to sleep, at any rate, if you have not decided otherwise."

      Marksman laid his finger on his lip, as if to recommend silence to his friend.

      "The night is advanced," he said, in a low voice; "a terrible storm is rising. Where can Don Miguel be gone? This prolonged absence alarms me more than I can express: he is not the man to leave his friends thus, without some powerful reason, or perhaps – "

      The hunter stopped, and shook his head sorrowfully.

      "Go on," Brighteye said; "tell me your whole thought."

      "Well, I am afraid lest some misfortune has happened to him."

      "Oh, oh, do you think so? Still, this Don Miguel, from what I have heard you say, is a man of well-tried courage and uncommon strength."

      "All that is true," Marksman replied, with a preoccupied air.

      "Well! do you think that such a man, well armed, and acquainted with prairie life, is not able to draw himself out of a difficulty, whatever the danger which threatens him?"

      "Yes, if he has to deal with a loyal foe, who stands resolutely before him, and fights with equal weapons."

      "What other danger can he fear?"

      "Brighteye, Brighteye!" the hunter continued, sadly, "you have lived too long among the Missouri fur traders."

      "Which means – ?" the Canadian asked, somewhat piqued.

      "Come, my friend, do not feel vexed at my remarks; but it is evident to me, that you have, in a great measure, forgotten prairie habits."

      "Hum! that is a serious charge against a hunter, Marksman; and in what, if you please, have I forgotten desert manners?"

      "By Jove! in seeming no longer to remember that, in the country where we now are, every weapon is good to get rid of an enemy."

      "Eh! I know that as well as you, my friend; I know, too, that the most dangerous weapon is that which is concealed."

      "That is to say, treachery."

      The Canadian started. "Do you fear treachery, then?" he asked.

      "What else can I fear?"

      "That is true," the hunter said, with a drooping head; "but," he added, a moment after, "what is to be done?"

      "That is the very thing that embarrasses me. Still I cannot remain much longer in this state; the uncertainty is killing me; at all risks I must know what has happened."

      "But in what way?"

      "I know not, Heaven will inspire me."

      "Still, you have an idea?"

      "Of course, I have."

      "What is it?"

      "This – and I count on you to help me in carrying it out."

      Brighteye affectionately pressed his friend's hand. "You are right," he said: "now for your idea."

      "It is very simple; we will leave the camp directly, and go along the river side."

      "Yes, – I would merely draw your attention to the fact, that the storm will soon break out, and the rain is already falling in large drops."

      "The greater reason to make haste."

      "That is true."

      "Then you will accompany me?"

      "By Jove! did you doubt it, perchance?"

      "I am a goose; forgive me, brother, and thank you."

      "Why so? on the contrary, I ought to thank you."

      "How so?"

      "Why, thanks to you, I am going to take a delightful walk."

      Marksman did not answer; the hunters saddled and bridled their horses, and after inspecting their arms with all the care of men who are convinced that they will soon have occasion to use them, they mounted and rode toward the gate of the camp. Two sentries were standing motionless and upright at the gate; they placed themselves before the wood rangers. The latter had no intention of going out unseen, as they had no reason for hiding their departure.

      "You are going away?" one of the sentries asked.

      "No; we are merely going to make a survey of the country."

      "At this hour?"

      "Why not?"

      "Hang it! I think it pleasanter to sleep in such weather, than ride about the prairie."

      "You think wrong, comrade," Marksman answered, in a peremptory tone; "and, in the first place, bear this in mind, I am not accountable for my actions to anyone; if I go out at this hour in the storm which is threatening, I have possibly powerful motives for my conduct; now, will you or no let us pass? Remember, however, that I shall hold you responsible for any delay you occasion in the execution of my plans."

      The tone employed by the hunter in addressing them struck the two sentries; they consulted together in a low voice; after which, the man who had hitherto spoken turned to the two hunters, who were quietly awaiting the result of this deliberation. "You can pass," he said; "you are at liberty to go wherever you think proper. I have done my duty in questioning you, and may Heaven grant you are doing yours in going out thus."

      "You will soon know. One word more."

      "I am listening."

      "Our absence will probably be short; if not, we shall return by sunrise; still, pay great attention to this recommendation: should you hear the cry of the jaguar repeated thrice, at equal intervals, mount at full speed, and come, not you alone, but followed by a dozen of your comrades, for, when you hear that cry, a great danger will menace the Cuadrilla. Now, you understand me?"