THE HUNT CONTINUED.
The hunters stood for a moment silent, with their eyes fixed on their enemy. Unicorn, who doubtless owed Nathan a grudge for the way in which he had deceived him by passing for one of his relatives, broke the sort of charm that enthralled them, by drawing his scalping knife and raising the poor fellow's hair with uncommon dexterity.
"It is the scalp of a dog of the Long-knives," he said, contemptuously as he placed his bleeding trophy in his girdle: "his lying tongue will never again deceive anybody."
Valentine was deep in thought.
"What are we to do now?" Don Miguel asked.
"Canelo!" Don Pablo exclaimed, "That is not difficult to guess, father—start at once in pursuit of Red Cedar."
"What does my brother say?" Unicorn asked, as he turned deferentially to Valentine.
The latter raised his head.
"All is over for this night," he replied; "that man was ordered to amuse us while his friends fled. Trying to pursue them at this moment would be signal folly; they have too great a start for us possibly to catch them up, and the night is so black that we should want a sentry on every branch. We will content ourselves for the present by keeping our line of scouts as we placed them. At daybreak the council of the tribe will assemble, and decide on the further measures to be taken."
All followed the hunter's advice, and they returned towards the camp, which they reached an hour later. On entering the clearing, Unicorn tapped Valentine on the shoulder.
"I have to speak with my brother," he said.
"I am listening to my brother," the hunter replied; "his voice is a music that always rejoices my heart."
"My brother will be much more rejoiced," the chief answered, smiling, "when he hears what I have to tell him."
"The sachem can only be the bearer of good news to me; what has he to tell me?"
"Sunbeam reached the camp today."
Valentine started.
"Was she alone?" he asked, eagerly.
"Alone! She would not have dared to come," the chief remarked, with some haughtiness.
"That is true," Valentine said, anxiously; "then my mother—"
"The hunter's mother is here; I have given her my calli."
"Thanks, chief," he exclaimed, warmly; "oh! You are truly a brother to me."
"The great pale hunter is a son of the tribe; he is the brother of all of us."
"Oh, my mother, my good mother! How did she come hither? Oh, I must run to see her."
"Here she is," said Curumilla.
The Araucano, at the first word uttered by Unicorn, guessing the pleasure he should cause his friend, had gone, without saying a word, to seek Madame Guillois, whom anxiety kept awake, though she was far from suspecting that her son was near her.
"My child!" the worthy woman said, as she pressed him to her heart.
After the first emotion had passed over, Valentine took his mother's arm in his, and led her gently back to the calli.
"You are not wise, mother," he said, with an accent of reproach. "Why did you leave the village? The season is advanced, it is cold, and you do not know the deadly climate of the prairies; your health is far from strong, and I wish you to nurse yourself. I ask you to do so, not for yourself but for me. Alas! What would become of me, were I to lose you!"
"My dear child," the old lady replied, tenderly. "Oh! How happy I am to be thus loved. What I experience at present amply repays all the suffering your absence occasioned me. I implore you to let me act as I like; at my age, a woman should not calculate on a morrow. I will not separate far from you again; let me, at any rate, have the happiness of dying in your arms, if I am not permitted to live."
Valentine regarded his mother attentively. These ill-omened words struck him to the heart. He was frightened by the expression of her face, whose pallor and extreme tenuity had something fatal about it. Madame Guillois perceived her son's emotion, and smiled sadly.
"You see," she said, gently, "I shall not be a burden to you long; the Lord will soon recall me to him."
"Oh, speak not so, mother. Dismiss those gloomy thoughts. You have, I hope many a long day to pass by my side."
The old lady shook her head, as aged persons do when they fancy themselves certain of a thing.
"No weak illusions, my son," she said, in a firm voice; "be a man—prepare yourself for a speedy and inevitable separation. But promise me one thing."
"Speak, mother."
"Whatever may happen, swear not to send me away from you again."
"Why, mother, you order me to commit a murder. In your present state you could not lead my mode of life for two days."
"No matter, my son, I will not leave you again: take the oath I demand of you."
"Mother!" he said, hesitating.
"You refuse me, my son!" she exclaimed, in pain.
Valentine felt almost heart-broken; he had not the courage to resist longer.
"Well," he murmured, sorrowfully, "since you insist, mother, be it so; I swear that we shall never be separated again."
A flush of pleasure lit up the poor old lady's face, and for a moment she looked happy.
"Bless you, my son," she said. "You render me very happy by granting what I ask."
"Well," he said, with a stifled sigh, "it is you who wish it, mother: your will be done, and may Heaven not punish me for having obeyed you. Now it is my turn to ask; as henceforth the care of your health concerns me alone."
"What do you want?" she said, with an ineffable smile.
"I wish you to take a few hours' indispensable rest, after your fatigues of the day."
"And you, dear child?"
"I shall sleep too, mother; for if today has been fatiguing, tomorrow will be equally so; so rest in peace, and feel no anxiety on my account."
Madame Guillois tenderly embraced her son, and threw herself on the bed prepared for her by Sunbeam's care. Valentine then left the calli, and rejoined his friends, who were reposing round a fire lit by Curumilla. Carefully wrapping himself in his buffalo robe he laid on the ground, closed his eyes, and sought sleep—that great consoler of the afflicted, who often call it in vain for a long time ere it deigns to come for a few hours, and enable them to forget their sorrows. He was aroused, towards daybreak, by a hand being softly laid on his shoulder, and a voice timidly murmuring his name. The hunter opened his eyes, and sat up quickly.
"Who goes there?" he said.
"I! White Gazelle."
Valentine, now completely awake, threw off his buffalo robe, got up and shook himself several times.
"I am at your orders," he said. "What do you desire?"
"To ask your advice," she replied.
"Speak: I am listening."
"Last night, while Unicorn and yourself were looking for Red Cedar on one side, Black Cat and I were looking on the other."
"Do you know where he is?" he quickly interrupted her.
"No; but I suspect it."
He gave her a scrutinising glance, which she endured without letting her eyes sink.
"You know that I am now entirely devoted to you," she said, candidly.
"Pardon me—I am wrong: go on, I beg you."
"When I said I wished to ask your advice, I was wrong; I should have said I had a prayer to address to you."
"Be assured that if it be possible for me to grant it, I will do so without hesitation."
White Gazelle stopped for a moment; then, making an effort over herself, she seemed to form a resolution, and went on:
"You have no personal hatred to Red Cedar?"
"Pardon me. Red Cedar is a villain, who plunged a family I love into mourning and woe: he caused the death of a maiden who was very dear to me, and of a man to whom I was attached by ties of friendship."
White Gazelle gave a start of impatience, which she at once repressed. "Then?" she said.
"If he fall into my hands, I will remorselessly kill him."
"Still, there is another person who has had, for many years, terrible insults to avenge on him."
"Whom do you allude to?"
"Bloodson."
"That is true; he told me he had a fearful account to settle with this bandit."
"Well," she said quickly, "be kind enough to let my uncle, I mean Bloodson, capture Red Cedar."
"Why do you ask this of me?"
"Because the hour has arrived to do so, Don Valentine."
"Explain yourself."
"Ever since the bandit has been confined in the mountains with no hope of escape; I was ordered by my uncle to ask you to yield this capture to him, when the moment came for it."
"But suppose he let him escape!" said Valentine.
She smiled with an indefinable expression.
"That is impossible," she answered, "you do not know what a twenty years' hatred is."
She uttered these words with an accent that made the hunter, brave as he was, tremble.
Valentine, as he said, would have killed Red Cedar without hesitation, like a dog, if chance brought them face to face in a fair fight; but it was repulsive to his feelings and honour to strike a disarmed foe, however vile and unworthy he might be. While inwardly recognising the necessity of finishing once for all with that human-faced tiger called Red Cedar, he was not sorry that another assumed the responsibility of such an act, and constituted himself executioner. White Gazelle carefully watched him, and anxiously followed in his face the various feelings that agitated him, trying to guess his resolution.
"Well?" she asked at the end of a moment.
"What is to be done?" he said.
"Leave me to act; draw in the blockading force, so that it would be impossible for our foe to pass, even if he assumed the shape of a prairie dog, and wait without stirring."
"For long?"
"No; for two days, three at the most; is that too long?"
"Not if you keep your promise."
"I will keep it, or, to speak more correctly, my uncle shall keep it for me."
"That is the same thing."
"No, it is better."
"That is what I meant."
"It is settled, then!"
"One word more. You know how my friend Don Miguel Zarate suffered through Red Cedar, I think?"
"I do."
"You know the villain killed his daughter?"
"Yes," she said, with a tremor in her voice, "I know it; but trust to me; Don Valentine; I swear to you that Don Miguel shall be more fully avenged than ever he hoped to be."
"Good; if at the end of three days I grant you, justice is not done on that villain, I will undertake it, and I swear in my turn that it will be terrible."
"Thanks, Don Valentine, now I will go."
"Where to?"
"To join Bloodson, and carry him your answer."
White Gazelle leaped lightly on her horse, which was fastened ready saddled to a tree, and set off at a gallop, waving her hand to the hunter for the last time in thanks.
"What a singular creature!" Valentine muttered.
As day had dawned during this conversation, the Trail-hunter proceeded toward Unicorn's calli, to assemble the great chiefs in council. So soon as the hunter entered the lodge, Don Pablo, who had hitherto remained motionless, pretending to sleep, suddenly rose.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed as he clasped his hands fervently. "How to save poor Ellen? If she falls into the hands of that fury, she is lost."
Then, after a moment's reflection, he ran toward Unicorn's calli: Valentine came out of it at the moment the young man reached the door.
"Where are you going to at that rate, my friend?" he asked him.
"I want a horse."
"A horse?" Valentine said in surprise; "What to do?"
The Mexican gave him a glance of strange meaning.
"To go to Bloodson's camp," he said resolutely.
A sad smile played round the Trail-hunter's lips. He pressed the young man's hand, saying in a sympathising voice—"Poor lad!"
"Let me go, Valentine, I implore you," he said earnestly.
The hunter unfastened a horse that was nibbling the young tree shoots in front of the lodge. "Go," he said, sadly, "go where your destiny drags you."
The young man thanked him warmly, leaped on the horse, and started off at full speed. Valentine looked after him for some time, and when the rider had disappeared, he gave vent to a profound sigh, as he murmured:
"He, too, loves—unhappy man!"
And he entered his mother's calli, to give her the morning kiss.