At this point, the chief uttered an exclamation, spoke several words, and lit a large ornamented pipe. The trapper immediately replied.
“Can you understand him?” inquired Mr. Bonfield.
“Yes; he speaks the Apache tongue.”
“What did he say?”
“He announced himself as Cherouka, mighty chief of the Apaches, and that he was our friend, which you know is the thunderingest lie ever told.”
Cherouka took a few whiffs at the pipe, passed it to his neighbor, who imitated him, and in this manner it passed the entire circuit, including the white men. This was an official declaration of friendship, but it deceived no one.
The way being now opened, Cherouka recognizing Lancaster, as his “man,” addressed his words to him, while the trapper responded promptly and unmistakably. The language, as a matter of course was all “Greek” to the emigrants, who could only gain a knowledge of its meaning, when their guide chose to enlighten them.
The first remark of the Apache was a repetition of his friendship, and his best wishes for the safe advance of the party “toward the setting sun.” This was “chaff” and was so understood by him who comprehended the words, who replied in the usual diplomatic manner, returning the hypocritical professions, and seeking to draw the real meaning from the crafty Apache.
But it seemed impossible to get any word from Cherouka, explanatory of his true object in thus visiting a camp of people, between whom and his own kindred it was generally understood, the most implacable enmity existed. This fact convinced the shrewd guide, that the whole thing was a ruse to cover some hidden design.
As Lancaster looked the painted redskin in the face his own wits were busy, and his keen eyes constantly wandered hither, and to make sure that he should not be surprised by any sudden coup-d’etat of the enemy. Finally the presence of the two Comanches in the party, gave him as he believed the correct clew.