Poor Carlos! This indignity, to be tied like a criminal and with his own rope, was so bitter that anger rose and banished fear. He tossed his head defiantly, squared his shoulders, and gazed unflinchingly down the shallow valley along which he must ride to his fate.
Those who followed glanced admiringly at his superb little figure, riding proud and unsupported, and many nods of satisfaction were exchanged among them. Such a small brave would be a worthy addition to their tribe.
After a time, the valley turned sharply toward the northwestern mountains, and the prisoner fixed his gaze upon them, sadly thinking:
“How little did I dream of entering them like this! Poor, poor Carlota! Her heart will break.”
Stop! He must not think of Carlota. He must think of nothing that would unman him. If he must die there, in the wilderness, it should be as became his father’s son!
CHAPTER XXIII
IN THE DARKNESS
But Carlos was not to die.
The Indians, into whose hands he had fallen, were of the most peaceable tribe left in the wide west—Zunis, of the Pueblos; and it was toward one of their villages, or pueblos—from which they take their race name—that they now conducted him. They had recently been greatly harassed by some of their lawless neighbors and intended to make an example of their captive, though without personal injury.
As they advanced on their journey Carlos noticed in surprise that there were fine fields of corn and well cultivated vineyards along the banks of a stream and felt that they must be nearing some great rancho. He had heard his father describe the curious villages of the Pueblos and hoped that it was to such a place that he was being taken; for, even in this strait, his curiosity was great and he was eager to see new things. Moreover, the ride continued so long that his spirits rose as he reflected:
“Evidently, they aren’t going to kill me yet awhile.”