Samaro was a very clever and very remarkable-looking Indian. Almost as tall as Tom himself, though probably double his age, with straight dark hair, and eyes of a piercing black, his face almost white, and singularly handsome. His poncho was of some light-coloured fur, and rather voluminous; while, as he stood with it thrown back over the arm which held his high feather-adorned spear and shield as well, in his girdle could be seen an ugly and business-like knife, and also a huge revolver. On his head was a cap of feathers, and there were toucan’s tails dangling to his girdle at one side, and something very dreadful to behold at the other. This was nothing more nor less than the complete skin of the head and face of an enemy killed in battle, filled out with moss, but shrivelled to the size of a cocoa-nut, the features awfully pinched and contorted, and the whole appearance of the horrible ornament ugly enough to give one the nightmare.
“Señor Samaro?” said Tom.
“De Debil, señor, at your service.”
“We will call you Samaro.”
“Si, señor. Samaro will do.”
“Well, Samaro, I like the looks of you; though I don’t admire that ornament at your belt.”
“I do not admire that ornament at your side, señor.”
“That,” said Tom laughing. “O, that is my pet cat; and he must be your friend as well as mine.”
“That is well. I will love him.”
“Then we won’t quarrel.”