Towards three o'clock in the morning, just as the first pearly notes issued from the throats of the mawkawis[1] nestled among the leaves, the Tigercat and Don Torribio rose from their beds, armed themselves for the fight, and issued forth from their toldos, followed by several Apache braves, directing their silent and rapid steps towards the centre of the camp, where the sachems of the tribes, crouched on their haunches around an immense brasier, smoked the war calumet while waiting for the great chief.
When the Tigercat appeared, the Indians rose in a body to reverence their leader.
The Tigercat, returning their salute, made them a sign to be seated, and turning to the amantzin, or sorcerer, who stood by his side. "Will the Master of life remain neutral?" he asked. "Will the Wacondah be propitious to the Apache braves? Or will he be adverse to the war his Indian sons, united before the stone atepelt (village) of the palefaces, are going to wage this day against their oppressors?"
"At the bidding of the chiefs," replied the amantzin, "I will question the Master of life."
Then, drawing himself up to his full height, he wrapped his bison robe about him, and thrice paced round the fire, marching from left to right, and muttering words unintelligible to all, and which yet seemed to have a mysterious meaning. At the third round, he poured a coui (a small vessel) of water, sweetened with smilax, into a cup of reeds, plaited so closely that not a drop escaped. Next, having dipped a sprig of wormwood in the coui, he sprinkled the assembled sachems, and emptied the water in three separate portions towards the rising sun.
Then, bending his body forward, with outstretched head and expanded arms, he appeared to listen to sounds perceptible to him alone.
At the end of a few seconds the mawkawis lifted up his song again, on the right of his sorcerer. Immediately his face contorted itself, and grew horrible to look at; his bloodshot eyes seemed ready to start from their orbits; a whitish foam oozed from the corners of his compressed lips; a livid pallor overspread his features; his limbs were convulsed, and his body was agitated by violent distortions.
"The Spirit comes! The Spirit comes!" muttered the Indians, in superstitious terror.
"Silence!" cried the Tigercat; "The wise man is about to speak."
In fact, a painful hissing issued from the distorted mouth of the amantzin, which changed by slow degrees into words, unintelligible at first, but soon pronounced sufficiently distinctly to be understood by all.