"Wait a minute; are you not Whistler?"
"All right, you remember now," the Canadian said with a laugh; for the person was really the hunter whom the reader saw for a moment at the village of the Papazos.
The tigrero uncocked his rifle, which he threw over his shoulder, and said to Marianna—"It is a friend."
"Are you quite sure of this man?" she asked in a low, quick voice.
"As of myself."
"Who is he?"
"A Canadian hunter or trapper. He has all the defects of the race, but at the same time all its qualities."
"I will believe you, for his countrymen are generally regarded as honest men. Ask him what he was doing on the skirt of the track."
Mariano obeyed.
"I was attending to my business," Whistler replied with a grin; "and pray what may you be doing, so poorly accompanied at this hour of the night, when the Indians have taken the field?"