Only three or four warriors, easily recognised as chiefs by the vulture plumes they wore in their hair, were squatting around the fire, smoking with the mechanical gravity characteristic of the Indian.
By the hunter's order, the Mexicans slowly arose, and each man sheltered himself behind the trunk of a tree.
"I leave you here," whispered Stoneheart. "I am going to enter the camp. Keep still as death; and, whatever may happen, do not fire before you see me throw my cap on the ground."
He disappeared among the underwood.
From the spot where the travellers were hidden, they could easily see all that took place in the camp of the redskins, and even hear what was said; for only a few yards separated them from the fire round which the sachems crouched.
With bodies ensconced behind the trees, their fingers on the triggers of their rifles, their eyes fixed in feverish impatience on the camp, the Mexicans awaited the signal to give fire.
The few minutes preceding a night attack are very solemn. A man left alone with his thoughts on such an occasion, about to risk his life in pitiless strife, however brave he may be, feels himself seized by an instinctive dread, which sends a cold shudder thrilling through his frame. In that supreme hour he sees his whole life pass, as in a dream, with giddy rapidity before him, and the most abiding and predominant sensation is the thought of that which is to happen beyond the grave,—the dread unknown.
Some ten minutes had elapsed since the departure of the hunter, when a slight noise was heard in the brushwood on the opposite side of the camp to that where the Mexicans lay in ambush.
The Apache chiefs turned their heads negligently, the bushes parted, and Stoneheart made his appearance in the circle of light caused by the watch fires.
The hunter slowly approached the chiefs. When close to them, he stopped, and bowed ceremoniously, but without speaking.