"Is my father really an adept of the great medicine?" Atoyac asked, fixing a searching glance on him.
"Did I not tell my brother so?" the hunter answered, who began to feel himself seriously threatened, and looked inquiringly at Flying Eagle. The latter smiled.
The Canadian reassured himself a little; it was plain that, if he saw any danger, the Comanche would not be so calm.
"Let my brother come with me, then, and bring with him the instruments of his art," Atoyac exclaimed.
It would not have been prudent to decline this invitation, though rather roughly given; besides, nothing proved to him that his host entertained evil designs against him. The hunter, therefore, accepted. "Let my brother walk in front; I will follow him," he contented himself with answering.
"Does my brother speak the tongue of the barbarous Gachupinos?"
"My nation lives near the boundless Salt Lake. The Palefaces are our neighbours; I understand, and speak slightly, the tongue they employ."
"All the better."
"Have I to cure a Paleface?" the Canadian inquired, anxious to know what was wanted of him.
"No," Atoyac replied. "One of the great Apache chiefs brought hither, some moons back, two women of the Palefaces. They are ill; the evil spirit has entered into them, and at this moment Death is spreading his wings over the couch on which they repose."