Powerfully organised, submitting to strict discipline, this band had spies in every direction, who kept them well informed, not only as to the number and strength of caravans about to cross the desert, with their destination, but as to the expeditions sent out by Government against themselves. By these means they were always on their guard and never taken by surprise.
The chief of this terrible band was said to have only been six years in America, and yet he knew all the secrets of the desert; he was as clever as the most cunning and astute runner of the woods, quite equal to any redskin in deceit. He was supposed to be a Frenchman, though he spoke English, Spanish, and many Indian languages equally well. He was called Querehard, Sambrun, Magnaud, Tom Mitchell, and various other names.
But none knew his real one, though some did whisper that he was the chief of a certain fearful band who had played so terrible a part during the Reign of Terror.
Many asserted that he was not so bad as he was painted—that, in fact, though chief of this fearful crew, he always tried to prevent bloodshed, that he never allowed women and children to be ill-treated.
He was said to be very generous, and had as many friends as enemies.
Whatever the truth, Tom Mitchell was a kind of hero; the American and Spanish Governments had placed a price upon his head; but no one ever ventured to try for the reward of ten thousand dollars.
After the medicine council we have recorded, Numank-Charake and his two friends continued their journey.
On the seventh day, an hour before the setting of the sun, they reached a village built in the fork of two rivers.
The village was surrounded by lofty palisades, with a ditch full of water, and drawbridges.
The travellers came up just as these were being removed.