"Who am I?" he said in a melancholy voice. "What matters, since I wish to serve you?"
"Still, as we answered your questions, we have a right to expect the same from you."
"That is just," the stranger said, "and you shall be satisfied. I am the man with the hundred names: in Mexico I am called Don Luis Arroyal, partner in the firm of Simpson, Carvalho, and Company—in the northern provinces of Mexico, where I have long rendered myself popular by foolish squandering, El Gambusino—on the coasts of the United States, and in the Gulf of Mexico, where I sometimes command a cutter, and chase the slavers, I am called the Unknown—among the North Americans, the Son of Blood—but my real name, and the one men give me who know the little about me I think proper to tell them—it is la Venganza (Vengeance). Are you satisfied now, gentlemen?"
No one replied. The hunters had all heard of this extraordinary man, about whom the strangest rumours were rife in Mexico, the United States, and even on the prairie. By the side of heroic deeds, and acts of kindness deserving all praise, he was branded with crimes of unheard-of cruelty and unexampled ferocity. He inspired a mysterious terror in the whites and redskins, who equally feared to come in contact with him, though no proof had ever yet been brought forward of the contradictory stories told about him.
Valentine and his comrades had frequently heard talk of Bloodson; but this was the first time they had found themselves face to face with him; and, in spite of themselves, they were surprised to see so noble and handsome a man. Valentine was the first to regain his coolness.
"For a long time," he said, "your name has been familiar to me. I was anxious to know you. The opportunity offers, and I am pleased with it, as I shall be at length able to judge you, which was hitherto impossible, through the exaggerated stories told about you. You say that you can be useful to us in the enterprise we are meditating, and we accept your offer as frankly as you make it. On an expedition like this, the help of a brave man must not be despised—the more so, as the man we wish to force in his lair is dangerous."
"More than you imagine," the stranger interrupted him in a gloomy voice. "I have been struggling with Red Cedar for twenty years, and have not yet managed to crush him. Ah! He is a rough adversary! I know it, for I am his most implacable enemy, and have in vain tried all the means at my command to take an exemplary vengeance on him."
While uttering these words, the stranger's face had assumed a livid tint; his features were contracted, and he seemed to be suffering from an extraordinary emotion. Valentine looked at him for an instant with a mingled feeling of pity and sympathy. The hunter, who had suffered so much, knew, like all wounded souls, how to feel for the grief of men who, like himself, bore their adversity worthily.
"We will help you," he said, as he cordially offered him his hand, "Instead of five, we shall be six, to fight him."
The stranger's eye flashed forth a strange gleam. He squeezed the offered hand, and answered in a dull voice, but with an expression impossible to render: