When the camp was plunged in silence, and everybody asleep, Valentine proceeded cautiously in the direction where the Apache chief lay bound, who watched him come up with a very peculiar glance. Not saying a word, the hunter, after assuring himself that nobody was watching his movements, cut all the cords that bound him. The Apache bounded like a jaguar, but fell back again on the ground; the cords had been tied so securely that they had entered into his flesh.
"My brother must be prudent," the Frenchman said gently. "I wish to save him."
He then took his flask and poured a few drops of brandy on the pallid lips of the chief, who gradually recovered, and at length stood on his feet. Bending a searching glance on the man who so generously paid him attentions he was far from expecting, he asked in a hoarse voice—
"Why does the pale hunter wish to save me?"
"Because," Valentine answered, without hesitation, "my brother is a great warrior in his nation, and must not die. He is free."
And holding out his hand to the chief, he helped him to walk. The Indian followed him unresistingly, but without a word. On reaching the spot where the horses of the tribe were picketed, Valentine selected one, saddled it, and led it to the Apache, who, during the hunter's short absence, had remained motionless on the same spot.
"My brother will mount," he said.
The warrior was still so weak that Valentine was compelled to help him into the saddle.
"Can my brother keep on his horse?" he asked, with tender solicitude.
"Yes," the Apache answered, laconically.