The Indians raised their tents on a hill, from the top of which a very extensive view could be enjoyed. They lit several fires, and prepared to pass the night in waiting for the other warriors to join them. Doña Clara was placed by herself in a tent of buffalo skins, in which a fire was lighted, as at this advanced season the nights are cold in the Far West.
Accustomed to desert life, and familiarised with Indian customs, Doña Clara would have patiently supported her position, had it not been for the thought of the misfortunes which had so long crushed her, and of her father's fate of which she was ignorant.
Seated on buffalo skins by the fire, she had just finished eating a few mouthfuls of roast elk, washed down with smilax water, and was reflecting deeply on the strange and terrible events which had marked this day, when the curtain of the tent was raised, and Black Cat appeared.
The chief was a man of lofty stature. He was upwards of sixty years of age, but his hair was still black. He enjoyed in his tribe a reputation for courage and wisdom, which he justified in every respect. A cloud of sorrow veiled his naturally soft and placid features. He walked slowly in, and took a seat by the side of Doña Clara, whom he regarded for some moments with interest.
"My daughter is afflicted," he said, "she is thinking of her father, her heart is with her family; but my daughter will take courage, and not be cast down. Natosh (God) will come to her, and dry her tears."
The young Mexican shook her head sadly, but made no reply; the chief continued—
"I also suffer: a cloud is very heavy on my mind. The paleface warriors of her nation wage an obstinate war with us, but I know the way to make them assume the feet of antelopes, to fly far from our hunting grounds. Tomorrow, on reaching the village of my tribe, I will have recourse to a great medicine. My daughter will console herself; no harm will happen to her among us; I will be her father."
"Chief," Doña Clara answered, "lead me back to Santa Fe, and I promise you my father will give you as many rifles, powder, bullets, and looking glasses as you like to ask of him."
"That is not possible; my daughter is too precious a hostage for me to think of surrendering her. My daughter must forget the whites, whom she will never see again, and prepare to become the wife of a chief."
"I!" the maiden exclaimed in terror, "Become the wife of an Indian? Never!—make me undergo all the tortures you please to inflict on me, instead of condemning me to such a punishment."