Natah Otann raised his arm. At this signal the warriors drove in their knees, and the horses started like a hurricane. No one, who has not witnessed it, can form an idea of an Indian chase: nothing stops the Redskins—no obstacle is powerful enough to make them deviate from their course; they go in a straight line, rolling like a human whirlwind across the prairie crossing gulleys, ravines, and rocks, with dizzy rapidity. Natah Otann, the Count, and his two companions, were at the head of the cavalcade, closely followed by the warriors. All at once the chief checked his horse, shouting at the top of his voice—
"Halt!"
All obeyed, as if by enchantment: the horses stopped dead, and remained motionless, as if their feet were planted in the ground.
"Why stop?" the Count asked; "we had better push on."
"It is useless," the chief said, calmly; "let my Pale brother look before him."
The Count bent on his horse's neck.
"I can see nothing," he said.
"That is true," the Indian said; "I forgot that my brother has the eyes of the Palefaces; in a few minutes he will see."
The Blackfeet anxiously collected round their chief, whom they questioned with their glances. The latter, apparently impassive, looked straight ahead, distinguishing in the darkness objects invisible to all but himself. The Indians, however, had not long to wait, for some horsemen soon came up at full speed. When they arrived near Natah Otann's party, they stopped.
"What has happened?" the chief asked, sternly; "why are my sons running away thus? They are not warriors I see, but timid women."