The man had passed middle life: he was an Indian warrior of great height dressed in the Comanche costume in its utmost purity. Although he appeared to be sixty years of age, he seemed gifted with great vigour, and no sign of decrepitude could be traced in his muscular limbs and intelligent face: the eagle's feather fixed in the centre of his warlock allowed him to be recognised as a chief. This man was Eagle-head, the Comanche chief.
After laying his rifle by his side he collected dry wood, and lit a fire; then he threw several yards of tasajo on the ashes, with several maize tortillas; and all these preparations for a comfortable supper made, he filled his calumet, crouched near the fire, and began smoking with that placid calmness which never deserts the Indians under any circumstances.
Two hours thus passed peacefully, and nothing disturbed the repose the chief was enjoying. Night succeeded day; darkness had invaded the desert, and with it the silence of solitude began to reign in the mysterious depths of the prairie.
The Indian still remained motionless, contenting himself with turning now and then to his horse, which was gaily devouring the climbing peas and the young buds of the trees.
Suddenly Eagle-head looked up, bent forward, and, without otherwise disturbing himself, stretched out his hand to his rifle, while the mustang left off eating, laid back its ears, and neighed noisily. Still the forest appeared as calm as ever. It needed all an Indian's sharp ear to have heard a suspicious rustling through the silence.
At the end of a moment the chiefs frowning brows returned to their proper position, he re-assumed his easy posture, and lifting his two forefingers to his mouth, imitated with rare perfection, for two or three minutes, the harmonious, modulations of the centzontle, or Mexican nightingale: the horse had also begun eating again.
Only a few minutes passed ere the cry of the nighthawk was twice heard in the direction of the river. Soon after the sound of horses became audible, mingled with the cracking of branches and the rustling of leaves, and two mounted men made their appearance. The chief did not turn to see who they were; he had probably recognised them, and knew that they alone, or at any rate one of them, were to come to him here.
These two horsemen were Don Louis and Belhumeur. They hobbled their horses by the side of the chiefs, lay down by the fire, and, on the Indian's silent invitation, vigorously attacked the supper prepared for them. They had left the Rancho the previous evening, and ridden without the loss of a moment to join the chief.
The Count de Lhorailles had invited them at the pulquería to join his party, but Belhumeur had declined the offer. Not knowing for what purpose the Indian chief had appointed to meet him, he did not care to mix up a stranger in his friend's affairs. Still, the three men had parted on excellent terms, and the count pressed Don Louis and the Canadian to pay him a visit at Guetzalli, an offer to which they had replied evasively.
Singular is the effect of sympathy. The impression the count produced on the two adventurers was so unfavourable for him, that the latter, while replying with the utmost politeness, had not thought it wise to give their names, and had employed the greatest reserve, carrying their prudence to such an extent as to leave him ignorant of their nationality, by continuing to converse in Spanish, though at the first word he uttered they recognised him to be a Frenchman.