"Yes," Don Martial remarked, "but there is one thing you forget."
"What?"
"I live on the frontier, and have long been accustomed to Indian tactics. The Apaches will arrive, preceded by a curtain of smoke; the plain will be only one vast sheet of flame, in the midst of which we shall struggle in vain, and which will end by swallowing us up, if we do not take the proper precautions."
"That is true: it is a serious matter. Unfortunately, I only see one way of escaping from the danger, and that we cannot employ."
"What is it?"
"By Jove! Making off."
"I know another," Eagle-head observed.
"You, chief? Then you will tell us of it."
"Let the palefaces listen. The Rio Gila, like all other large rivers, brings down with it dead trees, at times in such quantities that at certain spots they completely block up the passage, in time these trees press against each other, and their branches become entwined; then grass grows, to cement them more firmly together; the sand and earth are piled up gradually on these immense rafts, which at a distance resemble islands, until a storm comes as a flood, which breaks up the raft, and bears it away."
"I know that. I have seen frequent instances of it, chief," Belhumeur said. "These rafts at last grow to look so like islands that the man most accustomed to desert life and the grand spectacles of nature is frequently deceived by them. I understand all the advantages your idea possesses for us; but, unhappily, I do not see how it will be possible for us to carry it out."