"Will he come back alone?"
"I do not know."
The Indian fixed a glance on him, as if trying to read his very heart. The lepero was calm: he had honestly told all he knew.
"Good!" the chief continued the next moment. "Did not the Great Buffalo agree on a signal with his friend, in order to rejoin when he pleased?"
"He did."
"What is, that signal?"
At this question a singular idea crossed Cucharés' brain. The leperos belong to a strange race, which only bears a likeness to the Neapolitan lazzaroni. At once prodigal and avaricious, greedy and disinterested, extremely rash, and frightful cowards, they are the strangest medley of all that is good and all that is bad. In them everything is blunted and imperfect. They only act on the impulse of the moment, without reflection, or passion. Eternal mockers, they believe in nothing and yet believe in everything. To sum them up in a word, their life is a constant antithesis; and for a jest which may cost their life they would sacrifice their most devoted friend, just as they will save him.
Cucharés was a perfect personification of this eccentric race. Though the Apache chief's knife was scarce two inches from his breast, and he knew that his ferocious enemy would show him no mercy, he suddenly resolved to play him a trick, no matter the cost. We will not add that his friendship for Don Martial unconsciously pleaded on his behalf, for we repeat that the lepero feels no friendship for any one, not even himself, and that his heart only exists in the shape of bowels.
"The chief wishes to know the signal?" he said.
"Yes," the Apache replied,