When Shaw had disappeared among the bushes, and Ellen, after taking a final glance around to convince herself that all was in order, re-entered the hut that served her as a shelter, Nathan rose cautiously, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and rushed after his brother. Another reason urged him to foil Shaw and Ellen's plans; he had a double grudge against Don Miguel—the first for the stab the Mexican gentlemen had given his father; the second because Don Miguel had compelled him to leave the forest in which his family had so daringly installed itself.
Convinced of the importance of the affair, and knowing the value the squatter attached to carrying off the maiden, who was a most precious hostage for him, Nathan did not lose a moment, but reached Santa Fe by the most direct route, bounding with the agility of a tiger cat over the obstacles that beset his path. Presently he reached an isolated house, not far from which several men were conversing together in a low voice. Nathan stopped and listened; but he was too far off, and could distinguish nothing. The squatter's son, reared in the desert, was thoroughly versed in all its stratagems; with the piercing eye of a man accustomed to night journeys in the prairie, he recognised well-known persons, and his mind was at once made up.
He laid himself on the ground, and following the shadow cast by the moon, lest he might be perceived by the speakers, he advanced, inch by inch, crawling like a serpent, stopping at intervals lest the waving of the grass might reveal his presence, in short, employing all the precautions usual under such circumstances. At length he reached a clump of Peru trees only a few yards distant from the spot where the men he wished to overhear were standing. He then got up, leaned against the largest tree, and prepared to listen. His expectations were not deceived; though a few words escaped him here and there, he was near enough perfectly to catch the sense of the conference. This conversation was, in truth, most interesting to him; a sinister smile lit up his face, and he eagerly clenched the barrel of his rifle.
Presently the party broke into two. Valentine, Curumilla, and Unicorn, took the road leading to the open country, while Don Pablo and Father Seraphin returned toward the town. Valentine and his two friends almost touched the young man as they passed, and he instinctively carried his hands to his pistols; they even stopped for a moment and cast suspicious glances at the clump that concealed their foe. While conversing in whispers, Unicorn drew a few branches aside and peered in; for some seconds Nathan felt an indescribable agony; a cold perspiration stood at the root of his hair and the blood coursed to his heart; in a word, he was afraid. He knew that if these men, his mortal enemies, discovered him, they would be pitiless to him and kill him like a dog. But this apprehension did not last longer than a lightning flash. Unicorn carelessly let the leafy curtain fall again, saying only one word to his comrades:—
"Nothing."
The latter resumed their march.
"I do not know why," said Valentine, "but I fancy there is someone hidden there."
"No," the chief answered, "there is nobody."
"Well, be it so," the hunter muttered, with a toss of his head.
So soon, as he was alone, Nathan drew two or three deep breaths, and started in pursuit of Don Pablo and the missionary, whom he soon caught up. As they did not suppose they were followed, they were conversing freely together.