After uttering these friendly words, the squatter seized the jar of mezcal, emptied it at a draught, and sent it flying across the room, where it broke to pieces.
"Good bye till tomorrow," he then said, "come, Nathan."
"Till tomorrow," they answered.
The squatter and his son left the rancho, and walked on silently side by side, plunged in gloomy reflections produced by the events of the night. They soon left the town. The night was gloomy, but darkness did not exist for squatters accustomed to find their way anywhere, and never dreaming of going astray. They walked thus for a long time, with slung rifle, not exchanging a word, but listening to the slightest noise and sounding, the darkness with their tiger-cat eyes. All at once they heard the firm footfall of a man coming towards them. They cocked their rifles, ready for any emergency. A voice was then heard, though the person to whom it belonged was invisible.
"My brothers must not fire; they would kill a friend."
The words were Apache—a language well known to the squatters.
"Tis an Indian," said Nathan.
"Do you think I did not recognise him?" Red Cedar replied, brutally; "then," he added, in the same dialect, "there are no friends in the shadow of the desert. My brother must get out of my path, or I will kill him like a coyote."
"Is it thus," the Indian continued, "that the 'maneater' receives the guide whom Stanapat, the Great Chief of the Apaches, sends him? In that case, good-bye. I will retire."
"One moment," the squatter said, sharply, as he lowered his rifle, and made his son a sign to follow his example. "I could not guess who you were. Advance without fear and be welcome, brother, for I was anxiously expecting you."