"That is probable," Valentine said with a smile.
And he descended from the top of the tomb where he had hitherto been standing.
As the reader has already learned, Valentine was not mistaken. The Apaches had really arrived on that night at a short distance from the hill, and the scout found the trail of the whites. According to all probability, a terrible collision was imminent between them and the redskins; those two races whom a mortal hatred divides, and who never meet on the prairie without trying to destroy each other. Valentine noticed the Apache scout when he came to reconnoitre the hill; he then went down to the general, and said with that tone of mockery habitual to him—
"Well, my dear friend, do you still fancy I am mistaken?"
"I never said so," the general exclaimed quickly; "Heaven keep me from it! Still, I frankly confess that I should have preferred your being mistaken. As you see, I display no self-esteem; but what would you have? I am like that, I would sooner fight ten of my countrymen than one of these accursed Indians."
"Unfortunately," Valentine said with a smile, "at this moment you have no choice, my friend."
"That is true, but do not be alarmed; however annoyed I may feel, I shall do my duty as a soldier."
"Oh! Who doubts it, my dear general?"
"Caspita, nobody, I know: but no matter, you shall see."
"Well, good night; try to get a little rest, for I warn you that we shall be attacked tomorrow at sunrise."