"Come, chief," the hunter said, quickly, "we must rejoin our friends; help us; if not, they are lost."
"Good," Black Cat answered; "the pale hunter will place himself, with his friend, in the midst of my detachment; in a few minutes he will be on the hill. Above all, the pale chief must leave me to act."
"Do so; I trust entirely to you."
Black Cat said a few words in a low voice to the warriors who accompanied him; they at once collected round the two hunters, who entirely disappeared in their midst.
"Oh, oh," Don Pablo said, anxiously, "just look at this, my friend."
Valentine smiled as he took his arm.
"I have read the chief's intention," he said, "he is employing the only way possible. Do not be alarmed, all is for the best."
Black Cat placed himself at the head of his detachment, and gave a signal. A fearful yell burst through the air—the Buffalo tribe had sounded its war cry. The Apaches, carrying the two men with them, rushed furiously toward the hill, and ere Valentine and Don Pablo knew what was happening, they had rejoined their friends, and Black Cat's warriors fled in every direction, as if a fearful panic had seized on them.
Still the fight was not over; Stanapat's Indians rushed like tigers on the palisades, and let themselves be killed without recoiling an inch. The fight, if prolonged, must end fatally to the whites, whose strength was becoming exhausted. Stanapat and Red Cedar understood this, and hence redoubled their efforts to crush the enemy.
Suddenly, at the moment when the Apaches rushed furiously against the whites to attempt a final assault; the war cry of the Coras was heard, mingled with the discharge of firearms. The Apaches were surprised, and hesitated; Red Cedar looked around, and uttered a curse; the war cry of the Comanches rose behind the camp.