He was dead.
His distorted features and his open eyes still preserved the expression of hatred and despair which had animated him to the last.
The hunters surveyed him for an instant, and then, shaking off this painful impression, they set about the duty of paying the last honours to the remains of the unfortunate victims of Indian rage.
By the last rays of the setting sun, they completed the melancholy task which they had imposed upon themselves.
After a short rest, Loyal Heart arose, and saddling his horse, said,—
"Now, brother, let us place ourselves on the trail of Eagle Head."
"Come on," the hunter replied.
The two men cast around them a long and sad farewell glance, and whistling their dogs, they boldly entered the forest, in the depths of which the Comanches had disappeared.
At this moment the moon arose amidst an ocean of vapour, and profusely scattered her melancholy beams upon the ruins of the American village, in which solitude and death were doomed to reign for ever.