It took them but a few days to make their purchases, but it was at least three weeks before the train started. The Mexicans, meanwhile, had stayed about a week at the chief hotel, and then had left on a steamer for their own country. Phil heard that there had been much talk about the high-handed manner of young Armijo, and that he had been extremely disagreeable to all about him. The older man, Zucorra, who was milder and more diplomatic, had sought to restrain him, but with no success. It was a relief when they were gone.
The boy, still curious about the Comanche, looked for him once more on the levee. More hogsheads of tobacco and sugar were there, but the Indian was not leaning against any of them. At last he found him in one of the inns or taverns frequented by sailors and roustabouts, a rough place at any time, and crowded then with men from the ships and boats. The Indian was sitting in a corner, huddled down in a chair, in much the same attitude of sloth and indifference that he had shown when leaning against the hogshead. Phil saw that when he stood up he would be a tall man, and his figure, if it were not flabby, would be powerful.
Phil was intensely interested. The Indian had always appealed to his romantic imagination, and, now that he saw one of the race close at hand, he wished to learn more. He sat down near the man, and, not knowing what else to say, remarked that it was a fine day. The Comanche raised his head a little, and bent upon Phil a look like that he had given to Breakstone. It was a piercing glance, full of anger and hatred. Then the glowing eyes were veiled, and his head dropped back on his arms. He did not utter a word in reply.
The innkeeper, who had noticed the brief incident, laughed.
"Don't you try to get up a conversation with Black Panther, my boy," he said. "He ain't what you would call a pow'ful talker."
"No, I suppose he wouldn't talk anybody to death," said Phil. "What is he?"
"He's a tame Comanche, an' he's been loafing around New Orleans for two or three months--learnin' the white man's vices, 'specially the drinkin' of fire water, which he keeps first on the list. You can see what it's done for him--taken all the pith right out of him, same as you would take it out of a length of elder to make a pop gun. I reckon New Orleans ain't no place for an Indian. Hello, what's the matter with Black Panther?"
The Indian uttered a short, savage exclamation that startled every one in the place, and sprang to his feet. His long coal black hair was thrown back from his face, and he seemed to be alive in every fiber. The eyes were like two points of fire.
"Black Panther was a great warrior and a chief," he said. "He has been a dog in the white man's town, and he has burned his brain with fire water until it is like that of a little child. But he will be a great warrior and a chief again. Now, I go."
He gathered a tattered old blanket around his shoulders, and, holding himself erect, stalked in savage dignity out of the place.