A Dinner with Two Dishes.
El Sol, I have said, was standing over the prostrate Indian. His countenance indicated the blending of two emotions, hate and triumph.
His sister at this moment galloped up, and, leaping from her horse, advanced rapidly forward.
“Behold!” said he, pointing to the Navajo chief; “behold the murderer of our mother!”
The girl uttered a short, sharp exclamation; and, drawing a knife, rushed upon the captive.
“No, Luna!” cried El Sol, putting her aside; “no; we are not assassins. That is not revenge. He shall not yet die. We will show him alive to the squaws of the Maricopa. They shall dance the mamanchic over this great chief—this warrior captured without a wound!”
El Sol uttered these words in a contemptuous tone. The effect was visible on the Navajo.
“Dog of a Coco!” cried he, making an involuntary struggle to free himself; “dog of a Coco! leagued with the pale robbers. Dog!”
“Ha! you remember me, Dacoma? It is well—”
“Dog!” again ejaculated the Navajo, interrupting him; and the words hissed through his teeth, while his eyes glared with an expression of the fiercest malignity.