“Pish! ’Ee dod-rotted ole liar!” cries Rube, pushing out of the crowd, and raising his cat-skin cap as he speaks. “’Ee know this child, do ’ee?”
The skinless head is discovered to the gaze of the Indians. A murmur, indicative of alarm, is heard among them. The white-haired chief seems disconcerted. He knows the history of that scalp!
A murmur, too, runs through the ranks of the hunters. They had seen white faces as they rode up. The lie exasperates them, and the ominous click of rifles being cocked is heard on all sides.
“You have spoken falsely, old man,” cries Seguin. “We know you have white captives. Bring them forth, then, if you would save your own lives!”
“Quick!” shouts Garey, raising his rifle in a threatening manner; “quick! or I’ll dye the flax on yer old skull.”
“Patience, amigo! you shall see our white people; but they are not captives. They are our daughters, the children of Montezuma.”
The Indian descends to the third story of the temple. He enters a door, and presently returns, bringing with him five females dressed in the Navajo costume. They are women and girls, and, as anyone could tell at a glance, of the Hispano-Mexican race.
But there are those present who know them still better. Three of them are recognised by as many hunters, and recognise them in turn. The girls rush out to the parapet, stretch forth their arms, and utter exclamations of joy. The hunters call to them—
“Pepe!” “Rafaela!” “Jesusita!” coupling their names with expressions of endearment. They shout to them to come down, pointing to the ladders.
“Bajan, niñas, bajan! aprisa, aprisa!” (Come down, dear girls! quickly, quickly!)