“C’est vrai, monsieur. I vas prisonnier in le nation; not Navagh, but l’Apache—moch de same—pour tree mons. I have les sauvages seen manger—eat—one—deux—tree—tree enfants rotis, like hump rib of de buffles. C’est vrai, messieurs, c’est vrai.”
“It is quite true; both Apaches and Navajoes carry off children from the valley, here, in their grand forays; and it is said by those who should know, that most of them are used in that way. Whether as a sacrifice to the fiery god Quetzalcoatl, or whether from a fondness lor human flesh, no one has yet been able to determine. In fact, with all their propinquity to this place, there is little known about them. Few who have visited their towns have had Gode’s luck to get away again. No man of these parts ever ventures across the western Sierras.”
“And how came you, Monsieur Gode, to save your scalp?”
“Pourquoi, monsieur, je n’ai pas. I not haves scalp-lock: vat de trappare Yankee call ‘har,’ mon scalp-lock is fabriqué of von barbier de Saint Louis. Voilà monsieur!”
So saying, the Canadian lifted his cap, and along with it what I had, up to this time, looked upon as a beautiful curling head of hair, but which now proved to be only a wig!
“Now, messieurs!” cried he, in good humour, “how les sauvages my scalp take? Indien no have cash hold. Sacr–r–r!”
Saint Vrain and I were unable to restrain our laughter at the altered and comical appearance of the Canadian.
“Come, Gode! the least you can do after that is to take a drink. Here, help yourself!”
“Très-oblige, Monsieur Saint Vrain. Je vous remercie.” And the ever-thirsty voyageur quaffed off the nectar of El Paso, like so much fresh milk.
“Come, Haller! we must to the waggons. Business first, then pleasure; such as we may find here among these brick stacks. But we’ll have some fun in Chihuahua.”