“Only now.”
“Where?”
The man pointed to the scene of our accidental rencontre.
“He was going yonder,” said he; “he went among the trees—I saw him not after.”
This intelligence evidently increased the astonishment. It could not be comprehended why Wakono should be upon the ground, and yet not come forward to assert his claim. Had he abandoned it altogether?
The father of the claimant appeared as much puzzled as any one; he made no attempt to explain the absence of his son: he could not; he stood silent, and evidently in a state of mystification.
Several now suggested that a search be made for the absent warrior. It was proposed to send messengers throughout the camp—to search the grove.
My blood ran cold as I listened to the proposal; my knees trembled beneath me. I knew that if the grove was to be searched, I should have no chance of remaining longer concealed. The dress of Wakono was conspicuous; I saw that there was none other like it: no other wore a robe of jaguar-skins, and this would betray me. Even the paint would not avail: I should be led into the firelight; the counterfeit would be detected. I should be butchered upon the spot—perhaps tortured for the treatment we had given the true Wakono, which would soon become known.
My apprehensions had reached the climax of acuteness, when they were suddenly relieved by some words from the Spanish wolf.
“Why search for Wakono?” cried he; “Wakono knows his own name; it has been called and loud enough. Wakono has ears—surely he can hear for himself, if he be in the camp. Call him again, if you will!”