I was puzzled, perplexed, furious. I knew no explanation of the mystery—I could think of none. Who could have done it? Who? My followers must have done it. Rube must have done it? but why? In my hot haste, I could find no reason for this singular behaviour.
I had no time to reflect—not a moment.
I drew the animal from the water, and leaping upon his back, rode out of the channel.
As I regained the level of the plain, I saw mounted men, a crowd of them coming from the camp. They were the savages in pursuit; one was far ahead of the rest, and before I could turn my horse to flee, he was close up to me. In the moonlight I easily recognised him—it was Hissoo-royo the renegade.
“Slave!” shouted he, speaking in the Comanche tongue, and with furious emphasis, “it is you who have planned this. Squaw! coward! you shall die! The white captive is mine—mine, Wakono! and you—”
He did not finish the sentence. I still carried the Comanche spear; my six months’ service in a lance-regiment now stood me in stead; the mustang behaved handsomely, and carried me full tilt upon my foe.
In another instant the renegade and his horse were parted; the former lay levelled upon the grass, transfixed with the long spear, while the latter was galloping riderless over the plain!
At this crisis I perceived the crowd coming up, and close to the spot. There were twenty or more, and I saw that I should soon be surrounded.
A happy idea came opportunely to my relief. All along I had observed that I was mistaken for Wakono. The Indians in the camp had cried “Wakono;” the horse-guards shouted “Wakono” as I passed; the pursuers were calling “Wakono” as they rode up; the renegade had fallen with the name upon his lips: the spotted horse; the robe of jaguar-skins, the plumed head-dress, the red hand, the white cross, all proclaimed me Wakono!
I urged my horse a length or two forward, and reined up in front of the pursuers. I raised my arm, and shook it in menace before their faces; at the same instant, I cried out in a loud voice—