No doubt, should he go there on the morrow, they would tell him that Panés were in the neighbourhood, that it was they who had stolen his mules—the mules of course he would not see, as these would be safely concealed among the hills.
“No, Antonio,” he said, after making these reflections, “our enemies are the Wacoes themselves.”
“Master,” replied Antonio, “I hope not.”
“I hope not, too, camarado. I had taken a fancy to our friends of but yesterday: I should be sorry to find them our foes—but I fear it is even so.”
With all, Carlos was not confident; and now that he reflected, another circumstance came to his mind in favour of the Wacoes. His companions had also noted it.
That circumstance was the running of the buffaloes observed during the past few days. The gangs had passed from the north, going southward; and their excited manner was almost a proof that they were pressed by a party of hunters. The Wacoes were all this time hunting to the south of the cibolero’s camp! This would seem to indicate that some other Indians were upon the north. What more likely than a band of Panés?
Again Carlos reproached himself for his too hasty suspicions of his new friends. His mind was filled with doubts. Perhaps these would be resolved by the light of the morning.
As soon as day should arrive, he had resolved to go to the Waco camp, and satisfy himself, or at all events openly make his inquiries.
The first streaks of daylight were just falling upon the prairie, when the quick keen eye of the half-blood, ranging the ground in every direction, was arrested by the appearance of something odd upon the grass. It lay near the spot where the mulada had been picketed. It was a darkish object in a recumbent position. Was it bushes or gorse? No. It could not be that. Its outlines were different. It was more like some animal lying down—perhaps a large wolf? It was near the place where they had fancied that they saw something in the darkness, and at which Carlos had fired.