“No; but the enemies of the Utahs.”
“The Utahs have many enemies—on the north, south, east, and west they have foes. Whence comes the stranger? and who has been spilling his blood?”
“From the east—from the Arapahoes.”
“Ugh!” exclaimed the chief, with a start, his countenance suddenly becoming clouded with an angry expression. “Arapahoes! Where has the pale-face encountered the Arapahoes?”
“On the Huerfano.”
“Good; the white huntress brings news that will gladden the hearts of the Utah warriors! Arapahoes on the Huerfano! who has seen them there?” The huntress replied by pointing to me. “He has been their captive,” she added, “and has just escaped from them. He can guide Wa-ka-ra to their camp, where the Utah chief will find his deadliest enemy—Red-Hand.”
At the mention of this name, the cloud that was gathering upon the brow of the Utah chief became darker by several shades, and the mild expression was no longer observable. In its place was a look of fierce resolve, blended with glances that spoke a savage joy. Some old and terrible resentment was rekindled by the name—with a hope, no doubt, of its being gratified?
The chief now entered upon a series of interrogatories directed to myself. He spoke English—thanks to his trapper associations: and it was in this language he had been conversing with the huntress. His inquiries were directed to such particulars as might put him in possession of the necessary knowledge for an attack upon the Arapahoes. As concisely as possible, I made known their position and numbers—with other circumstances calculated to aid in the design. The account I gave seemed to gratify him. As soon as our dialogue was ended, I had the satisfaction to hear him declare his intention of proceeding at once to the valley of the Huerfano! To me it was joyful news: my comrades might yet be rescued from the hands of the Arapahoes?
“Ma-ra-nee!” said he, again addressing himself to the huntress, “conduct the stranger to your tent! Give him food. And you, Cojo!” he continued, turning to the little Mexican, “you are skilled in medicine—look to his wounds! He can repose while we are preparing. Ho! sound the signal of assembly! Summon our braves to the war-dance!”
The last words were addressed to an Indian who was standing close behind him. Quickly succeeding the order, the notes of a bugle burst upon the air—strange sounds in an Indian camp! But the white man’s music was not the only sign of civilised life to be observed among the tents of the Utahs. The guns and pistols—the spurs, lances, and saddles—the shakos and helmets—all spoke of the spoiled presidios on the Mexican frontier; while fair-skinned doncellas of Spanish race were seen mingling with the copper-coloured squaws—aiding them in their domestic duties—captives to all appearance contented with their captivity! None of this was new to me. I had witnessed similar scenes in the land of the Comanche. They are of daily occurrence along the whole frontier of Spanish America: where the red man constantly encroaches—reclaiming the country of his ancestors, wrested from him three centuries ago by the cupidity of the Conquistadores.