Chapter Seventy Six.
The History of the Huntress.
I had just made these observations as the Mexican clambered up the rock, and took stand by my side.
“Hijo de Dios!” exclaimed he, as his eyes fell upon the cross, “la crucifixion! What a conception for savages! Mira!” he continued, as another white cloud puffed out from behind the sloping side of the mound, and the report of a musket came booming up the valley, “Santissima! they are firing at the unfortunate!”
“Yes,” said I; “they are playing with one of my comrades, as they did yesterday with myself.”
“Ah, mio amigo! that is an old game of the Arapahoes. They used to practise it with their arrows, and for mere sport. Now that they have taken to guns, I suppose they combine instruction with amusement, as the books say. Carrambo! what cruel brutes they are! They have no more humanity than a grizzly bear. God help the poor wretch that falls into their clutches! Their captive women they treat with a barbarity unknown among other tribes. Even beauty, that would soften a savage of any other sort, is not regarded by these brutal Arapahoes. Only think of it! They were about to treat in this very fashion the beautiful Americana—the only difference being that they had strapped her to a tree instead of a crucifix. Carrai-i!”
“The beautiful Americana?”
“Yes—she who brought you to the camp.”
“What! She in the hands of the Arapahoes?”
“Sin duda; it was from them she was taken.”