On both sides of the intrenchment corpses covered the ground; half burnt-out piles of wood cast their red light upon the bloody scenes of this struggle; the shouts of enemies, the repeated discharge of firearms, and the whistling of bullets followed each other uninterruptedly. The hideous figures of the Indians looked more hideous still in the strange light.
One point in the intrenchment had given way before the incessant attacks; and here, dead or wounded, its defenders had yielded to enemies who seemed to swarm from the ground. At this point there was an instant of horrible confusion. A pêle mêle of bodies interlaced, over which appeared the plumes of the Indian warriors. Soon, however, the line of the adventurers, broken for an instant, reformed before a group of Indians who were rushing like wild beasts into the middle of the camp.
Oroche and Baraja left the point which they were still defending, and found themselves face to face with their enemies, this time with nothing to separate them. Amidst the group of Indians, whose lances and hatchets fell indiscriminately upon horses, mules and men, the chief was recognisable by his vast height, the painting of his face and his great strength.
It was the second time that he had faced the whites since the commencement of the campaign, and his name was known to them.
“Here, Diaz,” cried Baraja, “here is the Spotted Cat!”
At the name of Diaz, which had already reached him, the Indian chief looked round for him who bore it, with eyes which seemed to dart flames, and raised his lance to strike Diaz, when a blow from Oroche’s knife wounded his horse. The Indian thrown to the ground, let fall his lance. Diaz seized it, and while the chief raised himself on one knee and endeavoured to draw his sword, the lance which he had dropped, pierced his naked breast, and came out between his shoulders. Although mortally wounded, the Indian uttered no cry, his eyes never lost their haughty menace, and his face expressed only rage.
“The Spotted Cat dies not so easily,” said he, and with a vigorous hand he seized the wood of the lance still held by Diaz. A fierce struggle ensued, but at every effort of the Indian to draw Diaz towards him, and envelop him in a last deadly clasp, the murdering, lance pierced farther and farther. Soon his strength failed, and violently torn from his body the bloody weapon remained in the hands of Diaz. The Indian fell back, gave one glance of defiance, and then lay motionless upon the earth.
Their chief fallen, the others soon shared the same fate, while their companions vainly tried to force the line a second time. Victims of their temerity, the Indians, without asking for a mercy which they never showed, fell like their chief facing the enemy, and surrounded by the corpses of those who had preceded them in their journey to the land of spirits.
Of all the savages in the camp but one remained. He looked round him for a minute with eyes fierce as those of the hunted tiger; then, instead of seeking to hide his presence, he uttered anew his war-cry, but it was confounded with those from without—and profiting by a moment of confusion, during which the adventurers, attacked from without, left the breach almost clear—he caused his horse to leap over, and found himself once more among his own people.
Pedro Diaz alone saw him, and regretted his prey, but the implacable enemy of the Indians never indulged in sterile regrets. He was mounted on the war-horse presented to him by Don Augustin Peña. From his left hand hung by the sword-knot a long Toledo rapier, with the Spanish device: