That spoke again.
But that was long ago, and time had brought many changes, and branded his once proud name with infamy. Fully six feet in height, and of supple, graceful form, the chief of the Branded Brotherhood wore buckskin, with trousers elaborately worked with beads, and fringed down the outer seams.
Instead of moccasins, his feet were incased in high-top cavalry boots, armed with huge spurs; and a blue silk shirt and Mexican jacket, profusely adorned with silver buttons, completed his costume, excepting a gray slouch hat, with exceedingly broad brim, which was turned up on one side.
The hands and face of the outlaw were burned as brown as the sun and exposure could make them; a heavy brown beard, of a like shade, with his long, curling hair, completely hid the lower features of his face; but his nose was straight and firm, his forehead broad and intellectual, his eyes strangely fiery and savage, while within their inmost depths was an expression hard to fathom, for at times it looked like fear, again was expressive of sadness, and at others of hatred and mischief.
His men knew him only as “the chief.” Along the frontier he was called “Captain Ricardo, the Bandit,” but what his real name was none knew.
Nor did any one know whence he came, only it was surmised that he had once been a distinguished cavalry officer, who, having been dismissed from the service for a crime committed, had taken to the plains as a highway robber, until, in a few years he had organized the band of which he was chief, and which had spread terror far and wide along the border.
The chief’s horse, a splendid-looking iron-gray, fed near by, and, serving as a resting place for his arm was a Mexican saddle, with a belt, containing two revolvers and a bowie knife, which Captain Ricardo kept near at hand.
The persons immediately surrounding the chief consisted of the negro cook, a cunning-faced, wiry fellow, black as a coal, who never, sleeping or waking, went without his revolver and knife, which he kept in a large leather belt around his waist.
It was said the negro, whom his master called Buttermilk—as a contrast to his color—knew more of the chief’s life than did any one else; but, if so, he was never known to betray that knowledge.