style="font-size:15px;"> Five shots were discharged, and the same number of Apaches fell.
CHAPTER III
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER
On this unforeseen attack the Apaches uttered a yell of terror; but, before they could pull up their horses, a second discharge made four fresh victims in their ranks. A mad terror then seized on the Indians, and they turned and fled in every direction; ten minutes later they had disappeared. The hunters did not dream for a moment of pursuing them; but Curumilla had dismounted, and crawling out to the scene of action, conscientiously finished and scalped the Apaches who had fallen under his comrades' bullets. At the same time he lassoed a riderless horse which passed a few paces from him, and then rejoined his friends.
"To what tribe do those dogs belong?" Valentine asked him.
"The Buffalo," Curumilla made answer.
"Oh, oh," the hunter went on; "we were in luck's way then. Stanapat, I believe, is the chief of the Buffalo tribe."
Curumilla nodded an assent; and after hobbling the horse he had lassoed by the side of the others, quietly seated himself on the river bank.
The stranger had been quite as much surprised as the Apaches by the unforeseen help that had so providentially arrived at the moment when he believed himself hopelessly lost. At the sound of the firing he checked his horse, and, after a moment's hesitation, slowly turned back.
Valentine watched all his movements. The stranger, on reaching the thicket, dismounted, pulled back with a firm hand the brambles that barred his way, and boldly proceeded to the clearing where the hunters were ambushed. This man, whom the reader already knows, was no other than the person Red Cedar called Don Melchior, and of whom he seemed so terribly afraid.
When he found himself in the presence of the Mexicans, Don Melchior took off his hat and bowed courteously; the others politely returned his salute.
"Viva Dios!" he exclaimed. "I do not know who you are, caballeros; but I thank you sincerely for your interference just now. I owe my life to you."
"In the Far West," Valentine answered nobly, "an invisible bond connects all the individuals of one colour, who only form a single family."
"Yes," the stranger said, with a thoughtful accent, "it should be so; but unfortunately," he added, shaking his head in denial, "the worthy principles you enunciate, caballero, are but very slightly put in practice: but I ought not at this moment to complain of them being neglected, as it is to your generous intervention that I owe my being among the living."
The listeners bowed, and the stranger went on:
"Be kind enough to tell me who you are, gentlemen, that I may retain in my heart names which will ever be dear to me."
Valentine fixed on the man who thus spoke a piercing glance, that seemed to be trying to read his most secret thoughts. The stranger smiled sadly.
"Pardon," he then said, "any apparent bitterness in my words: I have suffered much, and, in spite of myself, gloomy thoughts often rise from my heart to my lips."
"Man is sent on the earth to suffer," Valentine gravely replied. "Each of us has his cross to bear here: Don Miguel de Zarate, his son and General Ibañez are a proof of my assertion."
At the name of Don Miguel, a vivid blush purpled the stranger's cheeks, and his eye flashed, despite all his efforts to remain unmoved.
"I have often heard of Don Miguel de Zarate," he said, with a bow. "I have been informed of the dangers he has incurred – dangers from which he only escaped by the aid of a man – an honest hunter."
"That hunter is before you," Don Miguel said. "Alas! We have other and greater dangers still to incur."
The stranger looked at him attentively for an instant – then stepped forward, and crossed his arms on his chest.
"Listen!" he said, in a deep voice. "It was truly Heaven that inspired you to come to my help – for from this moment I devote myself, body and soul, to your service; and I belong to you as the haft does to the blade. I know the reason that compelled you to break up all old habits to visit the frightful solitudes of the Far West."
"You know it?" the hunter exclaimed, in surprise.
"Everything," the stranger firmly answered. "I know the treachery which cast you into the power of your enemies. I know, too, that your daughter has been carried off by Red Cedar."
"Who are you, then, to be so well informed?" Valentine asked.
A sad smile played for a second round the stranger's lips.
"Who am I?" he said in a melancholy voice. "What matters, since I wish to serve you?"
"Still, as we answered your questions, we have a right to expect the same from you."
"That is just," the stranger said, "and you shall be satisfied. I am the man with the hundred names: in Mexico I am called Don Luis Arroyal, partner in the firm of Simpson, Carvalho, and Company – in the northern provinces of Mexico, where I have long rendered myself popular by foolish squandering, El Gambusino – on the coasts of the United States, and in the Gulf of Mexico, where I sometimes command a cutter, and chase the slavers, I am called the Unknown – among the North Americans, the Son of Blood – but my real name, and the one men give me who know the little about me I think proper to tell them – it is la Venganza (Vengeance). Are you satisfied now, gentlemen?"
No one replied. The hunters had all heard of this extraordinary man, about whom the strangest rumours were rife in Mexico, the United States, and even on the prairie. By the side of heroic deeds, and acts of kindness deserving all praise, he was branded with crimes of unheard-of cruelty and unexampled ferocity. He inspired a mysterious terror in the whites and redskins, who equally feared to come in contact with him, though no proof had ever yet been brought forward of the contradictory stories told about him.
Valentine and his comrades had frequently heard talk of Bloodson; but this was the first time they had found themselves face to face with him; and, in spite of themselves, they were surprised to see so noble and handsome a man. Valentine was the first to regain his coolness.
"For a long time," he said, "your name has been familiar to me. I was anxious to know you. The opportunity offers, and I am pleased with it, as I shall be at length able to judge you, which was hitherto impossible, through the exaggerated stories told about you. You say that you can be useful to us in the enterprise we are meditating, and we accept your offer as frankly as you make it. On an expedition like this, the help of a brave man must not be despised – the more so, as the man we wish to force in his lair is dangerous."
"More than you imagine," the stranger interrupted him in a gloomy voice. "I have been struggling with Red Cedar for twenty years, and have not yet managed to crush him. Ah! He is a rough adversary! I know it, for I am his most implacable enemy, and have in vain tried all the means at my command to take an exemplary vengeance on him."
While uttering these words, the stranger's face had assumed a livid tint; his features were contracted, and he seemed to be suffering from an extraordinary emotion. Valentine looked at him for an instant with a mingled feeling of pity and sympathy. The hunter, who had suffered so much, knew, like all wounded souls, how to feel for the grief of men who, like himself, bore their adversity worthily.
"We will help you," he said, as he cordially offered him his hand, "Instead of five, we shall be six, to fight him."
