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<h3>Chapter Seventy Three.</h3> <h4>Peg-Leg.</h4> “The huntress has returned soon?” said the chief, interrogatively, as the girl glided up to him. “She brings strange game!” added he, with a smile. “Who is the young warrior with the white circle upon his breast? He is a pale-face. It is not the custom of our white brothers to adorn themselves in such fashion?” “The painting is not his,” replied the girl. “It has been done by the hands of his enemies—by red men. The white circle was designed for a mark, at which many bullets have been fired. The red streaks you see are blood, that has streamed from wounds inflicted on the stranger’s body! When Wa-ka-ra shall know who caused that blood to flow, he will hasten to avenge it.” “If it be the wish of the white huntress, Wa-ka-ra will avenge the blood—even though his own people may have spilled it. Speak, Ma-ra-nee! You say that red men have done this—were they Utahs?” “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. Upon the side of the Indian now lies the strength—if not in numbers—at least in courage and war-prowess. The horse he once dreaded has become his dearest friend; and he can manage him with a skill scarcely equalled by his pale-faced adversary. The lance and fire-weapon are in his hands; the spirit-thunder no longer appals him: he knows its origin and nature, and uses it in the accomplishment of a terrible retaliation! On the northern continent, Utah and Yaqui, Kiowa and Comanche, Apaché and Navajo, have all proved their superiority over the degenerated descendants of Cortez: as in the south have Cuncho and Cashibo, Goajira and Auracanian, over those of the ruthless Pizarro. The red man no longer goes to war as a mere savage. He has disciplined his strength into a perfect strategy; and possesses a military system as complete as that of most civilised nations. The Comanche cavalry charges in line, and can perform evolutions to the call of the bugle! So can the Utah, as I had evidence at that moment. Before the trumpet-notes had ceased to reverberate from the rocks, five hundred warriors had secured their horses, and stood beside them armed and ready to mount. A regiment of regular dragoons could not have responded to “Boots and saddles” with greater expedition! Peg-leg took possession of me. “Señor Pintado!” said he, speaking in Spanish, and after having examined my wounds, “the best medicine for you will be your breakfast; and while your conpaisana is preparing it, you can come with me, and have a little water thrown over you. This painting does not improve your looks; besides, if it get into your wounds, they will be all the more difficult to make a cure of. Nos vamos!” The huntress had retired to a tent that stood near that of the chief, and a little to the rear of it. I followed the Mexican, who, in a hobbling gait, proceeded towards the stream. The cold bath, assisted by some Taos brandy from the gourd xuagé of the trapper, soon restored my strength; and the hideous pigment, lathered with the bruised roots of the palmilla—the soap-plant of the New Mexicans, soon disappeared from my skin. A few slices of the oregano cactus applied to my wounds, placed them in a condition to heal with a rapidity almost miraculous; for such is the curative power of this singular plant. My Mexican medico was yet more generous, and furnished me with a handsome Navajo blanket, which served as a complete covering for my shoulders. “Carrambo!” exclaimed he, as he tendered the garment, “take it, Americano! You maybe able to repay me when you have recovered your possible-sack from the Arapahoes. Mira!” he added, pointing towards the tents—“your breakfast is ready: yonder the señorita is calling you. Take heed, hombre! or her eyes may cause you a more dangerous wound than any of those you have received from the bullets of the Arapahoes. Vaya!” I resisted an inclination to make inquiries: though the hint of the Taos trapper half furnished me with an excuse. My “countrywoman,” he had called her. No doubt he knew more of her history; but I questioned him not. Remembering her promise, I had hopes that I might soon learn it from her own lips. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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