Free The Scalp Hunters by Mayne Reid

word "Prieto" struck like music upon their ears. That was a magic word: the name of the far-famed river on whose waters the trapper legends had long placed the El Dorado, "the mountain of gold." Many a story of this celebrated region had been told at the hunters' camp-fire, all agreeing in one point: that there the gold lay in "lumps" upon the surface of the ground, and filled the rivers with its shining grains. Often had the trappers talked of an expedition to this unknown land; and small parties were said to have actually entered it, but none of these adventurers had ever been known to return.
    The hunters saw now, for the first time, the prospect of penetrating this region with safety, and their minds were filled with fancies wild and romantic. Not a few of them had joined Seguin's band in hopes that some day this very expedition might be undertaken, and the "golden mountain" reached. What, then, were their feelings when Seguin declared his purpose of travelling by the Prieto! At the mention of it a buzz of peculiar meaning ran through the crowd, and the men turned to each other with looks of satisfaction.
    "To-morrow, then, we shall march," added the chief. "Go now and make your preparations; we start by daybreak."
    As Seguin ceased speaking, the hunters departed, each to look after his "traps and possibles"; a duty soon performed, as these rude rangers were but little encumbered with camp equipage.
    I sat down upon a log, watching for some time the movements of my wild companions, and listening to their rude and Babel-like converse.
    At length arrived sunset, or night, for they are almost synonymous in these latitudes. Fresh logs were flung upon the fires, till they blazed up. The men sat around them, cooking, eating, smoking, talking loudly, and laughing at stories that illustrated their own wild habits. The red light fell upon fierce, dark faces, now fiercer and more swarthy under the glare of the burning cotton-wood.
    By its light the savage expression was strengthened on every countenance. Beards looked darker, and teeth gleamed whiter through them. Eyes appeared more sunken, and their glances more brilliant and fiend-like. Picturesque costumes met the eye: turbans, Spanish hats, plumes, and mottled garments; escopettes and rifles leaning against the trees; saddles, high-peaked, resting upon logs and stumps; bridles hanging from the branches overhead; strings of jerked meat drooping in festoons in front of the tents, and haunches of venison still smoking and dripping their half-coagulated drops!
    The vermilion smeared on the foreheads of the Indian warriors gleamed in the night light as though it were blood. It was a picture at once savage and warlike-warlike, but with an aspect of ferocity at which the sensitive heart drew back. It was a picture such as may be seen only in a bivouac of guerilleros, of brigands, of man-hunters.
    * * *
    El Sol, I have said, was standing over the prostrate Indian. His countenance indicated the blending of two emotions, hate and triumph.
    His sister at this moment galloped up, and, leaping from her horse, advanced rapidly forward.
    "Behold!" said he, pointing to the Navajo chief; "behold the murderer of our mother!"
    The girl uttered a short, sharp exclamation; and, drawing a knife, rushed upon the captive.
    "No, Luna!" cried El Sol, putting her aside; "no; we are not assassins. That is not revenge. He shall not yet die. We will show him alive to the squaws of the Maricopa. They shall dance the mamanchic over this great chief-this warrior captured without a wound!"
    El Sol uttered these words in a contemptuous tone. The effect was visible on the Navajo.
    "Dog of a Coco!" cried he, making an involuntary struggle to free himself; "dog of a Coco! leagued with the pale robbers. Dog!"
    "Ha! you remember me, Dacoma? It is well-"
    "Dog!" again ejaculated the Navajo, interrupting him; and the words hissed through his teeth, while his eyes glared with an expression of the fiercest