around me. One was waving them back. I
recognised him. It was Dacoma!

The chief uttered a short harangue that seemed to quiet the warriors. I
could not tell what he said, but I heard him use frequently the word
Quetzalcoatl. I knew that this was the name of their god, but I did not
understand, at the time, what the saving of my life could have to do
with him.

I thought that Dacoma was protecting me from some feeling of pity or
gratitude, and I endeavoured to recollect whether I had shown him any
special act of kindness during his captivity. I had sadly mistaken the
motives of that splendid savage.

My head felt sore. Had they scalped me? With the thought I raised my
hand, passing it over my crown. No. My favourite brown curls were
still there; but there was a deep cut along the back of my head--the
dent of a tomahawk. I had been struck from behind as I came out, and
before I could fire a single bullet.

Where was Rube? I raised myself a little and looked around. He was not
to be seen anywhere.

Had he escaped, as he intended? No; it would have been impossible for
any man, with only a knife, to have fought his way through so many.
Moreover, I did not observe any commotion among the savages, as if an
enemy had escaped them. None seemed to have gone off from the spot.
What then had--? Ha! I now understood, in its proper sense, Rube's
jest about his scalp. It was not a _double-entendre_, but a _mot_ of
triple ambiguity.

The trapper, instead of following me, had remained quietly in his den,
where, no doubt, he was at that moment watching me, his scapegoat, and
chuckling at his own escape.

The Indians, never dreaming that there were two of us in the cave, and
satisfied that it was now empty, made no further attempts to smoke it.

I was not likely to undeceive them. I knew that Rube's death or capture
could not have benefited me; but I could not help reflecting on the
strange stratagem by which the old fox had saved himself.

I was not allowed much time for reflection. Two of the savages, seizing
me by the arms, dragged me up to the still blazing ruin. On, heavens!
was it for this Dacoma had saved me from their tomahawks? for this, the
most cruel of deaths!

They proceeded to tie me hand and foot. Several others were around,
submitting to the same treatment. I recognised Sanchez the
bull-fighter, and the red-haired Irishman. There were three others of
the band, whose names I had never