e carries an object better calculated than the shield to beget
fearful emotions. Poised on the point of his long spear, and held high
aloft, are the scalps recently taken. There are six of them in the
bunch--easily told by the different hues of the hair; and all easily
identified as those of white men. They are the scalps of the slain
teamsters, and others who had vainly attempted to defend the captured
waggon. They are all fresh and gory--hang limber along the shaft. The
blood is not yet dry upon them--the wet surface glitters in the sun! We
view them with singular emotions--mine perhaps more singular than any.
I endeavour to identify some of those ghastly trophies. I am but too
satisfied at failing.

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

AN ILL-TIMED SHOT.

"_Hablo Castellano_?" cries the savage chieftain in broken Spanish.

I am not surprised at being addressed in this language by a prairie
Indian. Many of them speak Spanish, or its North Mexican _patois_.
They have opportunities of learning it from the New Mexican traders, but
better--_from their captives_.

"_Si cavallero_! I speak Spanish. What wishes the warrior with the
red-hand upon his shield?"

"The pale-face is a stranger in this country, else he would not ask such
a question? What wishes the Red-Hand? Ha, ha, ha! The scalps of the
white men--their scalps and lives--that is the will of the Arapaho
chief!"

The speech is delivered in a tone of exultation, and accompanied by a
scornful laugh. The savage is proud of his barbarous and bloodthirsty
character: he glories in the terror of his name! With such a monster,
it seems idle to bold parley. In the end, it will be only to fight, and
if defeated, to die. But the drowning man cannot restrain himself from
catching even at a straw.

"Arapaho! We are not your enemies! Why should you desire to take our
lives? We are peaceful travellers passing through your country; and
have no wish to quarrel with our red brothers."

"Red brothers! ha, ha, ha! Tongue of a serpent, and heart of a hare!
The proud Arapaho is not your brother: he disclaims kindred with a
pale-face. Red-hand has no brothers among the whites: all are alike his
enemies! Behold their scalps upon his shield! Ugh! See the fresh
trophies upon his spear! Count them! There are six! There will be
ten. Before the sun goes down, the scalps of the four squaws skulking
on the mound will hang from the spears of the Arapahoes!"

I could n