They were the three Panes, and the chief with the other
Waco. They could not have slain each other, and all have fallen on the
spot. That was not probable. The Waco and one of the Panes lay apart.
The other three were close together, just as they had fallen, the chief
impaled by the Pane spear, while his slayer lay behind him still
grasping the weapon! The red tomahawk was clutched firmly in the hands
of the chief, and the cleft skull of the second Pane showed where it had
last fallen.

So far the Indians translated the tableau, but the mystery lay not
there. Who had slain the slayer of their chief? That was the puzzle.
Some one must have survived this deadly strife, where five warriors had
died together!

If a Pane, surely he would not have gone off without that great trophy
which would have rendered him famous for life,--the scalp of the Waco
chief? If a Waco, where and who was he?

These questions passed from lip to lip. No one was found to answer
them, but there were yet some warriors to return from the pursuit, and
the inquiry was suspended, while the death-song was again chanted over
the fallen chief.

At length all the braves had arrived on the spot, and stood in a circle
around the body. One of the warriors stepped forward to the midst, and
by a signal intimated that he wished to be heard. A breathless silence
followed, and the warrior began:--

"Wacoes! our hearts are sad when they should otherwise rejoice. In the
midst of victory a great calamity has fallen upon us. We have lost our
father,--our brother! Our great chief--he whom we all loved--has
fallen. Alas! In the very hour of triumph, when his strong right hand
had hewn down his enemy on the field--in that moment has he fallen!

"The hearts of his warriors are sad, the hearts of his people will long
be sad!

"Wacoes! our chief has not fallen unrevenged. His slayer lies at his
feet pierced with the deadly dart, and weltering in his blood. Who of
you hath done this?"

Here the speaker paused for a moment as if waiting for a reply. None
was given.

"Wacoes!" he continued, "our beloved chief has fallen, and our hearts
are sad. But it glads them to know that his death has been avenged.
There lies his slayer, still wearing his hated scalp. What brave
warrior claims the trophy? Let him stop forth and take it!"

Here there was another pause, but neither voice nor movement answered
the challenge.

The cibolero was silent with t