Lone Wolf spoke English like a native; and, having waited until the admiration of Ned Chadmund had been given time to expend itself, he spoke in a deep, guttural voice:

"Does the child of my white brother mourn for those who have fallen?"

The lad was so surprised at hearing himself addressed in this manner, that he stared wonderingly at him for a moment without making reply. Then he rose to his feet, and, looking up in the painted face, replied:

"I am all alone, and long to go to my father."

"What is the name of your father?" asked the chief, in the same excellent English.

"Colonel Edward Chadmund."

"Is he at the fort, yonder?" continued Lone Wolf, stretching out his hand so as to point toward the southwest.

"Yes; he is the commandant there, and has a large number of brave soldiers, and will send them out to take me to him."

Had Ned been a few years older, he would not have made this reply. It was not politic to threaten the chief; and he had no suspicion that the confession of the identity of his father only intensified the hatred of these redskins before him. But perhaps, after all, it was as well; for Lone Wolf was sagacious enough to recollect that he was talking to a child, from whom he was more likely to hear truth than from an older person.

"He has sent some brave soldiers to take you to him," said the chief, with a wolf-like grin, displaying his long, yellow teeth. "But they have left you on the way; they have given you to Lone Wolf, and they will not go back to the fort, nor to Santa Fe. If he sends more, they will do the same."

"There were only a dozen of them, while you had hundreds. If they had had anything like an equal chance, not one of the Apaches would have been left alive! We would have killed them all!"

This was a brave answer, in a certain sense, but it was not a very prudent one; for Lone Wolf was known to be the possessor of a fearful temper, easily excited into a tempest of passion; and the words of the boy were not calculated to be very soothing to him. There was too much paint upon the face of the chieftain for the boy to observe the flush which overspread it at hearing himself addressed in this manner, but he could understand the lowering of that gruff voice and the quickening of the utterance.

"Lone Wolf and his brave Apaches care nothing for the soldiers of the Father at Washington. His agents deceive us; they make treaties and do not keep them; they lie to us, and then we turn upon and rend them. Do you see that?"

As he uttered this inquiry in the fiercest kind of language, he whipped out from beneath his blanket the reeking scalp of one of the soldiers that had fallen in the gorge a short time before, and shook it in the face of the terrified lad. The latter could not fail to see what it was, and drew back in horror and disgust, realizing what a bloodthirsty monster stood before him. He saw that it would never do to excite the other's anger, and he endeavored to turn the conversation into another channel.

"Do you and your brave warriors mean to stay here till morning?"

"It is as Lone Wolf wills," was the instant answer, in a voice not quite so severe, indicating a subsidence of the troubled waters.

"And what are you going to do with me?" was the next question, which no one besides a lad of Ned's age would have dared to put, when placed in a similar position.

"That, too, is as Lone Wolf wills," was the rather non-committal answer.

"And that is the reason why I asked you. How soon can I return to my father? When I reach him I will tell him that it was Lone Wolf that sent me back and he will be friendly toward him."

"Lone Wolf asks not his friendship," said the chieftain, with something of the old fire gleaming in his eye. "He has killed our bravest and best warriors. He has followed them to the mountains and slain them by their camp fires, when they dreamed not that the white man was near. He has murdered their squaws; and Lone Wolf shall not die until he tears his scalp from his head."

The poor boy was horrified. He was too young to understand fully the causes of such deep enmity upon the part of the chieftain, but he was not too young to understand that his own life had been spared through no sentiment of mercy. The leader had some other cause, but Ned did not see much hope of making a favorable impression upon this intractable chief, and he would have been very much relieved had he taken himself off and left him alone.

Some fifteen minutes had passed since the lad had opened his eyes upon the strange scene by which he was surrounded, and the preparations which seemed to be going on were completed. The entire Apache troop suddenly broke out in a series of whoops and yells that would have appalled a hundred famishing wolves. At the same instant they began dancing—not a motion of the feet, such as we are accustomed to see in civilized regions, but a series of demoniac gymnastics, risking the dislocation of all the bones in their bodies. They leaped up and down, swung their arms, threw out their legs, and circled around each other—the whole forming a wild and appalling revelry more like that of wild beasts than of human beings.

Boy-like, Ned Chadmund forgot everything else for the time but the scene which was passing directly before his eyes. There was a weird attraction in watching the flitting, fantastic figures, whose hands were yet reeking with the blood of innocent men and whose greatest delight would have been to scalp every man, woman and child in the territory.

This hullaballoo lasted all of half an hour, when it died out as suddenly as it began. It was not from exhaustion, for Indians have been known to keep up such a performance through the entire night; but it was in obedience to a signal from Lone Wolf, whose imperious will no one dared defy. He had simply raised his arm, and, giving utterance to a single whoop that rose above the horrid din, silence "fell like a blessing." This lasted but a few minutes, when the bustle began in a lesser degree, and the Apaches fell to eating the meat which had been abundantly prepared for them by several of their number. They continued to act like wolves as they did so, using hands and knives, but more frequently tearing the meat to shreds without the aid of any implements except such as nature had furnished them in the shape of teeth.

The terrific strain, mental and physical, which Ned had undergone during the last few hours, was succeeded by a reaction which made him feel weak and faint. He was conscious of the need of food, and was feverish and thirsty.

"I don't see as I'm likely to get anything to eat," he muttered, as he sat down on the blanket, and looked upon the glittering scene. "I ain't so very hungry, but I would like a good drink of water."

The firelight shone upon the small stream which ran through the middle of the valley; and, as it was so near at hand, he thought there would be no harm in walking to it, and helping himself to a refreshing draught. He had walked but a few steps, however, when he became aware that some one was following him. A careless glance over his shoulder showed that it was Lone Wolf. The lad concluded at once that he suspected an attempt at escape, and he thought he might do himself some good by a faithful return to his former position after he had helped himself to a drink, without appearing to notice that he was watched. This was the more easy of accomplishment, as the Apache moved off to one side, as if his desire was to conceal his real purpose. Accordingly, Ned walked quietly forward until he reached the stream, where he knelt down and took one long, refreshing drink, which seemed to give him new life and strength. Then, rising to his feet, he started back to the camp fire. As he did so, he found himself face to face with Lone Wolf.

"What do you mean?" demanded the latter, gruffly.

"I was thirsty and went to get a drink. I thought I would not bother you."

"When you try to run away, then you will die!"

"What's the use of trying to run off, when there isn't any show?" asked the young prisoner, with a laugh, an assumption of jollity which was far from genuine.