"I dare say," Valentine answered, "that he alluded to me as the 'Trail Hunter,' the name by which the white hunters and the Indians of the Far West are accustomed to call me."
"Yes; oh, now I remember perfectly, that was indeed the name he gave you. You were right in saying that we had been long acquainted, though we had never met."
"And now that we meet in this desert," the hunter said, offering his hand, "connected as we are by the memory of our deceased friend, shall we be friends?"
"No, not friends," the Tigrero exclaimed, as he heartily pressed the hunter's honest hand; "not friends, but brothers."
"Well, then, brothers, and each for the other against all comers," the hunter answered. "And now that you are convinced that curiosity plays no part in my eager desire to know what has befallen you since the moment when you so hurriedly left your friends, speak, Don Martial, and then I will tell you, in my turn, what are the motives that directed my steps to these desolate regions."
The Tigrero, in a few moments, began his narrative as follows:--
"My friends must have fancied me dead, hence I cannot blame them for having abandoned me, although they were, perhaps, too quick in doing so without an attempt either to recover my corpse, or assure themselves at least that I was really dead, and that assistance would be thrown away; but though I am ignorant of what happened in the cavern after my fall, the bodies left on the battlefield proved to me afterwards that they had a tough fight, and were compelled to fly before the Indians; hence, I say again that I do not blame them. You are aware that I was attacked by Black Bear at the moment when I believed that I had succeeded in saving those whom I had sworn to protect. It was on the very verge of the pit that Black Bear and myself, enwreathed like two serpents, began a final and decisive struggle: at the moment when I had all but succeeded in foiling my enemy's desperate efforts, and was raising my arm to cut his throat, the war yell of the Comanches suddenly burst forth at the entrance of the cavern. By a supreme effort the Apache chief succeeded in escaping from my clutch, bounded on his feet, and rushed towards Doña Anita, doubtless with the intention of carrying her off, as the unforeseen assistance arriving for us would prevent the accomplishment of his vengeance. But the maiden repulsed him with that strength which despair engenders, and sought refuge behind her father. Already severely wounded by two shots, the chief tottered back to the edge of the pit, where he lost his balance. Feeling that he was falling, by an instinctive gesture, or, perhaps, through a last sentiment of fury, he stretched out his arms as if to save himself, caught hold of me as I rose, half-stunned by my recent contest, and we both rolled down the pit, he with a triumphant laugh, and I with a shriek of despair. Forgive me for having described thus minutely the last incidents of this fight, but I was obliged to enter into these details to make you thoroughly understand by what providential chance I was saved, when I fancied myself hopelessly lost."