"What humbug at this hour, Marksman!" Don Miguel answered. "Why, you must be mad!"
"I am not mad," the Canadian said, hurriedly; "but I repeat, dismount and hunt; we are betrayed!"
"Betrayed!" Don Miguel exclaimed, starting with surprise; "by whom? in Heaven's name!"
"By Domingo! The traitor has fled during our sleep! Oh! I was right to distrust his coppery face!"
"Domingo fled!--a traitor! You are mistaken!"
"I am not. Hunt after him, I tell you, in the name of those you have sworn to save."
No more was needed to exasperate the young man; he bounded from his steed, and seized his rifle. "What is to be done?" he asked.
"Scatter over the ground," the hunter rapidly answered. "Each go a different way; and may Heaven bless our search! We have lost too much time already."
Without any further exchange of words, the four men buried themselves in the forest in four different directions. But the darkness was dense. Beneath the cover, where, even by day, the sunbeams penetrated with difficulty, on this black and moonless night they could distinguish nothing two steps ahead of them; and if, instead of flying, the Gambusino had contented himself with hiding in the vicinity, the hunters would evidently have passed without noticing him. The search lasted a long time, for the hunters comprehended the importance of finding the fugitive again; but, in spite of all their skill, they could discover nothing. Marksman, Don Mariano, and Don Miguel had been back by the fire several minutes; they were communicating to each other the closeness of their pursuit, when, suddenly, a dazzling flash crossed the forest, and a shot was heard, almost immediately followed by a second. "Let us run up," Marksman shouted. "Flying Eagle has found the vermin. Never was a better sleuth-hound after game."
The three men ran at full speed in the direction of the shots they had heard. On approaching, they found that an obstinate contest was going on. The war yell of the Comanches, uttered in Flying Eagle's powerful voice, permitted them no doubt on that head. At length, they debouched on the scene of action. Flying Eagle, with his foot on the chest of a man thrown down before him, and who writhed like a serpent to escape the fearful pressure, leant his back against a black oak, and, tomahawk in hand, was defending himself like a lion against half a dozen Indians who attacked him together. The three white men clubbed their rifles, and rushed into the medley with a terrible cry of defiance. The effect of this diversion was instantaneous. The Redskins dispersed in all directions, and fled like a legion of phantoms.