"He’s a tame Comanche, an’ he’s been loafing around New Orleans for two or three months--learnin’ the white man’s vices, ’specially the drinkin’ of fire water, which he keeps first on the list. You can see what it’s done for him--taken all the pith right out of him, same as you would take it out of a length of elder to make a pop gun. I reckon New Orleans ain’t no place for an Indian. Hello, what’s the matter with Black Panther?" The Indian uttered a short, savage exclamation that startled every one in the place, and sprang to his feet. His long coal black hair was thrown back from his face, and he seemed to be alive in every fiber. The eyes were like two points of fire. "Black Panther was a great warrior and a chief," he said. "He has been a dog in the white man’s town, and he has burned his brain with fire water until it is like that of a little child. But he will be a great warrior and a chief again. Now, I go." He gathered a tattered old blanket around his shoulders, and, holding himself erect, stalked in savage dignity out of the place. "Now, what in thunder did he mean?" exclaimed the astonished innkeeper. "I think he meant just what he said," replied Phil. "He is going away from New Orleans. He certainly looked it." So far as he knew, the assertion was true, because, as long as he remained in the city, he neither saw nor heard anything further of the Comanche. But the time for his own departure was soon at hand, and in the excitement of it he forgot all about the Comanche. CHAPTER II THE MARCH OF THE TRAIN The train made an imposing appearance with its sixty wagons and its horsemen, numerous and well armed. It was commanded by a middle-aged trader of experience, Thomas Woodfall, who had already made several trips to Santa Fé, and the hopes of all were high. They carried, among other things, goods that the señoras and señoritas of Santa Fé would be eager to buy, and much gain might be obtained. But every one of the four who rode so closely together thought most in his heart of that for which he sought, and in no instance was the object of search the same. But they were cheerful. Whatever were past griefs or whatever might be those to come, the present was propitious and fair. The Southern spring was not yet advanced far enough to drive the cool tang out of the air by daylight, while at night fires were needed. It rained but little, and they marched steadily on through crisp sunshine. "I trust that the good Sir Roland is pleased," said Bill Breakstone to Phil. "Fresh air in the lungs of youth produces exhilaration." "It’s fine," said Phil, with emphasis. "But we may yet come to our Pass of Roncesvalles. Bethink you of that, Sir Roland. They say that it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and I say that it’s a good wind that blows nobody ill. The rain will rain, the snow will snow, the wind will blow, and what will poor rabbit do then?"