"If so, we must take him with the lance, the lasso, or alive. No gun must be fired. They might still hear it, and would be on us before we could get round the mountain. No! sling your guns! Let those who have lances and lassoes get them in readiness." "When would you have us make the dash, captain?" "Leave that to me. Perhaps he may dismount for the bow; or, if not, he may ride into the spring to water his horse, then we can surround him. If he see the Digger's body, he may pass up to examine it more closely. In that case we can intercept him without difficulty. Be patient! I shall give you the signal." During all this time, the Navajo was coming up at a regular gallop. As the dialogue ended, he had got within about three hundred yards of the spring, and still pressed forward without slackening his pace. We kept our gaze fixed upon him in breathless silence, eyeing both man and horse. It was a splendid sight. The horse was a large, coal-black mustang, with fiery eyes and red, open nostrils. He was foaming at the mouth, and the white flakes had clouted his throat, counter, and shoulders. He was wet all over, and glittered as he moved with the play of his proud flanks. The rider was naked from the waist up, excepting his helmet and plumes, and some ornaments that glistened on his neck, bosom and wrists. A tunic-like skirt, bright and embroidered, covered his hips and thighs. Below the knee his legs were naked, ending in a buskined moccasin, that fitted tightly round the ankle. Unlike the Apaches, there was no paint upon his body, and his bronze complexion shone with the hue of health. His features were noble and warlike, his eye bold and piercing, and his long black hair swept away behind him, mingling with the tail of his horse. He rode upon a Spanish saddle with his lance poised on the stirrup, and resting lightly against his right arm. His left was thrust through the strap of a white shield, and a quiver with its feathered shafts peeped over his shoulder. His bow was before him. It was a splendid sight, both horse and rider, as they rose together over the green swells of the prairie; a picture more like that of some Homeric hero than a savage of the wild west. "Wagh!" exclaimed one of the hunters in an undertone; "how they glitter! Look at that 'ar headpiece! It's fairly a-blazin'!" "Ay," rejoined Garey, "we may thank the piece o' brass. We'd have been in as ugly a fix as he's in now if we hadn't sighted it in time. What!" continued the trapper, his voice rising into earnestness; "Dacoma, by the Etarnal! The second chief of the Navajoes!" I turned toward Seguin to witness the effect of this announcement. The Maricopa was leaning over to him, muttering some words in an unknown tongue, and gesticulating with energy. I recognised the name "Dacoma," and there was an expression of fierce hatred in the chief's countenance as he pointed to the advancing horseman.