On arriving at a tree whose enormous trunk appeared to guarantee the desired safety, disdaining to use his gun, and the opportunity seeming favourable, he adjusted an arrow on his bowstring. But whatever might be his prudence and address, he could not make this movement without discovering himself a little. Loyal Heart raised his gun, the trigger was pressed, the ball whizzed, and the chief bounded into the air uttering a howl of rage, and fell upon the ground. His arm was broken. The two hunters were already by his side. "Not a movement, redskin," Loyal Heart said to him; "not a movement, or you are a dead man!" The Indian remained motionless, apparently stoical, but devouring his rage. "I could kill you," the hunter continued; "but I am not willing to do so. This is the second time I have given you your life, chief, but it will be the last. Cross my path no more, and, remember, do not steal my traps again; if you do, I swear I will grant you no mercy." "Eagle Head is a chief renowned among the men of his tribe," the Indian replied, haughtily; "he does not fear death; the white hunter may kill him, he will not hear him complain." "No, I will not kill you, chief; my God forbids the shedding of human blood unnecessarily." "Wah!" said the Indian, with an ironical smile, "my brother is a missionary." "No, I am an honest trapper, and do not wish to be an assassin." "My brother speaks the words of old women," the Indian continued; "Nehu mutah never pardons, he takes vengeance." "You will do as you please, chief," the hunter replied, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, "I have no intention of trying to change your nature; only remember you are warned--farewell!" "And the devil admire you!" Belhumeur added, giving him a contemptuous shove with his foot. The chief appeared insensible even to this fresh insult, save that his brows contracted slightly. He did not stir, but followed his enemies with an implacable look, while they, without troubling themselves further about him, plunged into the forest. "You may say what you like, Loyal Heart," said Belhumeur, "but you are wrong, you ought to have killed him." "Bah! what for?" the hunter asked, carelessly. "_Cascaras!_ what for? Why, there would have been one head of vermin the less in the prairie." "Where there are so many," said the other, "one more or less cannot signify much." "Humph! that's true!" Belhumeur replied, apparently convinced; "but where are we going now?" "To look after our traps, _caramba!_ do you think I will lose them?" "Humph! that's a good thought." The hunters advanced in the direction of the camp, but in the Indian fashion--that is to say, by making numberless turnings and windings intended to throw out the Comanches.