The appearance of the man confirms my suspicion. A body, tall, angular, and ill-shaped, scarred with cicatrised wounds, and bent with age; a face seamed with the traces of evil passion; eyes deep sunken in their sockets, and sparkling like coals of fire--an aspect more fiend-like than human! All this agrees with the descriptions I have had of the Red-Hand chief. Assuredly it is he. Our enemies, then, are the Arapahoes--their leader the dreaded _Red-Hand_. "Heaven have mercy upon us! These men will have none!" Such was the ejaculation that escaped my lips, on recognising, or believing that I recognised, the foe that was before us. The Red-Hand is seen to direct. He is evidently leader of the band. All seem obedient to his orders; all move with military promptness at his word or nod. Beyond doubt, it is the Red-Hand and his followers, who for crimes and cold-blooded atrocities are noted as he. A dreaded band, long known to the traders of Santa Fe--to the _ciboleros_ from the Taos Valley--to the trappers of the Arkansas and Platte. We are not the first party of white men besieged by these barbarous robbers; and if it be our fate to fall, we shall not be their first victims. Many a brave "mountain-man" has already fallen a victim to their fiendish grasp. Scarcely a trapper who cannot tell of some comrade, who has been "rubbed" out by Red-Hand and his "Rapahoes." The council of the chiefs continues for some time. Some _ruse_ is being devised and debated among them. With palpitating hearts we await the issue. I have made known my suspicions as to who is our enemy, and cautioned my comrade's to be on their guard. I have told them that, if my conjecture prove true, we need look for no mercy. The talk is at an end. Red-Hand is about to address us. Riding two lengths in front of his followers, the savage chief makes halt. His shield is held conspicuously upward--its convexity towards us--not for any purpose of security; but evidently that we may see its device, and know the bearer. Red-Hand is conscious of the terror inspired by his name. In his other hand, he carries an object better calculated than the shield to beget fearful emotions. Poised on the point of his long spear, and held high aloft, are the scalps recently taken. There are six of them in the bunch--easily told by the different hues of the hair; and all easily identified as those of white men. They are the scalps of the slain teamsters, and others who had vainly attempted to defend the captured waggon. They are all fresh and gory--hang limber along the shaft. The blood is not yet dry upon them--the wet surface glitters in the sun! We view them with singular emotions--mine perhaps more singular than any. I endeavour to identify some of those ghastly trophies. I am but too satisfied at failing. CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE. AN ILL-TIMED SHOT. "_Hablo Castellano_?" cries the savage chieftain in broken Spanish.