"You're right, my lord," said Bill Breakstone, "and I accept. It gives me pleasure to be enrolled in your most gallant company, and, by my troth, I will serve you right well."

Middleton looked at him in amazement, and Bill Breakstone broke into a mellow, infectious laugh.

"I don't talk that way all the time," he said. "It merely bursts out in spots. You may not believe it, when you look at me, but I studied for the stage once, and I've been an actor. Now and then the old sc.r.a.ps come to the end of my tongue. All's well that end's well, and may that be the fate of our expedition."

"Come," said Middleton, after telling his own name and that of his friends to Breakstone, "we'll go to our quarters and make a place for you. Phil and Arenberg are in a room together, and you shall share mine."

"Lead on!" said Bill Breakstone.

The four left the inn. Bill Breakstone was as poor as he described himself to be. He owned only the worn suit of clothes in which he stood, a pistol, and a pair of saddle bags, seeming to contain some linen, of which he took good care.

"Prithee, young sir," he said to Phil, "I would fain guard well the little that I have, because if I lose the little that I have, then what I have shall be nothing. Do I argue well, Sir Ivanhoe?"

"It's conclusive," said Phil. He took greatly to this man who had become in an hour the life of their little band, a constant source of cheerful patter that invigorated them all. Middleton bought him a new suit of clothes, gave him some money, which he promised earnestly to return a hundredfold, and then they went forth to inquire further into the matter of the trading expedition for Santa Fe. But their attention was diverted by the arrival of a large steamboat that had come all the way from Pittsburgh loaded with pa.s.sengers. A particular group among the arrivals soon became the center of their interest.

The members of the group were Mexicans, and they were evidently people of distinction, or, at least, position. The first among them was middle-aged, fat, and yellow, and dressed in garments much brighter in color than Americans wear. Indeed, as a wind somewhat chill swept over the river, he threw around his shoulders a red serape with a magnificent border of gold fringe. But a young man who walked by his side made no acknowledgment to the wind. It was he whom Phil watched most. Some people inspire us at once with hostility, and Phil had this feeling about the stranger, who bore himself in a manner that had more than a tinge of sneering arrogance.

The young man was obviously of the Spanish race, although his blood might run back to Northern Spain, as he was tall and very strongly built, and his complexion inclined to fairness, but Phil believed him to be of Mexican birth, as he showed the shade of change that the New World always made in the old. He wore the uniform of a captain in the Mexican army. Mexican uniforms were not popular in the States, but he bore himself as if he preferred the hostility of the crowd to its friendship.

His insolent gaze met Phil's for an instant, and the boy gave it back with interest. For a few moments these two who had never met before, who did not know the names of each other, and who might never meet again, stared with immediate hostility. Eye plumbed the depths of eye, but it was the Mexican who looked away first, although he let his lips curl slightly into a gesture with which he meant to convey contempt.

Middleton had observed this silent drama of a few moments, and he said quietly:

"You do not know, Philip, who these men are?"

"No," replied the boy, "but I should like to know."

"The stout, elderly man is Don August Xavier Hernando Zucorra y Palite, who is at the head of a special Mexican emba.s.sy that has been at Washington to treat with our government about the boundary of Texas--you know there has been trouble between the States and Mexico over the Texan boundary--and the younger is Pedro de Armijo, his nephew, and the nephew, also, of Armijo, the governor of New Mexico, where we are planning to go."

"I fancied from his manner," said Bill Breakstone, "that young Armijo was the President of Old Mexico and New Mexico both. I have called you Sir Knight, and My Lord Phil, but our young Mexican is both His Grace and His Royal Highness. By my halidome, we are indeed proud and far above that vile herd, the populace."

"Well, he will not bother us," said Arenberg. "If you run after trouble you will find it coming to meet you."

Middleton watched the Mexicans with uncommon interest until they pa.s.sed out of sight. Arenberg, a shrewd and penetrating man himself, said:

"You are interested in them, Mr. Middleton?"

"I am," replied Middleton frankly, "and I know, too, that the errand of Zucorra to Washington has been a failure. The relations of the United States and Mexico are no better."

"But that won't keep us from going across to the Pacific, will it, Cap?"

said Bill Breakstone briskly. "You don't mind if I call you Cap, do you, Mr. Middleton? You are, in a way, our leader, because you are most fit, and the t.i.tle seems to suit you."

"Call me Cap if you wish," replied Middleton, "but we are all on equal terms. Now, as we have seen the Mexicans, and, as there is nothing more here to attract us, we might go on up the levee."

"Prithee, we will suit the deed to the word," said Bill Breakstone, "but do not run into that drunken Indian there, Phil. I would not have thy garments soiled by contact with this degraded specimen of a race once proud and n.o.ble."

Phil turned a little to one side to avoid the Indian of whom Breakstone spoke. The levee was littered with freight, and the red man huddled against a hogshead of tobacco from far Kentucky. His dress was partly savage and partly civilized, and he was sodden with dirt and drink.

But, as Breakstone spoke, he raised his head and flashed him a look from fiery, glowing eyes. Then his head sank back, but the single glance made Breakstone shiver.

"I felt as if I had received a bullet," he said. "Now what did the n.o.ble savage mean by giving me such a look? He must have understood what I said. Ah, well, it mattereth not. He looked like a Comanche. It has been wisely said, let the cobbler stick to his last, and there is no last in New Orleans for Mr. Cobbler Comanche."

"You didn't suppose he understood you," said Arenberg, "and no harm iss done where none iss meant."

Phil looked back at the Comanche, but there was nothing heroic about him. He was huddled lower than ever against the tobacco hogshead.

Certainly there was no suggestion of the dauntless warrior, of the wild horseman. Phil felt a curious little thrill of disappointment.

He looked in the same place the next day for the Comanche, but he did not see him, and then, in the excitement of great preparations, he forgot the Indian. The New Mexico expedition was about to become a fact, and the little band of four were promptly received as members. On all such perilous trips strong and well-armed men were welcome.

The outfit would embrace about sixty wagons and two hundred men, and the goods they carried would be of great value. Phil and his comrades paid for the right to put their extra supplies in one of the wagons, and then they equipped themselves with great care. They bought four good horses, four fine rifles, made by the famous d.i.c.kson, of Louisville, four double-barreled pistols of long range, knives and hatchets, a large quant.i.ty of ammunition, an extra suit apiece of stout deerskin, four small pocket compa.s.ses, and many other things which seem trifles in a town, but which are important in the wilderness.

It took them but a few days to make their purchases, but it was at least three weeks before the train started. The Mexicans, meanwhile, had stayed about a week at the chief hotel, and then had left on a steamer for their own country. Phil heard that there had been much talk about the high-handed manner of young Armijo, and that he had been extremely disagreeable to all about him. The older man, Zucorra, who was milder and more diplomatic, had sought to restrain him, but with no success.

It was a relief when they were gone.

The boy, still curious about the Comanche, looked for him once more on the levee. More hogsheads of tobacco and sugar were there, but the Indian was not leaning against any of them. At last he found him in one of the inns or taverns frequented by sailors and roustabouts, a rough place at any time, and crowded then with men from the ships and boats.

The Indian was sitting in a corner, huddled down in a chair, in much the same att.i.tude of sloth and indifference that he had shown when leaning against the hogshead. Phil saw that when he stood up he would be a tall man, and his figure, if it were not flabby, would be powerful.

Phil was intensely interested. The Indian had always appealed to his romantic imagination, and, now that he saw one of the race close at hand, he wished to learn more. He sat down near the man, and, not knowing what else to say, remarked that it was a fine day. The Comanche raised his head a little, and bent upon Phil a look like that he had given to Breakstone. It was a piercing glance, full of anger and hatred. Then the glowing eyes were veiled, and his head dropped back on his arms. He did not utter a word in reply.

The innkeeper, who had noticed the brief incident, laughed.

"Don't you try to get up a conversation with Black Panther, my boy," he said. "He ain't what you would call a pow'ful talker."

"No, I suppose he wouldn't talk anybody to death," said Phil. "What is he?"

"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. h.e.l.lo, 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 a.s.sertion 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 hors.e.m.e.n, numerous and well armed. It was commanded by a middle-aged trader of experience, Thomas Woodfall, who had already made several trips to Santa Fe, and the hopes of all were high. They carried, among other things, goods that the senoras and senoritas of Santa Fe 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.