hing but scoffs and jibes when we return empty-handed,"
muttered the Spaniard. "It is seldom such an opportunity offers of a
heavy booty."

"Right-about," said I, imperiously, not caring to risk my ascendency by
debating the question further. They obeyed without a word; but it was
easy to see that the spirit of mutiny was but sleeping. For some miles
of the way a dreary silence pervaded the party. I tried all in my power
to bring back our old good understanding, and erase the memory of the
late altercation; but even my friend Narvasque held aloof, and seemed to
side with the others. I was vexed and irritated to a degree the amount
of the incident was far from warranting; nor was the fact that we were
returning without any success without its influence. Moody and sad, I
rode along at their head, not making any further effort to renew their
confidence, when suddenly a spotted buck started from the shelter of a
prairie roll, and took his way across the plain. To unsling my rifle and
fire at him was the work of half a minute. My shot missed; and I heard,
or thought I heard, a burst of contemptuous laughter behind me. Without
turning my head, I spurred my horse to a sharp gallop, and proceeded to
reload my rifle as I went. The buck had, however, got a "long start"
of me; and although my mustang had both speed and endurance, I soon saw
that the chase would prove unrewarding; and, after a hot pursuit of half
a mile, I pulled up and wheeled about. Where was my party? Not a trace
of them was to be seen. I rode up a little slope of the prairie, and
then, at a great way off, I could descry their figures as with furious
speed they were hastening back in the direction of the Camanche village.
I cannot express the bitterness of the feeling that came over me.

It was no longer the sense of outraged humanity which filled my heart.
Selfishness usurped the ground altogether, and it was the injured honor
of a leader whose orders had been despised. It was the affront to
my authority wounded me so deeply. Then I fancied to myself their
triumphant return to the camp, laden with the spoils of victory, and
full of heroic stories of their own deeds; while I, the captain of
the band, should have nothing to contribute but a lame narrative of
misplaced compassion, which some might call by even a harsher name. Alas
for weak principle! I wished myself back at their head a hundred times
over. There was no atrocity that, for a minute or two, I did not