s been nigh the middle o' the crowd--some in
front--some hev been arter 'im--thet's how they've gone past hyur.
Wagh!" continued the speaker, once more turning his eyes upon the trail,
"thur's been a good grist on 'em--twunty or more; an ef this child don't
miskalkerlate, thet ain't the hul o' the niggurs; _it_ ain't! 'Tur only
some o' 'em as galliped out to rope the hoss. I'd lay my rifle agin a
Mexican blunderbox, thur's a bigger party than this nigh at hand
somewhur hyur. By Geehosophat, thur's boun to be, sartint as sun-up!"

The suspicion that had half formed itself in my mind was no longer
hypothetical; the sign upon the trail had settled that: it was now a
positive intelligence--a conviction. The steed had been taken; he and
his rider were captive in the hands of the Indians.

This knowledge brought with it a crowd of new thoughts, in which
emotions of the most opposite character were mingled together.

The first was a sensation of joy. The steed had been captured, and by
human beings. Indians at least were men, and possessed human hearts.
Though in the rider they might recognise the lineaments of their
pale-faced foes--not so strongly neither--yet a woman, and in such a
dilemma, what reason could they have for hostility to her?

None; perhaps the very opposite passion might be excited by the
spectacle of her helpless situation. They would see before them the
victim of some cruel revenge--the act, too, of their own enemies; this
would be more likely to inspire them with sympathy and pity; they would
relieve her from her perilous position; would minister to her wants and
wounds; would tenderly nurse and cherish her: yes; of all this I felt
confident. They were human; how could they do otherwise?

Such was the first rush of my reflections on becoming assured that the
steed had been captured by Indians--that Isolina was in their hands. I
only thought of her safety--that she was rescued from pain and peril,
perhaps from death; and the thought was a gleam of joy.

Alas! only a gleam; and the reflections that followed were painfully
bitter.

I could not help thinking of the character of the savages into whose
hands she had fallen. If they were the same band that had harried the
frontier town, then were they southern Indians--Comanche or Lipan. The
report said one or other; and it was but too probable. True, the
remnant of Shawanos and Delawares, with the Kickapoos and Texan
Cherokees, sometimes stray