upon the banks of the Mississippi.

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

And what had become of Carlos? Was it true that he had crossed the
great plains? Did he never return? What became of San Ildefonso?

These questions were asked, because he who narrated the legend had
remained for some time silent. His eyes wandered over the valley, now
raised to the cliff of La Nina, and now resting upon the weed-covered
ruin. Strong emotion was the cause of his silence.

His auditory, already half guessing the fate of San Ildefonso,
impatiently desired to know the end. After a while he continued.

Carlos _did_ return. What became of San Ildefonso? In yonder ruin you
have your answer. San Ildefonso fell. But, you would know how? Oh! it
is a terrible tale--a tale of blood and vengeance, and Carlos was the
avenger.

Yes--the cibolero returned to the valley of San Ildefonso, but he came
not alone. Five hundred warriors were at his back--red warriors who
acknowledged him as their leader--their "White Chief." They were the
braves of the Waco band. They knew the story of his wrongs, and had
sworn to avenge him!

It was autumn--late autumn--that loveliest season of the American year,
when the wild woods appeal painted, and Nature seems to repose after her
annual toil--when all her creatures, having feasted at the full banquet
she has so lavishly laid out for them, appear content and happy.

It was night, with an autumnal moon--that moon whose round orb and
silvery beams have been celebrated in the songs of many a harvest land.

Not less brilliant fell those beams where no harvest was ever known--
upon the wild plain of the Llano Estacado. The lone _hatero_, couched
beside his silent flock, was awakened by a growl from his watchful
sheep-dog. Raising himself, he looked cautiously around. Was it the
wolf, the grizzly bear, or the red puma? None of these. A far
different object was before his eyes, as he glanced over the level
plain--an object whose presence caused him to tremble.

A long line of dark forms was moving across the plain. They were the
forms of horses with their riders. They were in single file--the muzzle
of each horse close to the croup of the one that preceded him. From
east to west they moved. The head of the line was already near, but its
rear extended beyond the reach of the hatero's vision.

Presently the troop filed before him, and passed within two hundred
paces of where he lay. Smoothly and sil