“Coronado, stand back!” said Clara.  “Don’t you try to take my hands!”

She was erect, her eyes flashing, her cheeks spotted with crimson, her expression strangely imposing.

The man’s courage drooped the moment he saw that she had turned at bay.  He walked to the other side of the room, pressed his temples between his palms to quiet their throbbing, and made an effort to recover his self-possession.  When he returned to her, after nearly a minute of silence, he spoke quite in his natural manner.

“This must pass for the present,” he said.  “I see that it is useless to talk to you of it now.”

“I hope you are not angry with me, Coronado.”

“Let it go,” he replied, waving his hand.  “I can’t speak more of it now.”

She wanted to say, “Try never to speak of it again;” but she did not dare to anger him further, and she remained silent.

“Shall we go to see the dance?” he asked.

“I will, if you wish it.”

“But you would rather stay alone?”

“If you please, Coronado.”

Bowing with an air of profound respect, he went his way alone, glanced at the games of the Moquis, and hurried back to camp, meditating as he went.

What now should be done?  He was in a state of fury, full of plottings of desperation, swearing to himself that he would show no mercy.  Thurstane must die at the first opportunity, no matter if his death should kill Clara.  And she?  There he hesitated; he could not yet decide what to do with her; could not resolve to abandon her to the wilderness.

But to bring about any part of his projects he must plunge still deeper into the untraversed.  To him, by the way, as to many others who have had murder at heart, it seemed as if the proper time and place for it would never be found.  Not now, but by and by; not here, but further on.  Yes, it must be further on; they must set out as soon as possible for the San Juan country; they must get into wilds never traversed by civilized man.

To go thither in wagons he had already learned was impossible.  The region was a mass of mountains and rocky plateaux, almost entirely destitute of water and forage, and probably forever impassable by wheels.  The vehicles must be left here; the whole party must take saddle for the northern desert; and then must come death—­or deaths.

But while Coronado was thus planning destruction for others, a noiseless, patient, and ferocious enmity was setting its ambush for him.

CHAPTER XVII.

Shortly after the safe arrival of the train at the base of the Moqui bluff, and while the repulsed and retreating warriors of Delgadito were still in sight two strange Indians cantered up to the park of wagons.