One thing alone is positive:  there was a debt of blood to be paid.  An Indian war is often the result of a private vendetta.  The brave is bound, not only by natural affection and family pride, but still more powerfully by sense of honor and by public opinion, to avenge the slaughter of a relative.  Whether he wishes it or not, and frequently no doubt when he does not wish it, he must black his face, sing his death-song, set out alone if need be, encounter labors, hardships, and dangers, and never rest until his sanguinary account is settled.  The tyranny of Mrs. Grundy in civilized cities and villages is nothing to the despotism which she exercises among those slaves of custom, the red men of the American wildernesses.  Manga Colorada, bereaved and with blackened face, lay in wait for the first step of the emigrants outside of their city of refuge.

We must return to Coronado.  Although Clara’s rejection of his suit left him vindictively and desperately eager for a catastrophe of some sort, a week elapsed before he dared take his mad plunge into the northern desert.  It was a hundred miles to the San Juan; the intervening country was a waste of rocks, almost entirely destitute of grass and water; the mules and horses must recruit their full strength before they could undertake such a journey.  They must not only be strong enough to go, but they must have vital force left to return.

It is astonishing what labors and dangers the man was willing to face in his vain search for a spot where he might commit a crime in safety.  Such a spot is as difficult to discover as the Fountain of Youth or the Terrestrial Paradise.  More than once Coronado sickened of his seemingly hopeless and ever lengthening pilgrimage of sin.  Not because it was sinful—­he had little or no conscience, remember—­only because it was perplexing and perilous.

It was in vain that Thurstane protested against the crazy trip northward.  Coronado sometimes argued for his plan; said the route improved as it approached the river; hoped the party would not be broken up in this manner; declared that he could not spare his dear friend the lieutenant.  Another time he calmly smoked his cigarito, looked at Thurstane with filmy, expressionless eyes, and said, “Of course you are not obliged to accompany us.”

“I have not the least intention of quitting you,” was the rather indignant reply of the young fellow.

At this declaration Coronado’s long black eyebrows twitched, and his lips curled with the smile of a puma, showing his teeth disagreeably.

“My dear lieutenant, that is so like you!” he said.  “I own that I expected it.  Many thanks.”

Thurstane’s blue-black eyes studied this enigmatic being steadily and almost angrily.  He could not at all comprehend the fellow’s bland obstinacy and recklessness.

“Very well,” he said sullenly.  “Let us start on our wild-goose chase.  What I object to is taking the women with us.  As for myself, I am anxious to reach the San Juan and get something to report about it.”