“You are far from New Orleans,” said Braxton Wyatt.  “It would take long for a messenger to go and come, and meanwhile you could act as you think best.”

“It is so,” said the Spaniard.  “Our presence here is unknown to all save the chiefs and yourself.  In this wilderness, a thousand miles from his superior, one must act according to his judgment, and I should like to see these rebel settlements crushed.”

He spoke to himself rather than to Wyatt, and again his eyes narrowed.  Blue eyes are generally warm and sympathetic, but his were of the cold, metallic shade that can express cruelty so well.  He plucked, too, at his short, light beard, and Braxton Wyatt read his thoughts.  The renegade felt a thrill of satisfaction.  Here was a man who could be useful.

“How far is it from this place to the land of the Miamis and the Shawnees?” asked Alvarez.

“It must be six or seven hundred miles, but bands of both tribes are now hunting much farther west.  One Shawnee party that I know of is even now west of the Mississippi.”

Francisco Alvarez, frowned slightly.

“It is a huge country,” he said.  “These great distances annoy me.  Still, one must travel them.  Ah, what is it now?”

He was looking at Braxton Wyatt, as he spoke, and he saw a sudden change appear upon his face, a look of recognition and then of mingled hate and rage.  The renegade was staring Northward, and the eyes of Alvarez followed his.

The Spaniard saw a man or rather a youth approaching, a straight, slender, but tall and compact figure, and a face uncommon in the wilderness, fine, delicate, with the eyes of a dreamer, and seer, but never weak.  The youth came on steadily, straight coward the Spanish camp.

“Paul Cotter!” exclaimed Braxton Wyatt.  “How under the sun did he come here!”

“Some one you know?” said Alvarez who heard the words.

“Yes, from the settlements of which we speak,” replied Wyatt quickly and in a low tone.  He had no time to add more, because Paul was now in the Spanish camp, and was gravely saluting the leader, whom he had recognized instantly to be such by his dress and manner.  Francisco Alvarez rose to his feet, and politely returned the salute.  He saw at once a quality in the stranger that was not wholly of the wilderness.  Braxton Wyatt nodded, but Paul took no notice whatever of him.  A flush broke again through the tan of the renegade’s face.

“Be seated,” said Alvarez, and Paul sat down on a little grassy knoll.

“You are Captain Francisco Alvarez of the Spanish forces at New Orleans?”

“You have me truly,” replied the Spaniard smiling and shrugging his shoulders, “although I cannot surmise how you became aware of my presence here.  But the domains of my master, the king, extend far, and his servants must travel far, also, to do his will.”

Paul understood the implication in his words, but he, too, had the gift of language and diplomacy, and he did not reply to it.  Stirred by deep curiosity, the Spanish soldiers were gathering a little nearer, but Alvarez waved back all but Wyatt.