A deep flush broke its way through the brown tan on the face of Braxton Wyatt, and his eyes fell before the cold gaze of the Spaniard.  But he raised them again in a moment.  Braxton Wyatt was not a coward, and he never permitted a guilty conscience to last longer than a throb or two.

“I did belong to them,” he replied, “but my tastes led me away.  I have felt that all this mighty valley should belong to the Indians who have inhabited it so long, but, if the white people come, it should be those who are true and loyal to their kings, not these rebels of the colonies.”

Francisco Alvarez smiled cynically, and once more surveyed Braxton Wyatt, with a rapid, measuring glance.

“You speak my sentiments, Senor Wyatt,” he said, “and you speak them in a language that I scarcely expected.”

“I had a schoolmaster even in the wilderness,” said Braxton Wyatt.  “And I may tell you, too, as proof of my faith that I would be hanged at once should I return to the settlements.”

“I do not doubt your faith.  I was merely curious about your motives.  I am sure also that you can be of great help to us.”

He spoke in a patronizing manner, and Braxton Wyatt moved slightly in anger, but restrained his speech.

“I may say,” continued the Spaniard, “that His Excellency Bernardo Galvez, His Most Catholic Majesty’s Governor of his loyal province of Louisiana, has been stirred by the word that comes to him of these new settlements of the rebel Americans in the land of the Ohio.  The province of Louisiana is vast, and it may be that it includes the country on either side of the Ohio.  The French, our predecessors, claimed it, and now that all the colonists east of the mountains are busy fighting their king, it may be easy to take it from them, as one would snip off a skirt with a pair of scissors.  That is why I and this faithful band are so far north in these woods.”

Braxton Wyatt nodded.

“And a wise thing, too,” he said.  “I am strong with the tribes.  The great chief, Yellow Panther, of the Miamis and the great chief, Red Eagle, of the Shawnees are both my friends.  I know how they feel.  The Spanish in New Orleans are far away.  Their settlements do not spread.  They come rather to hunt and trade.  But the Americans push farther and farther.  They build their homes and they never go back.  Do you wonder then that the warriors wish your help?”

Francisco Alvarez smiled again.  It was a cold but satisfied smile and he rubbed one white hand over the other.

“Your logic is good,” he said, “and these reasons have occurred to me, also, but my master, Bernardo Galvez, the Governor, is troubled.  We love not England and there is a party among us—­a party at present in power—­which wishes to help the Americans in order that we may damage England, but I, if I could choose the way would have no part in it.  As surely as we help the rebels we will also create rebels against ourselves.”