The gray-eyed man with earnest face answered,—
“I promise you anything in my power, Meacham.”
“Promise me, then, that, if my body is brought in mutilated and cut to pieces, you will bury me here, so that my family shall never be tortured by the sight. Do you promise?”
“O Meacham, you will come back all right.”
“No, no; I won’t. I feel now that I won’t; there is no chance for that. I tell you, John, there is but one alternative,—death or disgrace. I can die; but my name never has been and never shall be dishonored.”
Fairchild draws his revolver from his side and says, “Here, Meacham, take this; you can bang brimstone out of ’em with it.”
“No, no; John, I won’t take it, although I would rather have it than all your cattle; but if I take that revolver, everybody will swear that I precipitated the fight by going armed in violation of the compact.
No, John, I wouldn’t take it if I knew I never could come back without it, and taking it would save me. I won’t do it. My life would not be worth a cent if I did. I wanted you to go, but the general and the doctor objected; so there’s no use in talking; I am going.”
A man passes close to Meacham and drops something in a side pocket of his coat. His hand grasps it, and his face indicates hesitation. The other says, in a low tone, “It’s sure fire;—it’s all right.” ’Tis a small Derringer pistol, and it is not thrown out of the pocket. Dyer caught sight of this little manœuvre, and he goes into his tent and quickly slips a Derringer into his pocket.
The Indian woman is weeping still. She refuses to let go the rope of Meacham’s horse, until the command is repeated, and then she grasps his coat, and pleads again: “You no go; you get kill.”