A ruffian cursed him.
He was wild. He struggled to free himself, to return to the fray, but Jack Harding held him fast.
"You devils, devils, devils!" he shrieked again. His little frame trembled with anger, and he burst into tears.
"Never mind, little chap," said his captor, drawing him closer, "ye go with me."
For once John Harding left the saloon without touching liquor. The Indian child was clasped in his arms. When he reached a place beyond the sound of the men's voices, he set the little lad on his feet. He patted him on the head, and looked down compassionately into the tear-stained face.
"Poor little chap," he said, "poor little chap. Y're like me, ain't ye? Ye ain't got nobody in the world. Let's be pards, Wathemah!"
"Pards?" repeated the child between sobs.
"Yes, pards, sonny. That's what I said."
Wathemah clasped his arms about Jack's knees.
"Me teacher pard too?" he asked, trying bravely to stop crying.