“There may be some fightin’,” he insisted, “an’ I wouldn’t want you-all to get hurted.”
The girl smiled, ever so slightly. “It’s good of you, ‘Smooth,’ ” she said; “but I understand, I think.” She swung into the saddle, and Kreff said no more.
Luke Jensen leading, they rode at a run down through the pasture, scattering the “cavvy,” and into the dense willows, emerging upon the opposite side, climbing the steep bank of the draw, and away again at top speed toward the east gate. In silence they rode, with grim faces.
There, just beyond the fence, they found Billings—where Luke Jensen had found him. Wichita knelt beside her father and felt of his hands and face. She did not cry. Dry eyed she arose and for the first time saw that one of the men who had brought up the rear had led Scar Foot back with them; but even had she known it when they started she would not have been surprised, for almost from the moment that she had seen Luke Jensen leading the horse back toward the corrals and had seen him whisper to Kreff she had expected to find just what she had found.
Tenderly the rough men lifted all that was mortal of Jefferson Billings across the saddle in which he had ridden to his death, and many were the muttered curses that would have been vented vehemently and aloud had it not been for the presence of the girl, for Billings had been shot in the back and—scalped.
On walking horses the cortege filed slowly toward the ranch house, the men deferentially falling in behind the led horse that bore the body of the “Boss” directly in rear of the girl who could not cry.
“He never had a chanct,” growled one of the men. “Plugged right in the back between the shoulders!”
“God damned dirty Siwashes!” muttered another.
“I seen an Injun here yestiddy evenin’,” said Luke.
“Why the Hell didn’t you say so before?” demanded Kreff.