“Not a thing; he isn’t the first one the Indians got and he won’t be the last by a jugful.”
It was Cal who now spoke.
“There ain’t any doubt that he was shot from the back of the pony, which dashed off and ran to the station with the mail. If we’d let you start out with the pouches, as you wanted to do, that’s what would have become of you.”
But Alden was not thinking of that. He was distressed beyond words at the dreadful fate that had overtaken the youth with whom he quarreled and whom he was anxious to meet that the wrangle might be fought to a finish.
“All day while I have been brooding and hating him he has been lying somewhere in the solitude looking up to the sky and seeing it not. God forgive me!”
Angered by the indifference of the two men, Alden turned back and joined Shagbark, who had dismounted and removed the saddle and bridle of his horse. Jethro had done the same, and the three stood a little apart from the others. Alden had taken a minute or two to caress his pony, which whinnied with pleasure at meeting him, but the master was in too great anguish to pay the animal the attention he would have paid in any other circumstances.
The three were grouped together, and Jethro and Shagbark looked into the handsome face that could not hide its grief.
Then in as few words as possible Alden told the dreadful story. As soon as he had finished Jethro with a countenance hardly less distressed, said:
“Al, you never let me tell you dat secret I wanted to tell you.”