“I have business with Captain Adams, and he with me,” I replied. “As probably you know. Since he sent you, I shall consider myself under arrest; but I will return of my own free will as soon as Mrs. Montoyo is safe.”
“Under arrest? For what?” He blankly eyed me.
“For killing that man, sir. Captain Adams’ son. But I was forced to it—I did it in self-defense. I should not have left, and I am ready to face the matter whenever possible.”
“Oh!” said he, with a shrug, tossing the idea aside. “If that’s all! I did hear something about that, from some of my men, but nothing from Adams. You didn’t kill him, I understand; merely laid him out. I saw him, myself, but I didn’t ask questions. So you can rest easy on that score. His old man seemed to have no grudge against you for it. Fact is, he scarcely allowed me time to warn him of the Sioux before he told me you and a woman were out and were liable to lose your scalps, if nothing 313 worse. I think,” the lieutenant added, narrowing upon me, “that you’ll find those Mormons are as just as any other set, in a show down. The lad, I gathered from the talk, drew on you after he’d cried quits.” He turned hastily. “You spoke, madam? Anything wanted?”
The trumpeter orderly plucked me by the sleeve. He was a squat, sun-scorched little man, and his red-rimmed blue eyes squinted at me with painful interest. He whispered harshly from covert of bronzed hand.
“Beg your pardon, sorr. Mrs. Montoyo, be it—that lady?”
“Yes.”
“From Benton City, sorr, ye say?”
“From Benton City.”
“Sure, I know the name. It’s the same of a gambler the vigilantes strung up last week; for I was there to see.”