"My sweetheart, you do love me! I doubt no more. My poverty, your wealth, what do they matter?"
She suddenly started away. "Oh, your wound! Where is the doctor? Go to him!"
"The touch of your lips has healed me," he protested, but she insisted.
"Go! You are bleeding!" she commanded; and so, reluctantly, lingeringly, with most unmilitary sloth, he turned away, made numb to any physical pain by the tenderness in her voice.
As the young surgeon was dressing the gash, he said: "Well, Captain, things happen in the West."
"Yes, the kind of things which ought not to happen anywhere. I suppose they lynched poor Cut Finger?"
"No; they merely shot him and dragged him to death, as near as I can learn."
Curtis clinched his fists. "Ah, the devils! Where is the body?"
"Back in the corridor of the jail."
Curtis pondered the effect of this news on the tribe. "It's a little difficult to eliminate violence from an inferior race when such cruelty is manifested in those we call their teachers."