He sprang up and found himself facing a white-haired boy, who held a little crying girl by a tight grasp of her arm, and who eyed him aggressively.
“What did you hurt Prudence’s father for? He was a good man. Did you shoot him?”
He seized the boy roughly by the shoulder.
“Prudence—Prudence—where is she?”
“Here.”
He looked down at the little girl, who still cried. Even in that glance he saw her mother’s prettiness, her pink and white daintiness, and the yellow shine of her hair.
“Her mother, then,—quick!”
The boy pointed ahead.
“Up there—she told me to take care of Prudence, and when the Indians came out she made me run back here to look for him.” He pointed to the still figure on the ground before them. And then, making a brave effort to keep back the tears:
“If I had a gun I’d shoot some Indians;—I’d shoot you, too—you killed him. When I grow up to be a man, I’ll have a gun and come here—”