"Don't shoot!" Hector roared.
He saw that the Indian was a squaw and unarmed.
But it was too late. The boy's jumpy nerves had pulled the trigger.
"Oh,—!"
Hector ripped out an oath that none had heard him use before and ran up the hill.
He found the woman lying in the bushes. The bullet had gone straight through her chest. She was done for.
Hector, seeing that the damage was done, had now only one thought—to question her about the rebels.
He lifted her—she was small and light—kneeling and holding her in his arms. He did not yet recognize her.
Speaking her own tongue, he began.
"Where have you come from?"