Charlie looked at Lydia closely and his voice changed as he said, "You got hurt, Lydia? I'm sorry."
"Sorry! You damned brute!" raved Billy. "I tell you, call off this row!"
The two young men glared at each other. Afterglow and firelight revealed a ferocity in Billy's face and a cool hatred in Charlie's that made Lydia gasp. The shouting of the mob, the beating of the drum was receding toward the road. The flag snapped in the night wind.
Billy put his face closer to Charlie's. The muscles of his jaw knotted and his hands clenched and unclenched.
"Call it off!" he growled.
Charlie returned Billy's stare for a long moment. Then sullenly, slowly, he turned and threw out across the night a long, shrill cry. He gave it again and again. At each repetition the noise of the mob grew less, and shortly panting, feverish-eyed bucks began to struggle into the light around the pole.
Then, without a word, Billy led Lydia away. The Indians passing them shook their bows at them but they were unmolested.
"Can you walk, Lydia? Do you think you're badly hurt?" asked Billy.
"I'm not hurt except for this cut on my head. And I guess I'm scared and bruised from being stepped on. That's all."
"All! To think of me not scratched and you hurt! Your father ought to horsewhip me!"