“You’re mistaken, my young friend. I’m no traitor. You are loyal to the Americans—I am loyal to the English.”
“Then you are a spy in the employ of the British.”
“Y-e-s. Or an agent to look after their interests among the Indians, rather.”
“I despise you none the less,” Ross cried.
Bradford continued to smile as he said:
“You are young—therefore you are indiscreet. I have saved your life; I would be your friend. But if you don’t desire my friendship, I can turn you over to the tender mercies of those red fiends, who are hungering to tear you limb from limb. Even now they are grumbling about my interference. I may lose my life for my temerity. You’re ungrateful.”
“If you regret your act of mercy and fear for your own safety,” Douglas sneered, “call your savage hounds and tell them to do their worst. I can die fighting.”
“I don’t regret what I have done,” Bradford returned huskily, a shade of sadness in his voice, “nor do I fear for my own safety. I don’t value life—I don’t fear death. And I’ll save you or perish with you. But you must listen to reason; you must do my bidding. Just at present I have great influence with the Indians. I’ll exert it to the utmost in your behalf. But you and your vicious dog have sorely punished your assailants. Two warriors are dead and several others are wounded. Their comrades thirst for revenge. Hist! Here they come. Say not a word—leave it all to me.”
A stalwart Indian came forward and grunted surlily:
“The paleface’s arm is strong—his aim is sure; the fangs of his dog are long and sharp. Two braves are sleeping with their fathers; and three others are binding up their wounds. The paleface and his dog must die.”