“Is it of—of Emily you would speak?” he gasped.
“Well, you’re right. An’ now, unless you’re the gritty chap you should be, you can never see her again.”
“Good Heaven! she is not—not—”
“She’s safe in body, young man; but let me tell ye all. The first thing the Injins did was to burn out the Hintons. They set fire to the cabin, an’ when the poor men rushed out, shot ’em down like dogs. Emily was saved, an’ is a prisoner now.”
“My Emily a prisoner among the Indians! Oh, God!”
“She’s among them, but not in their power. Wild Bill, that most ornery villain, has her in his own power, and sent her off under a lot of his imps to his nest, over there.”
“Bill Ashbey? Impossible! Do you speak truly?”
The manner of Charles was excited, and he grasped the scout by the arm with a force which would have caused most men to writhe with pain.
“True? Of course I do, young man. But it’s better than if the Injins had her, for then she’d be tortured to death, sartin. Now, if you ain’t afraid of a few bullets, an’ hev no particular objection to knockin’ the brains out o’ two or three of ’em, why, your Emily can be yours still. I’ll go with ye, and help to git her back.”
“Oh, will you? Shall we then thwart them, and rescue Emily?”