“Pale-Face Long-Leg kill one brave,” the Indian returned, holding up one finger by way of emphasis. “Leg no long enough to run ’way! Me throw tomahawk—knock him down—”
A movement upon the part of the renegade broke off the communication.
“So Davy Barring has got into my hands again!” hissed the renegade. “We’ll see if he’ll git away slick as he did afore. I’ll have Sall up an’ git my supper. While that’s cookin’ I’ll over and look at the birds.”
Unbarring the door, the three passed quietly in. The scout rose upon their entrance. For a few momenta those two men, so opposite in character and disposition, stood regarding each other in silence.
“Well, old Davy, I’m glad to see you again,” Ashbey exclaimed.
“I can’t say I’m glad to see ye,” the scout returned, gazing steadily in the eye of the other; “but if any person on the face o’ the earth’s got to be cussed by the sight o’ yer miserable face, why, it may as well be Davy Barring as anybody.”
He bit his lip, to check the words which would have followed, while the other ground his teeth with rage.
“That’s bold talk for a man what’s got to die to-morrow!” the scoundrel muttered. “You may forget that yer in my hands now, and ye shall die like a dog? You’ve took too many liberties with me and mine for me to forget it. The day of reckonin’ has now come, and we will bring all these things out right.”
He paused to note the effect of his words, but the scout calmly replied:
“It may be Davy Barring dies to-morrow; thar’s certain about life but death, and maybe my time has come. I do not fear death, Bill Ashbey; I kin meet it if necessary; can you say the same?”