When she revived, the stable boy stood near by the dead stallion, pale with fright and wonder. A half-grown boy stood by her, holding her hand.
“You are all right now,” he said quietly as he helped her to arise. In his right hand he held a pistol and the foul smoke still oozed up from the nipple where the exploded cap lay shattered, under the hammer.
He was perfectly cool—even haughtily so. He scarcely looked at Helen nor at Jim, who kept saying nervously:
“You've killed him—you've killed him—what will Mr. Travis say?”
The boy laughed an ironical laugh. Then he walked up and examined the shot he had made. Squarely between the great eyes the ball had gone, and scarcely had the glaring, frenzied eye-balls of the man-eater been fixed in the rigid stare of death. He put his fingers on it, and turning, said:
“A good shot, running—and at twenty paces!”
Then he stood up proudly, and his blue eyes flashed defiance as he said:
“And what will Mr. Travis say? Well, tell him first of all that this man-eating stallion of his caught the bullet I had intended for his woman-eating master—this being my birth-day. And tell him, if he asks you who I am, that last week I was James Adams, but now I am James Travis. He will understand.”
He came over to Helen gallantly—his blue eyes shining through a smile which now lurked in them:
“This is Miss Conway, isn't it? I will see you out of this.”