“It appears to be a man? It is a man!”
“And who do you suppose he is?”
“How should I know, cousin Cash? Do you?”
“I do. That man is Maurice the mustanger!”
“And the woman?”
“Is Louise—your sister—in his arms!”
As if a shot had struck him through the heart, the brother bounded upward, and then onward, along the path.
“Stay!” said Calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him. “You forget that you are unarmed! The fellow, I know, has weapons upon him. Take this, and this,” continued he, passing his own knife and pistol into the hands of his cousin. “I should have used them myself, long ere this; but I thought it better that you—her brother—should be the avenger of your sister’s wrongs. On, my boy! See that you don’t hurt her; but take care not to lose the chance at him. Don’t give him a word of warning. As soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife. I’ll stay near, and take care of you, if you should get into danger. Now! Steal upon him, and give the scoundrel hell!”
It needed not this blasphemous injunction to inspire Henry Poindexter to hasty action. The brother of a sister—a beautiful sister—erring, undone!
In six seconds he was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer.