"Keep cool, Phil," laughed Plunkett. "That redskin dropped when I fired."
"We will settle that matter another time," I answered, leading the way towards the house.
We passed the Indian who had fallen. He was not dead, and I saw Plunkett fixing his bayonet, evidently with the intention of finishing the work I had begun. I protested, and so did Morgan, against his course. The savage reclined on one side, resting upon his elbow. He had torn away his blanket, so that we could see where the ball had struck him in the hip.
"You didn't fire that ball, Plunkett," said Morgan. "You couldn't have hit him there from the place where you fired."
"What's the reason I couldn't?" demanded the braggart.
"Because the Indian was running ahead of you, and you couldn't have hit him on the side of the hip. Phil was up by the house, and his shot did it. Half his nose is gone, and he has a wound on the back of the head."
"He turned round when I fired; but I will finish him," said Plunkett, approaching the Indian with his bayonet pointed at him.
"No!" I shouted, earnestly. "It is murder."
The Indian, who had watched us with savage dignity, apparently regardless of the pain his three wounds must have given him, suddenly grasped his tomahawk, and raised himself as far as his injured hip would permit. He looked ugly and defiant, and Plunkett paused.