“No!” was the decided response.
“What would you do?” demanded the renegade angrily.
“I will deliver Pa-e-has-ka to the great chief, my father, Oak Heart.”
“The White Antelope is no warrior,” sneered the renegade. “Are there not braves enough loyal to Oak Heart to carry out his will upon this paleface?”
“The White Antelope may be no warrior,” said the girl; “but she has just saved the life of the Death Killer.”
At this Buffalo Bill laughed aloud, for the shot was a good one, and his seeming indifference to his peril caused the daughter of the chief to turn her eyes upon him. She scanned the scout from head to foot. What was in her thoughts he could not guess; but, suddenly, deciding upon a course of action, she stepped boldly to the side of Buffalo Bill, and touched with tender fingers the wounded arm which he had bared.
“If the Long Hair has ointment for the wound, it would be better to bind it,” she said to him.
Buffalo Bill opened his pouch, and the girl found the salve and bandages he always carried. Meanwhile, the scout sucked the wound to remove any foreign matter that might have been driven into it by the arrowhead. Then the Indian maiden bound up the hurt while the renegade looked on sullenly.
“Why is the Long Hair here—so near the village of the Sioux?” she asked Buffalo Bill, when this act of kindness was performed.
“I chanced upon the place. I saw the dead. Here lies my friend—the young man whom I loved as a son,” said the scout, pointing to the body of Danforth. “He and his men have been all slain by the Sioux.”