To see one whom we believe dead—aye, have seen lying stark on the field of battle and believe to have been buried there—rise up suddenly and confront us is indeed a shock. Buffalo Bill fell back a step, exclaiming:
“Dick Danforth!”
“’Tis I, old faithful! Thanks to this girl—who is the whitest Injun God ever made—I am alive, the sole survivor of my unfortunate party.”
“Dick, I saw you lying on the field of battle,” declared the scout, taking his hand. “How came you here?”
“She brought me back to life. She found there was life in me. I had got a terrible crack on the head. She and the old woman brought me here, and I have been hidden in this teepee ever since. I’m a whole lot better now, Cody. I believe I could ride a horse.”
“And the White Antelope has cared for you?” cried the scout.
“She has, indeed.” Then the young man whispered: “Isn’t she beautiful? And how glad I am, old man, that you stayed my hand that day when I would have murdered her!”
“Ho, ho!” muttered the scout. “Sets the wind in that quarter? I must tell you two young people something before more mischief be done.”
He seized the girl’s hand and drew her forward to the side of Danforth’s couch.
“White Antelope,” he said in English, “do you remember that I told you once I knew your mother?”