“You are beside yourself!” exclaimed Cody coldly. “Do you want it told around your mess that you deliberately shot a squaw-woman?”
“She’s a messenger, man!”
“That’s no excuse.”
“I tell you the red devils killed my people—butchered them! I saw my father with his head split open by an Indian hatchet! My mother was dragged away to a worse death, it’s likely. I’ve sworn revenge on every redskin that walks the earth! Let go of me, Cody, or I’ll kill you!”
“You are beside yourself, sir,” said the scout, still coldly. “You would not kill me, for I have always been your friend. It was I who got you your chance at West Point. It was I who made you what you are now. You’ll not kill me, Dick Danforth!”
The two had ridden furiously ahead of the troopers, both bearing off toward the cañon’s mouth toward which the squaw was flying on her pony. The other men could not hear this conversation, jerked out between the jumps of the two great horses.
That Dick Danforth, the young lieutenant, was beside himself, was easily to be seen. He was not responsible at the moment for his actions or speech.
“That gal must not be harmed, Danforth,” said Cody firmly. “If you hold any gratitude in your heart toward me, show it now. I demand that the girl be unharmed—now or at any other time—and especially at your hand.”
The scout’s seriousness—aye, his passion in saying this—impressed Danforth so deeply that his own rage gave place to wonder.
“Why, what do you know about her, Cody? Who is she?”