“Yes, Vincent Vernon, I know you, and the shadow of death does rest between us,” faintly replied the woman.
She spoke with evident pain and difficulty, while her left hand was held tight to her side, and through the fingers oozed a crimson tide, hastening her life away.
Resting upon the grass, and staining its green with crimson, was the right hand, which had been stunned, but not injured in the least, by the bullet from Buffalo Bill’s rifle. The scout had shot at the handle of her knife and had struck it fair.
Yet, though Buffalo Bill had not injured her, and had fired only to save the life of Red Hand, as he stood there, brave man though he was, his eyes dimmed with tears as he muttered:
“I could not help it—I could not help it, for it was to save your life I fired, comrade.”
“Grace,” and Red Hand’s voice was strangely soft and kind. “Grace, why did you leave me to a life of despair? Why did you wish to take my life?”
“Vincent, yonder is the grave of Ben Talbot. Answer me—did your hand place him there?”
“It did.”
Buffalo Bill started at the reply, and the woman groaned aloud.
“Again, answer me; did you take my father’s life?”