Then his stern lips touched those of the woman just as her eyes closed and death laid his icy touch upon her pulse and stilled it forevermore.
“Come, comrade, old fellow, the night is creeping on, and we must not linger here.”
It was Buffalo Bill who thus addressed Red Hand, who, an hour later, was still bending over the frail form of the woman he had called Grace, though two hours had passed since her spirit had winged its flight. Yet Red Hand had not let go the small hand or ceased to gaze down upon the marblelike, upturned face.
“Arouse yourself, comrade,” Buffalo Bill urged. “Come, I have dug a grave yonder under the hillside, just on the mossy bank of the stream; you can see it from here, and we must lay the poor girl away.”
Still Red Hand returned no answer. Again Buffalo Bill’s kindly tones addressed him:
“Have you forgotten, comrade, that many lives are dependent upon you, and that there is danger in the wind?”
The scout still trusted Red Hand, though there were many things he could not yet understand.
“Buffalo Bill, dear old fellow, I remember now. Let us first bury poor Grace—yes, bury her forever from sight; but I forgave her ere she died, and she believed me when I said my hand was not stained with her father’s blood. There is a stain upon it, Buffalo Bill, but not of his life. Come, let us dig a grave,” and Red Hand arose to his feet.
“The grave is dug,” said the scout. “See, all is in readiness over there.”