Standing near was Kansas King, a bloodstain upon his forehead, from a wound made by the butt of the scout’s pistol.
The face of the hermit was pallid with pain and some inward emotion of bitterness. The face of the man whose deeds had won him the name of Kansas King was still unmoved and reckless.
In front of these men stood Buffalo Bill and Red Hand. Red Hand was slightly in advance, and he was speaking, while his deep voice was stern and almost cruel in tone. He was saying:
“Carter Bainbridge, you have but a short time to live. Before your soul takes its flight, I would have you speak, if the story I am now about to relate is not true in every word.”
After a moment, the hermit replied:
“Hell has certainly aided you, Vincent Vernon, in letting your hand take my life; tell all you wish to, for I care not now—no, not now—ha! here comes Pearl.”
At that moment the girl rushed from the cabin, and, beholding the strange scene and the hermit lying wounded upon the rock, cried: “Father, my father! Are you dying?”
Quickly Red Hand stepped forward, and, restraining her, said:
“My dear girl, this man is not your father—waste not your pity on him.”
“Not my father! Oh, surely you are——”