“Lying where he fell, I suppose.”
Walking hastily away into the timber, the scout soon hailed:
“Send me a few men; the chief is not dead.”
A few minutes more, and half a dozen troopers approached the fire, bearing between them the wounded form of Ricardo, the chief of the Brotherhood.
“Gently, men, gently; do you not hear his groans, and he is no man to cry out at trifles. Lay him there,” said Buffalo Bill, and around the wounded chieftain gathered General Canton, the scout, Captain la Clyde, the negro Buttermilk, Alfred Carter, and several others.
“Ricardo Carter, for that is your real name, do you know that you are dying?” suddenly asked Alfred Carter, in an earnest tone.
“Yes, my sands of life are ebbing out rapidly; but who are you that calls my name—a name that has been dead to sound for long, long years?” replied the chief, speaking with difficulty.
“I will tell you, and you must say whether I speak true or not.”
“I am listening; hasten, for death keeps back at the bidding of no man.”
After a moment’s silence Alfred Carter began speaking in a low but distinct voice, plainly heard by all.