There was in his heart a shaking rage against Joel Barlow and an aching desire to “get even.”
As he walked along, going toward his barracks room, he passed close by the stockade gate.
It was swung open, after a challenge and some questions, and by the lamp which brightly lighted the gate he saw Buffalo Bill ride through to the inside.
That the great scout had been out on the vast plains somewhere, and was bringing in some report to the colonel in command, was Wilkins’ conclusion when he saw him. He stood back in the darkness and looked at the handsome horseman who passed on from the gate in the direction of the colonel’s quarters; then, after a minute of hesitation, he turned in that direction and followed.
Buffalo Bill was no more than in the room which had been assigned him before there was a soft rap on his door. When he opened it, he saw before him Wilkins, pale-faced, bright-eyed, with a lip that was fast swelling, and bruises on his cheeks.
“Come in.”
Wilkins slid into the room, and the scout, closing the door, eyed the young man keenly.
Wilkins was slender, not overmuscular, being of the light and wiry build. Just now his dark face was chalky in its pallor, and his dark eyes burning bright.
The scout, keen reader of the human mind that he was, saw that Wilkins had come in that stealthy way because of something he wished to say in private, and he guessed that the young man was in trouble.
Wilkins dropped nervously into a chair, and pulled nervously at the sleeve of his coat.