The bodies of the slain Indians were tied to the backs of ponies. The wounded Indian was borne in a blanket slung hammock-wise between two ponies; a position that must have brought him pain, although he gave no sign of it.
Wild Bill had been tied hand and foot, and a rope wound round the body of the horse to which he was tied held his legs under the horse’s belly. He observed that Barlow and the girl were not bound.
Barlow put his horse finally by his side.
“Sorry to see you here, Hickok,” he said, with professed sympathy. “I’m a prisoner, too, and I was afraid to try to get nearer to you sooner. Some of the Cheyennes suspect me; but I have the good will of the chief, because I saved him once from a wolf. On account of that he calls me the Wolf Soldier.”
Wild Bill looked hard at him.
“It’s a good name, I think; that young Indian must be a fine character reader. The Wolf Soldier just about fits you.”
Barlow’s face turned red. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“That you are a wolf soldier, or a wolfish one, as you please. I understand how you happen to be here. You’re on good terms with these red villains, because you’re a renegade.”
“This is insulting, Hickok,” said Barlow; “but considering your excitement, and your position, I’ll not hold it against you. I don’t know what you’ve heard, I’m sure; but I know that what you say wrongs me, cruelly wrongs me.”
Wild Bill lifted his voice recklessly, and shouted to the girl: