The horse had quivered as it fell, but now it lay stretched out. It had struck on its head and neck in its fall, and the weight of its body thus crushing against it had broken its neck, killing it.
The Indian stared stupidly when he saw that revolver.
“White man no shoot!” he begged.
“I don’t intend to, unless you try treachery and force me to,” was the answer, as Cody pointed the pistol at the Indian’s feathered head. “Tell me why you rode to the gate over there a while ago!” he sternly commanded.
The redskin stared stolidly, evidently inventing some answer.
“Me no go.”
“You talked there with the white man who lives in that house?”
The Indian shook his head.
“Why did you get mad and try to strike me with your whip when I asked you about it?”
“Let pore Injun go!” whined the redskin.