The scout repeated his question.
“Let pore Injun go!” was the only answer. The redskin pretended he did not understand what Buffalo Bill meant.
“You may go,” said the latter, who had no desire to hold him.
The black eyes glittered. Accustomed to treachery, the Indian could not understand this, unless it spelled trickery of some kind.
Buffalo Bill seized the head of the horse and drew the body round a little, and the Indian extricated his foot, which had not been much hurt. He limped, however, when he rose to his feet.
“I’m sorry about the mustang,” said the scout, “but it was your own fault. You provoked it, when you tried to ride me down and strike me with that whip. But you may go.”
The redskin hesitated, looking at the pistol held by the scout; but when Buffalo Bill repeated his permission to go, he started off slowly, glancing back as if he feared this were but a trick to give the scout a chance to shoot him in the back.
“Here,” said the scout, “don’t you want these things?”
He pointed to the rawhide accouterments on the dead horse. The Indian looked at them doubtfully.
“White man no shoot?”