“Everybody seems to be safe,” smiled the scout, “with the exception of Blake. What ails your wrist?” he added to the miner.
“Exchanged tokens of esteem with Lawless,” explained Blake; “I put a bullet inter his shoulder, an’ he recippercated by puttin’ another across my wrist. Not much more’n a scratch, howsumever, but I’m almost willing to bet I’ve put Lawless down an’ out.”
“Too good ter be true,” muttered Nomad.
“Talking about bein’ safe,” said Hank Tenny, “ye come within one o’ losin’ yer Piute pard, Buffler Bill.”
“How’s that? Did Lawless have a try at him?”
“Nary. Cayuse, thinkin’ you was wiped out, sung a leetle death-song all fer himself. Ef Pete, thar, hadn’t been quick, Cayuse would have put a knife into his own breast.”
The scout turned and looked at the boy. Their eyes met, and what passed between them will never be known, but the scout reached out a kindly hand, drew the boy toward him and patted him on the shoulder.
“Cayuse would do a lot for Pa-e-has-ka,” said he, “and he knows Pa-e-has-ka would do a lot for him; but when Pa-e-has-ka takes the long trail, as some time he must, he does not want to think that Cayuse will sing his death-song and follow. This life was made to live as long as we can; then, when our time comes to quit it, to pass out like brave men who have fought well and are willing to go.
“But,” and here the scout turned briskly away, “enough of this. Wah-coo-tah is on the shelf, below the brink of the cañon, and Dell is with her——”
“Wah-coo-tah?” exclaimed Nomad.