“Come on, pard,” said the scout, starting for the next “rise.”
“Mebbyso he’ll open up on ye with thet rifle o’ his, Buffler,” demurred Nomad.
“He’ll not do that,” was Buffalo Bill’s confident reply, as he spurred on.
Nomad lowered his revolver, but kept his vigilant gaze on the Ponca as he followed his pard. When they crossed the next hill, the last they saw of Big Thunder he was still glaring after them.
“Ye’ve made er enemy out o’ thet red, Buffler,” observed the trapper, pushing his revolver back into its holster.
“I suppose so,” said the scout thoughtfully. “The worst of it is, Nick, I can’t blame the Indian. According to the laws and customs of the red man he is in the right. I had no business interfering between him and Wah-coo-tah.”
“Any white man would hev done et!” asserted the trapper.
“Any white man who had the right kind of a heart,” qualified the scout.
“Wah-coo-tah ain’t er common Injun squaw.”
“That’s why I helped her.”