Broken Feather drew down his hands, and folded his arms across his chest, sitting very upright astride of his horse.
"I have not asked advice from you, Lord St. Olave," he said.
"It isn't advice I'm giving you," returned Kiddie. "It's a command. Draw off your warriors right now, and quit, while you have the chance."
He again raised his weapon, and urged his pony a few steps nearer. But Broken Feather did not wait. Seizing his bridle, he pulled his mustang round and galloped away.
Kiddie then advanced to where Rube Carter was lying. He dismounted.
"Why did you let him off like that, Kiddie?" Rube asked, one hand up to his wounded cheek. "You might have shot him easy. Why don't you go after him?"
"What?" said Kiddie, going down on his knees; "and leave you here, without help? Not likely. My! you do look pretty, with all that blood about your face. Take away your hand, and let's have a look at where you're hurt. What's become of your pony?"
"Dunno," Rube answered feebly. "I was thrown, an' he ran off on his own. I've hurt my hip some. Don't think I c'n walk. Wound on my cheek ain't much, is it, Kiddie?"
"Nothing serious," Kiddie told him, taking out his pocket case. "A strip or two of stickin' plaster 'll fix it up till we get home. Bullet went very near your eye, though. Say, how d'you happen to be here? I expected to find you away back there, where I told you to wait. Got tired of waitin', I guess."
"Don't blame me, Kiddie; I didn't think you really wanted me ter stop thar. An' when the fightin' was at its worst, I got anxious about you; figured as you might be badly wounded an' needin' help, or—or even that you might be killed. So I came along ter search for you, see?"