PAIN. Buckie rode down the valley all day long wondering what could have become of his chaperon. Toward sunset, a sound of rifle-shots ahead aroused him to a sense of something wrong. He saw the chance for some great deed of war, and since he could not bear the pain either of trot or canter, he had to charge at full gallop, keeping his eyes shut because he was scared to look.
PRIDE. He pulled his gun.
Now I was standing on his chaperon's neck, whetting my knife to scalp my first real Indian, when suddenly I saw a proper Tommy Atkins, of scarlet cavalry, somehow broke loose from England and charging straight at me, blind.
"Whoa!" said I. "Whoa, hoss!"
At that, the rangy gelding pulled up dead, but the soldier came straight on until he bumped, and slid right to my feet.
"Hello!" said I.
The soldier blinked at me, leveled his gun and grunted, "Hands up, you swine!"
But at that moment, I wanted a whole regiment to defy, so I told him I'd see him damned first, for I would not throw up my hands for any bally Tommy.
"Come, hands up, nitchie (friend)."
"You silly ass," I said. "Can't you see I'm a white man?"