“Had it not been for those bufflers you’d ’a swung in Fort Kearney ere this,” responded Shackelford.
“What are they waiting on?” he cried, impatiently, turning to an old chief who stood at his side. “I’m getting anxious to see the fun.”
“Gold Feather wants to die a pale-face,” was the reply, “and the paint of the Apaches must be washed from his body before the strong fire comes.”
“Well, it’s natural for him to want to die decently,” grated Tom Kyle, “and I shall curb my eagerness for the burning with the impatience to see what kind of a looking white man the traitor makes.”
Presently several warriors advanced to Gold Feather, and applied strong alkali-water to his person. Then, after thoroughly soaking his skin, as it seemed, they rubbed him with coarse skins which served as towels.
Beneath this operation a startling metamorphosis manifested itself.
Gold Feather was a white man once more!
Tom Kyle stood off, and gazed on the singular spectacle; and stepped to Tarantulah’s side.
“Now let them die!”
“When the pale-girls come.”