He did not want to go the frontier station.
“Shackelford, this is the lowest kind of revenge.”
The trapper smiled.
“I can’t take vengeance for the Government,” he said. “Tom Kyle, I’m going to turn you over to the authorities, and I hope that they will deal justly with one who has massacred so many helpless emigrants.”
“Well, do as you like, but let me tell you now, Otis Shackelford, that, should I escape, I will take your life if I am obliged to hunt you a lifetime.”
Another smile curled the hunter’s lips, and then the ride over the prairies continued in silence.
Fort Kearney, at that time, was a weak frontier post; but it awed the savage in its vicinity, and kept him classed among the comparatively harmless denizens of the West. The cannon had a terror for him, and, as yet, he had not learned to laugh at the blue-coated soldiery, who stood between him and the great father at Washington.
The western post, in question, was situated about sixty miles from the point where Frontier Shack arrested the flight of the Pale Pawnee, with his prize—the Gold Girl.
Shackelford took a trail not much frequented by Indians, but noted for being crossed and trodden by buffaloes.
The quartette rode rapidly beneath the stars, which dotted the azure vault, and wore a senescent aspect, which the trapper noted with a half frown.