“Rafe Todd, you know who that one man is,” he continued, looking the doomed man steadily in the eye. “Here you pay the penalty attached to crime. Were we to take you into camp, Davis would send you to Fort Crook, and you would be hung in the presence of your old comrades. Therefore, I s’pose you would rather meet the bullet here.”
“That I would, Kit South,” was the reply, in a tone fearfully calm. “I would sooner burn over a slow fire, than hang before the boys.”
“You shall have fair play, Rafe. Cut him loose, Cohoon.”
The Indian obeyed, and once again Rafe Todd was free.
“It will never be said of Kit South that he shot a white man in cold blood; therefore, we put ten paces between us, and fight a fair duel. If you slay me, all well and good. I’ll molest you no more. But first tell me how you came to play the New York Harry? ’Reesa says she saw you thrown into the river for dead.”
The traitor smiled, and glanced at the scout’s daughter.
“The man shot by McKay while bending over you and Cohoon asleep in Jack’s cave was Harry,” said Rafe, addressing Kit. “I was to spy in the camp that night, so I exchanged garments with the chief, and hired him to strike you while you slept. I scarred my face in exact imitation of Harry’s, and the deception deceived you. Harry fell as you know; now he sleeps in the river, and when I discovered that Jack believed me dead, I assumed the entire role of his chief.”
For a moment silence followed the unraveling of two mysteries, and Kit looked at the traitor again.
“Are you ready now?” he asked, quietly.
“Quite ready.”