“Where’s my gal?”
The Indian mournfully shook his head.
“Why, you saw me start from the cave,” said Kit.
“Cohoon did; he saw Baltimore Bob shoot Kit—”
“Stop!” cried the scout, putting forth his hand to strengthen the interruption. “Did Baltimore Bob shoot me?”
“Yes, Kit.”
The scout gritted his teeth till they cracked.
“Now look hyar, Indian. I’m going to kill that brute. Don’t you tech a hair of his head; if you do I’ll—there’s no telling what I might do to you. I swear that he’s my meat, and nobody has a better right to his life than old Kit South. Do you hear me?”
The Indian nodded.
“Then go on.”