The rifle fell from his hands, and he smote his breast and forehead in a paroxysm of the wildest fury and despair. It was frightful to behold the conscience-stricken wretch, stamping madly about, and casting glances of terror behind him, as though demons had been hunting him down. The foam flew from his mouth, and I expected each moment to see him fall to the ground in a fit of epilepsy. Gradually, however, he grew more tranquil.
“D’ye see nothin’ in my face?” said he in a hoarse whisper, suddenly pausing close to where I lay.
“What should I see?”
He came yet nearer.
“Look well at me—through me, if you can. D’ye see nothin’ now?”
“I see nothing,” replied I.
“Ah! I understand; you can see nothin’. Ain’t in a spyin’ humour, I calkilate. No, no, that you ain’t. After four days and nights fastin’, one loses the fancy for many things. I’ve tried it for two days myself. So, you are weak and faint, eh? But I needn’t ask that, I reckon. You look bad enough. Take another drop of whisky; it’ll strengthen you. But wait till I mix it.”
As he spoke, he stepped down to the edge of the river, and scooping up the water in the hollow of his hand, filled up his flask with it. Then returning to me, he poured a little into my mouth.
Even the bloodthirsty Indian appears less of a savage when engaged in a compassionate act, and the wild desperado I had fallen in with seemed softened and humanised by the service he was rendering me. His voice sounded less harsh; his manner was calmer and milder.