He sprang up with a pain in his heart. “Siftin’ out the Judases, an’, oh God, I’m a Judas arry way you fix it! Why did you fling me in this heah pit among the wolves o’ war—away from my mount’in home—from little Dinah Mariah?”
When Solomon went back to his beat he had slipped out Ajax, saddled, and held him in the clump of orchard trees, near the sweet window where the faint light came out, that he knew shone also over her and her brother. He held his Deckerd proudly, for was he not all that stood between her and death? He swelled with the pride of it and that queer sullen feeling that came over him at times—that savage feeling he could not understand—that made him willing to kill—kill if—
“They’d better not pester her,” he growled as he heard the pickets go out for their night’s duty.
He heard them moving in the room. Her brother was preparing to go. He peeped and turned away his head. “Somehow it riles me to see her brother kiss her that away.” He tapped on the blind saying softly: “Ready—ready.”
“O, Solomon,” joyfully in a whisper, “bless you; bless you!”
“No Judas in mine, Angul.”
He turned, for Ajax had thrust his head over his keeper’s shoulder and the man laid his cheek against it and his lips had parted for the pet words which he never uttered; for there was a noise in the dark behind him and two soldiers tried to rush by to the door of the room.
Solomon stopped them with his great Deckerd at port. “Halt fus’ an’ give the countersign,” he said, and he heard the scream of a woman, the hurrying of feet within.
“Stand back, you fool, we are men of the Tenth and we’ve got Coleman in there.”
“Stan’ back yerse’f—he’s her brother—my brother.”