"Did what--to whom--to where, to why?" Good Indian let go her
arm, and began helpfully striving with the scraggly scrub and its
prongs. "Say, I'll just about have to scalp you to get you
loose. Would you mind very much, Squaw-talk-far-off?" He ducked
and peered into her face again, and again his face sobered.
"What's the matter?" he asked, in an entirely different
tone--which Miss Georgie, in spite of her mood, found less
satisfying than his banter.
"Saunders--OUCH; I'd as soon be scalped and done with, as to have
you pull out a hair at a time--Saunders crawled home with a
bullet in his ribs. And I thought--"
"Saunders!" Good Indian stared down at her, his hands dropped
upon her head.
Miss Georgie reached up, caught him by the wrists, and held him
so while she tilted her head that she might look up at him.
"Grant!" she cried softly. "He deserved it. You couldn't help
it--he would have shot you down like a dog, just because he was
hired to do it, or because of some hold over him.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354