Is it not so?"
"It is so," replied Braxton Wyatt, the renegade. "The tribes have failed
twice in a great effort. Every man among these settlers is a daring and
skillful fighter, and many of the boys--and many of the women, too. But if
white troops and cannon are sent against them their forts must fall."
The Spaniard was idly whipping the grass stems with a little switch. Now
he narrowed his metallic, blue eyes, and gazed directly into those of
Braxton Wyatt.
"And you, Senor Wyatt?" he said, speaking his slow, precise English.
"Nothing premeditated is done without a motive. You are of these people
who live in Kaintock, their blood is your blood; why then do you wish to
have them destroyed?"
A deep flush broke its way through the brown tan on the face of Braxton
Wyatt, and his eyes fell before the cold gaze of the Spaniard. But he
raised them again in a moment. Braxton Wyatt was not a coward, and he
never permitted a guilty conscience to last longer than a throb or two.
"I did belong to them," he replied, "but my tastes led me away. I have
felt that all this mighty valley should belong to the Indians who have
inhabited it so long, but, if the white people come, it should be those
who are true and loyal to their kings, not these rebels of the colonies.
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