"You've beat him, Paul! you've beat him!" he cried. "Go in now and trim
his mustache right off his face!"
Braxton Wyatt struck him a blow on the cheek.
"Shut up, will you!" he cried.
Paul, sword in hand, turned away. He would not cut down an unarmed man,
and some strain of chivalry hidden beneath the Spaniard's ambition and
cruelty recognized the boy's nobility. He stepped aside and rebuked
Braxton Wyatt for striking Long Jim. Then he took off his doublet and one
of the men bound up his wound, which was painful but not at all dangerous.
His heart was full of rage and chagrin, but he did not show either.
"You have done well with the sword," he said to Paul, "I admit it, and I
am in a position to know. But you must surrender it, and come as my
prisoner. Your sword can be no defense against the bullets of my
soldiers."
Paul yielded his weapon. It would have been folly to resist when the
soldiers stood close by, loaded guns in hand, but he felt, nevertheless, a
deep satisfaction. He had performed a deed of valor, worthy of Shif'less
Sol or Henry, and he proudly took his place by the side of the other
prisoner, Long Jim. The wound in his arm had already stopped bleeding.
"I didn't know it was in you, Paul," whispered Long Jim, "but I never had
anything in my life do me more good.
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