"
"Dutchmans no killed Boss?"
"No."
Doubtfully Kruger Bobs shook his sable bristles. He had heard the
firing, such firing as he had never dreamed of until then, and it
seemed to him impossible that any man could come unscathed out of
the heart of it. Of Weldon's being in the very heart of it, no doubt
had once stained the loyal whiteness of his soul. To assure himself
of Weldon's safety, he ambled around the gray broncho in a clumsy
circle. The gray broncho showed her appreciation of the attention by
nipping viciously at the flank of his horse. By Weldon's left side,
Kruger Bobs halted and pointed an accusing forefinger at his knee.
"Dutchmans hurt Boss," he said anxiously.
"Where?"
"Dere." In spite of his effort for sternness, the voice of Kruger
Bobs quavered with anxiety.
Bending over, Weldon glanced down at the dark red stain on the coil
of khaki serge. Then, all at once, he remembered the sudden stinging
of his leg, just before he had started the gray broncho on her last
mad rush across the lead-swept plain. In the excitement that
followed, the matter had entirely passed out of his mind. Even now
that his attention was called to it, he was conscious of no physical
discomfort.
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