DeWitt pulled out his Colt.

“I think I have you, this time,” he said.

“Yes?” asked Kut-le, without stirring.  “And what are you going to do with me?”

“I’m going to take about a minute to tell you what I think of you, and give you another minute in which to offer up some sort of an Indian prayer.  Then I’m going to shoot you!”

Kut-le glanced from DeWitt to Rhoda, thence to Porter and Newman.  Porter’s under lip protruded.  Jack looked sick.  Both the men had their hands on their guns.  Rhoda moistened her lips to speak, but Kut-le was before her.

“Are you a good shot, DeWitt?” he asked.  “Because I know that Jack and Porter are sure in their aim.”

“You’ll never know whether I am or not,” replied DeWitt.  “You’d better be thankful that we are shooting you instead of hanging you, as you deserve, you cur!  You’d better be glad you’re dying!  You haven’t a white friend left in the country!  All your ambition and hard work have come to this because you couldn’t change your Indian hide, after all!  Now then, say your prayers!  Rhoda, cover up your eyes!”

Kut-le rose slowly.  The whites noticed with a little pang of shame that he made no attempt to touch his gun which lay on the ground beside him.

“You’d better let Jack and Billy shoot with you,” he said quietly.  “You won’t like to think about the shot that killed me, afterward.  It isn’t nice, I’ve heard, the memory of killing a man!”

“I’m shooting an Indian, not a man!” said DeWitt.  “Say your prayers!”

The spell of fear that had paralyzed Rhoda snapped.  Before Jack or Billy could detain her she ran to DeWitt’s side and grasped his arm.

“John!  John!  Listen to me, one moment!  Look at me!  In spite of all, look, see what he’s made of me, for you to reap the harvest!  Look at me!  I beg of you, do not shoot him!  Let him go!  Make him promise to leave the country.  Make him promise anything!  He keeps promises because he is an Indian!  But if you have any love for me, if you care anything for my happiness, don’t kill Kut-le!  I tell you I will never marry you with his blood on your hands!”

A look curiously hard, curiously suspicious, came to DeWitt’s eyes.  Without lowering his gun or looking at the girl, he answered: 

“You plead too well, Rhoda!  I want this Indian to pay for more torture of mine than you can dream of!  Get back out of the way!  Are you ready, Kut-le?”

Rhoda’s slender body was rigid.  She moved away from DeWitt until she could encompass the four men in her glance.  With arms folded across her arching chest she spoke with a richness in her voice that none of her hearers ever could forget.

“Remember, friends, you have forced me to this!  You had me safe, but you thought more of revenge than you did of my safety!  John, if you kill Kut-le you will kill the man that I love with all the passion of my soul!”