You can't trust
Indians, eh? You made a hit with old Wapi, and it wouldn't do to let him
know we're going to send you where you sent my bear. Eh--would it?"
"You mean--you're going to murder me?" said David
"If standing you up against a tree and putting a bullet through your
heart is murder--yes," gloated Brokaw.
"Murder--" repeated David.
He seemed powerless to say more than that. An overwhelming dizziness was
creeping over him, the pain was splitting his head, and he swayed
backward. He fought to recover himself, to hold himself up, but that
returning sickness reached from his brain to the pit of his stomach, and
with a groan he sank face downward on the cot. Brokaw was still talking,
but he could no longer understand his words. He heard Hauck's sharp
voice, their retreating footsteps, the opening and closing of the
door--fighting all the time to keep himself from falling off into that
black and bottomless pit again. It was many minutes before he drew
himself to a sitting posture on the edge of his cot, this time slowly
and guardedly, so that he would not rouse the pain in his head. It was
there. He could feel it burning steadily and deeply, like one of his
old-time headaches.
The bar of sunlight was gone from the wall, and through the one small
window in the west end of his room he saw the fading light of day
outside.
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