One was that of Braxton Wyatt, and the other,
he was quite sure, belonged to the infamous Walter Butler. Hot
anger swept through all his veins, and the little pulses in his
temples began to beat like trip hammers. Now the picture of
Wyoming, the battle, the massacre, the torture, and Queen Esther
wielding her great tomahawk on the bound captives, grew
astonishingly vivid, and it was printed blood red on his brain.
The spirit of anger and defiance, of a desire to taunt those who
had done such things, leaped up in his heart.
"Are you there, Braxton Wyatt?" he called clearly across the
intervening water. "Yes, I see that it is you, murderer of women
and children, champion of the fire and stake, as savage as any of
the savages. And it is you, too, Walter Butler, wickeder son of
a wicked father. Come a little closer, won't you? We've
messengers here for both of you!"
He tapped lightly the barrel of his own rifle and that of
Shif'less Sol, and repeated his request that they come a little
closer.
They understood his words, and they understood, also, the
significant gesture when he patted the barrel of the rifles. The
hearts of both Butler and Wyatt were for the moment afraid, and
their boat dropped back to third place.
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