Wyatt himself was mad for revenge. Every evil passion in him was
up and leaping. His eyes, more like those of a wild animal than
a human being, blazed out of a face, a mottled red and black. By
the side of him the dark Tory, Coleman, was driven by impulses
fully as fierce.
"To think of it!" exclaimed Wyatt. "He led us directly into a
trap, that Ware! And here our band is destroyed! All the good
men that we gathered together, except these few, are killed!"
"But we may pay them back," said Coleman. "We were in their
trap, but now they are in ours! Listen to that firing and the
war whoop! There are enough Iroquois yet in the town to kill
every one of those rebels!"
"I hope so! I believe so!" exclaimed Wyatt. "Look out, Coleman!
Ah, he's pinked you! That's the one they call Shif'less Sol, and
he's the best sharpshooter of them all except Ware!"
Coleman had leaned forward a little in his anxiety to secure a
good aim at something. He had disclosed only a little of his
face, but in an instant a bullet had seared his forehead like the
flaming stroke of a sword, passing on and burying itself in the
wall. Fresh blood dripped down over his face.
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