Before I had struggled clear of my horse, Shipley's hand was on my
shoulder, and his hurried whisper in my ear.
"What shall we do? Will you surrender?"
Now, though I knew already that I had escaped with a flesh-wound from a
spent bullet, I felt that I could not hope to make quick tracks that
night. Certain reasons--wholly independent of personal convenience--made
me loth to part with my saddle-bags; besides this, I own I shrank from
the useless ignominy of being hunted down like a wild beast on the
mountains. So I answered, rather impatiently:
"What the deuce would you have one do--with a dead horse and a lamed
leg? Shift for yourself as well as you can."
Without another word I walked towards the party in our front, with an
impulse I cannot now define; it could scarcely have been seriously
aggressive, for a hunting-knife was my solitary weapon; but for one
moment I _was_ idiot enough to regret my lost revolver, I was traveling
as a neutral and civilian, with no other object than my private ends;
the slaughter of an American citizen, on his own ground, would have been
simply murder, both by moral and martial law, and I heard afterwards
that our Legation could not have interfered to prevent condign
punishment. But reason is dumb sometimes, when the instincts of the "old
Adam" are speaking.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162