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Updated: May 31, 2025
I could tell it was Sure-shot by his height. I remembered that my own crown scarcely reached the top of the upright post. That of him now enduring the torture rose above it by the head. Under the bright sunbeam, there was a sheen of yellow hair. That of Wingrove would have appeared dark. Beyond doubt, Sure-shot was the martyr now mounted upon that dread cross!
There was a large party of these "Latter-day" converts under the conduct of an apostolic agent. This much had Sure-shot ascertained. He had not seen their leader, nor heard his name. Joshua Stebbins might be the very man? Even as a conjecture, this was bitter enough.
In reality, I felt astonished at the behaviour of the old ranger. I believed him a better man; but the dread of death is a powerful test to apply to the human soul; and hard must be the conditions of life when, under such circumstances, they are refused. Sure-shot had succumbed to the temptation.
Take me now where you will anywhere that I may assist in saving my sister. Merciful heaven! She, too, in the power of that monster of wickedness!" Wingrove, wildly happy at once forgiving and forgiven was now called to our council. The faithful Sure-shot was also admitted to the knowledge of everything. We might stand in need of his efficient arm.
It was the deserter who was the object of their attention as was soon made manifest by their movements. Half a dozen warriors were seen separating from the group and running up to the spot where Sure-shot lay. Stooping around him, they undid his fastenings; and then, having, raised him to his feet, commenced dragging him towards the crowd of marksmen. The terrified man made no resistance.
Pronouncing this last exclamation with bitter aspirate, the incensed trapper gave the unfortunate hat one more blow with his timber leg; and then, spurning the battered tile from his toe, hobbled back to his horse! Sure-shot was disposed to be angry, but a word set all right. I perfectly comprehended the nature of the trapper's antipathy to silk hats, and explained it to my comrade.
With equal facility was accomplished the metamorphosis of the young backwoodsman, but not so easily that of Sure-shot. The nez retrousse, thin yellow hair, and green-grey eyes appeared to be insurmountable obstacles to the Indianising of the ex-rifleman. Peg-leg, however, proved an artist of skill. The chevelure of Sure-shot, well saturated with charcoal paste, assumed a different hue.
We had afterwards the gratification to learn that the scalpless man survived his terrible mutilation; that under the protection of Peg-leg, he and Sure-shot were taken to the valley of Taos whence, along with the next migration of "diggers," they proceeded, by the Colorado, to the golden placers of California.
Seeing how easily I had ridden away from them, they might determine to abandon the pursuit returning to revenge themselves upon my fellow-captives. About these my mind was filled with, bitter reflections; and strange enough, my strongest sympathies were with. Sure-shot! I could not help thinking that he had sacrificed himself to save me. There could be no doubt of his having done so.
Bob Dillon and Dud Hollister dropped from their saddles in front of the hotel at just eleven o'clock. They had ridden thirty miles and stood for a moment stretching the cramp out of their muscles. Dud spoke, nodding his head to the right. "Look what's here, Sure-Shot. Yore friend Bandy old, tried, an' true."
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