Theodore Winthrop

“ Armstrong glanced at Murker’s body lying there, a battered mass.
“Both!” he whispered. “The other was sent right into my hands to be put to death. I knew all the time it would be sent to me to do killing. He was spurring up the Alley on my own horse. He snapped at me. My pistol did not know how to snap. See here!”
And he showed me, hanging from his saddle-horn, that loathliest of all objects a man’s eyes ever lighted upon, a fresh scalp. It sickened me.
“Shame!” said I. “Do you call yourself a man, to bring such a thing into a lady’s presence?” ”

“ And still she seemed to rule her fate with quiet, steady eyes, — gray eyes with violet lights.
I carried her a few steps to the side of a jubilant fountain lifting beneath a rock, and left her there to Nature, kindliest leech.
Then I took a cup of that brilliant water to my friend, my brother.
“I can die now,” he said feebly.
“There is no death in you. You have won the right to live. Keep a brave heart. Drink!”
And in that exquisite spot, that fair glade of the sparkling fountains, I gave the noble fellow long draughts of sweet refreshment. ”

“ I know what a gal in trouble wants more ’n young fellows can.”
Ellen Clitheroe gave her hand to Armstrong in frank acceptance of his offer. He became the paternal element in our party, — he protecting her and she humanizing him.
We lighted our camp-fire and supped heartily. Except for Brent’s uneasy stir and unwilling moans, we might have forgotten the deadly business of that day.
We made the wounded man comfortable as might be with blankets, under the sheltering spruces. ”