Resting upon the grass, and staining its green with crimson, was the right hand, which had been stunned, but not injured in the least, by the bullet from Buffalo Bill’s rifle. The scout had shot at the handle of her knife and had struck it fair. Yet, though Buffalo Bill had not injured her, and had fired only to save the life of Red Hand, as he stood there, brave man though he was, his eyes dimmed with tears as he muttered: “I could not help it--I could not help it, for it was to save your life I fired, comrade.” “Grace,” and Red Hand’s voice was strangely soft and kind. “Grace, why did you leave me to a life of despair? Why did you wish to take my life?” “Vincent, yonder is the grave of Ben Talbot. Answer me--did your hand place him there?” “It did.” Buffalo Bill started at the reply, and the woman groaned aloud. “Again, answer me; did you take my father’s life?” “Grace, in God’s name what do you mean?” “Answer me! Did my father fall by your hand?” “Never, as God is my judge!” The eyes of the woman turned full upon the man, and she asked earnestly: “Vincent, would you lie to a dying woman?” “No, not one unkind word ever passed between your father and me.” “Thank God! Vincent, now I understand all, and--I--believe--you. Hold--me--up--thus! Yes, the shadow of death has blinded me, and the cold chill of the grave is upon me; but I would ask you to forgive me--me, a guilty thing that has so sinned against you. Quick! Hold down your ear and catch my words, for--the papers--all--in cabin--yonder--quick! Forgive me, and--kiss me, Vincent.” “Red Hand murmured softly: “Grace, I forgive.” Then his stern lips touched those of the woman just as her eyes closed and death laid his icy touch upon her pulse and stilled it forevermore. “Come, comrade, old fellow, the night is creeping on, and we must not linger here.” It was Buffalo Bill who thus addressed Red Hand, who, an hour later, was still bending over the frail form of the woman he had called Grace, though two hours had passed since her spirit had winged its flight. Yet Red Hand had not let go the small hand or ceased to gaze down upon the marblelike, upturned face. “Arouse yourself, comrade,” Buffalo Bill urged. “Come, I have dug a grave yonder under the hillside, just on the mossy bank of the stream; you can see it from here, and we must lay the poor girl away.” Still Red Hand returned no answer. Again Buffalo Bill’s kindly tones addressed him: “Have you forgotten, comrade, that many lives are dependent upon you, and that there is danger in the wind?” The scout still trusted Red Hand, though there were many things he could not yet understand.