He was fairly crying, yet did not know it, and sobs of violent rage shook him. After all, compared with Barlow, he was a mere boy, his face still beardless. “I’ll get even with you for that blow, you villain, if it takes me a year!” said Wilkins. He stooped by the side of the small canal that brought water to the roots of the cottonwoods, and with this water he bathed his face; yet, as he discovered later, in removing the blood from his lip he got a good deal of it on his handkerchief. He did not leave the shelter of the cottonwoods for half an hour, and not until he had again secured control of his nerves. There was in his heart a shaking rage against Joel Barlow and an aching desire to “get even.” As he walked along, going toward his barracks room, he passed close by the stockade gate. It was swung open, after a challenge and some questions, and by the lamp which brightly lighted the gate he saw Buffalo Bill ride through to the inside. That the great scout had been out on the vast plains somewhere, and was bringing in some report to the colonel in command, was Wilkins’ conclusion when he saw him. He stood back in the darkness and looked at the handsome horseman who passed on from the gate in the direction of the colonel’s quarters; then, after a minute of hesitation, he turned in that direction and followed. Buffalo Bill was no more than in the room which had been assigned him before there was a soft rap on his door. When he opened it, he saw before him Wilkins, pale-faced, bright-eyed, with a lip that was fast swelling, and bruises on his cheeks. “Come in.” Wilkins slid into the room, and the scout, closing the door, eyed the young man keenly. Wilkins was slender, not overmuscular, being of the light and wiry build. Just now his dark face was chalky in its pallor, and his dark eyes burning bright. The scout, keen reader of the human mind that he was, saw that Wilkins had come in that stealthy way because of something he wished to say in private, and he guessed that the young man was in trouble. Wilkins dropped nervously into a chair, and pulled nervously at the sleeve of his coat. “Something I can do for you?” Buffalo Bill asked, in a tone so kind that it touched Wilkins’ heart. “I have come to make a confession!” he blurted out. “I can guess that you have been fighting,” said the scout. “No, I have not; but I was struck down, brutally knocked down, by a man who thinks he has me for his life slave simply because he knows certain things against me.” His face was flaming again, and his manner was excited. “Yes, I see!” said the scout, trying to help him along. “That man is Joel Barlow, now in command here in the absence of the commandant.” “Not Lieutenant Barlow?” “Yes, Lieutenant Barlow. And I’m going to tell you about it. I know I shall be disgraced and court-martialed, and perhaps sent to prison; but that doesn’t matter now. I’m going to tell it, if I’m hung for it.”