The Indian, a slender, handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast.

He held his hand tightly over the wound, while bright red blood trickled between his fingers, flowed down his side, and stained the grass.
The brave looked steadily up at Joe.

Shot as he was, dying as he knew himself to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye--only an unquenchable hatred.

Then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceased twitching.
Joe was bending over a dead Indian.
It flashed into his mind, of course, that Wetzel had come up in time to save his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrank from this violent death of a human being.

But it was from the aspect of the dead, not from remorse for the deed.