He was willing to risk his own life; he would not risk his son's.

So, with tears in his eyes, Whitey stood and watched the party gallop away in the darkness.

And beside him, a lantern in his hand, stood the cook, an elderly man who had taken Wong Lee's place.

And he watched wistfully, too, for he wanted to go, but he had left one of his legs on a Southern battle-field.
Whitey choked back a sob with which the silence would have been broken.
He felt something warm and moist on his hand, and looked down.

It was the tongue of Sitting Bull, the faithful--forgotten but not forgetting.
And as Whitey gazed at the friendly ugly face of the dog, he noted the determination marked in every feature of it.