ly found no voice for
commands. Others of our men made ready on the instant, believing that
a battle was on.

It was averted, however. Tooly replaced his pistol in the holster,
saying:

"Well, of course--as you say, my pie is over yonder. I don't want to
kill _you_ fellows."

And he didn't. The three rode over to the other group of our men,
among whom was Mr. Wood. All of these had overheard what had just been
said, and felt sure they knew what was coming.

Mr. Wood, grief-stricken, disabled, stood, pale and fearful, amongst
the party of timid emigrants, all strangers to him; he the only man
probably in the camp without a weapon on his person, his torn arm in
a sling across his chest.

The big fellow made his statement again, as he had made it to us; with
the same emphatic threat to kill, if he could induce Wood or any one
to speak out and affirm the charge of Tooly's complicity with the
Indians.

Tooly got off his horse and, pistol in hand, walked among the party;
many of whom surely did tremble in their boots. He declared again, as
he stalked about, that he would shoot the hapless Wood, "like a dog",
or any one who would repeat the charge.

There were but a few men in that part of the camp when Tooly commenced
this second tirade, in the presence of Wood; but soon more came from
the other part of the train.

Mr. Wood, in a condition as helpless as if with hands and feet bound,
realizing his situation, and his responsibility, maintained silence: a
silence more eloquent than speech, since a single word from him in
confirmation of the charge he had made would have precipitated a
battle, in which he, most certainly, and probably others, including
some of his benefactors, would have been killed.

Then Tooly saw that a goodly number of men had arrived from the other
section of the camp, and were watching to see what would happen; some
of these viewing the scene with attitude and looks that boded no good
for the man who held the center of the arena.

Tooly's threatening talk ceased. Still Wood said nothing. In silence,
Tooly mounted his horse, and with his fellows rode away, leaving the
party of emigrants--most of them terror-stricken, some angry--standing
dumb, looking at one another, and at the retreating three until they
went out of sight, in the dusk of the desert night-fall: stood there
on the sage-brush sward, a tableau of silent dumbfoundedness; for how
long none knew; each waiting for something to break