and the news that he had been
murdered, and that his wife had run all the way down the mountain, with
her baby in her arms, for help, went like wild-fire through the place.
The people gathered in an excited group around the house where Ramona
had taken refuge. She was lying, half unconscious, on a bed. As soon
as she had gasped out her terrible story, she had fallen forward on the
floor, fainting, and the baby had been snatched from her arms just in
time to save it. She did not seem to miss the child; had not asked for
it, or noticed it when it was brought to the bed. A merciful oblivion
seemed to be fast stealing over her senses. But she had spoken words
enough to set the village in a blaze of excitement. It ran higher and
higher. Men were everywhere mounting their horses,--some to go up and
bring Alessandro's body down; some organizing a party to go at once to
Jim Farrar's house and shoot him: these were the younger men, friends of
Alessandro. Earnestly the aged Capitan of the village implored them to
refrain from such violence.

"Why should ten be dead instead of one, my sons?" he said. "Will you
leave your wives and your children like his? The whites will kill us all
if you lay hands on the man. Perhaps they themselves will punish him."

A derisive laugh rose from the group. Never yet within their experience
had a white man been punished for shooting an Indian. The Capitan knew
that as well as they did. Why did he command them to sit still like
women, and do nothing, when a friend was murdered?

"Because I am old, and you are young. I have seen that we fight in
vain," said the wise old man. "It is not sweet to me, any more than to
you. It is a fire in my veins; but I am old. I have seen. I forbid you
to go."

The women added their entreaties to his, and the young men abandoned
their project. But it was with sullen reluctance; and mutterings were
to be heard, on all sides, that the time would come yet. There was more
than one way of killing a man. Farrar would not be long seen in the
valley. Alessandro should be avenged.

As Farrar rode slowly down the mountain, leading his recovered horse, he
revolved in his thoughts what course to pursue. A few years before, he
would have gone home, no more disquieted at having killed an Indian than
if he had killed a fox or a wolf. But things were different now. This
Agent, that the Government had taken it into its head to send out to
look after the Indians, had made it hot,