"Didn't he do wrong to shoot Mr. Lukens?"
"Wrong?" My tone expressed the greatest astonishment at such an idea. "Why, Penelope, if I was him I'd have done exactly the same thing--exactly."
My approval of her father's act was a great consolation to her. The pressure of her encircling arms made me gasp, and there was a note of gratitude in her voice. "Oh, Davy, I know you would; you are so brave."
"And I'll take care of you, Penelope," I said, quite as though I seconded her approval of my courage and had forgotten that there were such things as rattlesnakes. "As long as you are with me you needn't be afraid of anything."
Nathan's pace was quieter and steadier, and being secure on his back I felt capable of any heroism. We had passed the worst part of the road. It was broader, the trees parted overhead, letting in the sunshine, and danger never seems so near when one moves in the bright day; so my heart grew lighter, and, had I known the words of any rollicking song, I should have sung, like James, but lacking these I had recourse to whistling. Nerves which had been set on edge by the rifle's report, the fumes of smoke, the cries of pain and fright, were quieted first by long-drawn, melancholy notes, and then I swung into a bold trilling, more suited to my adventurous spirit, throwing back my head, extending my lips heavenward, addressing my melody to the sky. Pausing, exhausted, I expected to hear from behind me some expression of astonishment and pleasure at my birdlike song. Instead there was only a muffled sobbing.
"Little 'un," I said in a chiding voice, "you hadn't otter cry when I'm taking care of you. There's nothing to be afraid of. Why, we're going home."