He was dressed like a European--tall, thin, unbending, in a greyish-white suit.
He rode a good horse, and sat it well; his air was commanding, even as he turned and fled in the general rout from that lost battle.
I seized Colebrook's arm, almost speechless with anger.

"The white man!" I cried.

"The traitor!" He did not answer a word, but with a set face of white rage loosed his horse from where it was tethered among the waggons.

At the same moment, I loosed mine.

So did Doolittle.