“Whar?” asked “Crow-Killer,” turning his eyes in the direction indicated.
“That one there, wrapped up in the blanket as if he had the chills,” and Dave pointed to a man standing near the river, with his back to the two guides. The stranger was wrapped in a dirty red blanket which completely covered him. On his head he wore a common black felt hat, from under which long black locks fell down over his shoulders, forming a striking contrast to the red blanket.
Abe took a long look at the motionless figure.
“Well, do you know him?” asked Dave.
“Nary time!” answered Abe. “He looks like an Injun, durned if he don’t. He’s a powerful big feller, I should judge.”
Just then the stranger turned round and exposed a face a few shades darker than that of Dave’s, but not dark enough to proclaim the owner to be an Indian, or, if he was one, one much lighter in color than the generality of his race. The face of the stranger was an odd one; high cheek bones, the dark color, the flashing black eyes, no sign of a beard—all these would proclaim him an Indian; yet, the long black hair curled slightly at the ends, and was much finer than the usual coarse locks of the red-skin.
As he faced toward the two guides, the eyes of the stranger wandering listlessly over the talking crowd, Abe got a good full view of his face and started in astonishment.
“What’s the matter?” questioned Dave.
“That man’s face!” answered Abe, still staring intently upon the stranger.
“Well, what of it?”