But this had been lost or forgotten long ago. His ears had not heard that name for years.
When he had first appeared among the settlers along the river, as he had done in the capacity of scout and Indian-hunter, they had known him simply as Dick.
But as time wore on, another name became attached to him.
The Death-Dealer.
The red-skins gave him that, because his hand had slain more of their number than any other scout west of the mountains.
So he had come to be called Dick, the Death-Dealer, and his real name had been forgotten by any who by chance had ever known it.
Along the whole border there was not a man who could follow a trail as well as he.
It seemed almost as though he possessed the instincts of a bloodhound, for when once upon the scent he never lost it.
No matter how much in their cunning the savages might double upon themselves, they could not deceive him.
He was sure to follow them to their lair, and there obtain the vengeance he sought, if he did not get it before.