He arose and proceeded to the fire, in company with Morgan, who cautioned him, however, to say little to the boy and girl, fearing Hackett might make some observation that would betray the truth.
“She’s some pretty, sir,” said Gad, admiring Felicia; “though she’s nothing but a kid. I reckon she makes a stunner when she gits older.”
“Hush!” said Morgan. “That’s nothing to you.”
“Oh, I has an eye for female beauty!” grinned Hackett. “It’s nateral with me.”
Suddenly, to their surprise, without the least warning, a man seemed to rise from the ground a short distance away and walk straight toward the fire. Hackett had his pistol out in a twinkling, but he stood with mouth agape as he saw the newcomer was an old Indian, about whose shoulders a dirty red blanket was draped. It was Felicia, however, who was the most surprised, and a cry left her lips, for she recognized old Joe Crowfoot.
Even as she uttered that cry the eyes of the old redskin shot her a warning look that somehow silenced her. Without giving Hackett as much as a glance, old Joe walked up to the fire, before which he squatted, extending his hands to its warmth.
“Well, dern me, if that don’t beat the deck!” growled Hackett. “These yere red wards of the government are a-getting so they makes theirselves to home anywhere. And you never knows when they’re around. Now, this yere one he pops right out o’ the ground like.”
Then he turned savagely on Joe.
“What are you prowling around yere for, you old vagrant?” he demanded threateningly. “Who are you?”
Crowfoot rolled his little beady eyes up at the man.