"Professor Oswald."
Frank looked up to see the grinning face of his chum thrust close to him.
"Think it's genuine, Frank?" demanded the other.
"I can see no reason why it shouldn't be," answered the other, glancing down again at the crumpled paper he held, and which the old Moqui was regarding with the greatest of pride on his brown face.
"Looks like that paper Mr. Hinchman brought to my dad; yes, I'd stake my word on it, Bob, that the same hand wrote both."
"But how d'ye suppose this greasy old Indian ever got the document?" asked the young Kentuckian.
"We'll have to put it up to him, and find out," came the reply. "He can speak United States all right; we've found that out already; and so you see, there's no reason under the sun why he shouldn't want to tell us."
He turned to the Moqui. It was not the same sleepy boy apparently who, but a minute before, had started to creep into the comfortable tent, where the blankets lay; but a wide-awake fellow, eager to ascertain under what conditions this fugitive brave could have secured such a letter of recommendation from the man of science, who was supposed to have utterly vanished from the haunts of men without leaving a single trace behind, up to the hour that message came to Colonel Haywood.
Holding the paper up, and shaking it slightly, Frank started to put the Moqui warrior on the rack.