“Don’t fire till I give the word,” commanded the captain, who had become suddenly interested in the tall, slim man.
Halting his mule directly before Dawson, and with no more than a couple of yards separating them, the stranger craned his head forward until his chin was almost between the long ears of his animal. He seemed to be trying to look the officer through, while every other man watched the curious proceeding.
Suddenly the fellow resumed his upright posture in the saddle, his manner showing that he had solved the problem that perplexed him. Through his thin, scattered beard, he was seen to be smiling.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Maurice Dawson.”
“Formerly captain of the Iowa ––– cavalry?”
“The same at your service.”
“Don’t you know me, captain?”
The officer thus appealed to took a single step forward, and looked searchingly in the face of the man that had thus addressed him.