The figure did not move.
“Come forward and surrender.”
The form remained like a statue.
“Throw down that gun or I’ll shoot.”
This brought a response, which came in the shape of a well-known voice:
“Not while I have the spirit of a man left, as me uncle obsarved when his wife commanded him to come down from a tree that she might pummel him. How are ye, old boy?”
The scout had suspected the identity of his friend from the first, and had made the attempt to frighten him from the innate love of the thing. The two grasped hands cordially and were rejoiced beyond measure at this fortunate meeting.
Mickey explained that he had not been scratched by a bullet, nor had his horse suffered injury. It was a most singular escape indeed. But no more singular than that of the scout himself, who had received mercy at the hands of Lone Wolf, who had never been known to be guilty of such a weakness. It had been a providential deliverance all around, and the men could not be otherwise than in the best sprits.
“The next thing is to hunt up the younker,” said the scout, as they sat upon the the ground discussing incidents of the past few days. “I’m a little troubled about him, ’cause we’ve been away longer than we expected, and some of the varmints may have got on his trail.”
“How far from this place do ye reckon him to be?”