“Be the powers! do you mind that?” demanded Mickey, in an excited voice.
“Mind what?” asked the scout, somewhat startled at his manner.
“Jes’ look yonder, will ye?”
As he spoke, he pointed up the slope ahead of them. There, but a comparatively short distance away, was Fred Munson, in plain sight, seated upon the back of his mustang, apparently scrutinizing the two horsemen, as if in doubt as to their identity. The parties recognized each other at the same moment, and Fred waved his hat, which salutation was returned by his friends. The scout motioned to him to ride down to where he and Mickey were waiting.
“He’s off the trail altogether, and if he keeps on that course, he’ll fetch up in New Orleans, or Galveston,” he added, by way of explanation.
The lad lost no time in rejoining them, and the trio formed a joyous party. Not one was injured, each had a good swift horse, and a weapon of some kind, and was far better equipped for a homeward journey than they had dared to hope.
“Thar’s only one thing to make a slight delay,” said the Irishman, after pretty much everything had been explained.
His friends looked to him for an explanation.
“I resaved notice from me family physician in London this mornin’, that it was dangerous when in this part of the world to travel on an empty stomach.”
All three felt the need of food and Sut considered the spot where they were as good for camping purposes as any they were likely to find. So they dismounted, and while Mickey and Fred busied themselves in gathering wood, and preparing the fire, the scout went off in search of game.