“Begorra, but it’s meself that has it!” exclaimed Mickey, with a sudden lighting up of the countenance; “they’re the same two spalpeens that took your hoss down by the Staked Plain, and then follyed ye up and did the same thing over again, just as ye was going into Fort Severn.”
But the scout shook his head.
“The varmints don’t know much about pity, but that’s too rough a thing even for a Comanche to repeat. I’ve a s’picion that Lone Wolf had a hand in that, and I’m going for him. Come along.”
And the indignant Sut strode out of camp, followed by his friends. He was not the man to submit to such a loss, and they saw that he was in deadly earnest. He neither spoke nor looked behind him for the next quarter of an hour, nor were his friends able to tell what direction he was following, for he changed so often, winding in and out among the trees, that they could form no conjecture as to the general course taken.
They saw that he was following a trail, for he continually looked down at the ground in front of him, and then glanced to the right and left, occasionally inclining his head, as though he was listening for something which he expected to hear. He appeared to be altogether unconscious of the fact that he had companions at all and they sought to imitate his stealthy, cat-like movement, without venturing to speak. After traveling the distance mentioned, and while they were moving along in the same cautious way, the scout suddenly wheeled on his knee, and faced them.
“See yer,” said he; “it won’t do for you to travel any further.”
“What’s up?” asked Mickey.
“Why, the trail’s getting too hot. I ain’t fur from them horses.”
“Well, doesn’t ye want us to stand by and obsarve the shtyle in which you are going to scoop them in?”
Simpson shook his head.