The eyes of Simpson lit up, and an expression of exultation crossed his countenance, not merely because the redskin before him was in his power, but because he recognized him as no one else but Lone Wolf, the Apache war-chief.
It looked as if the horse-thieves had approached the vicinity of camp with their plunder, and then, securing him to the branch of the tree, had gone in and reported what they had done. Lone Wolf, suspecting, perhaps, that it was the property of his enemy, Sut Simpson, had stolen out quietly and alone to satisfy himself. He knew all the “trade-marks” of the hunter so well that he could not be deceived. This was the theory which instantly occurred to Sut, who muttered to himself:
“Oh, it’s mine, and I’m here, though you don’t think it, and we’ll soon shake hands over it!”
The scout speedily assured himself that Lone Wolf was alone—that he had no half-dozen “retainers” who would immediately precipitate themselves upon him the instant a row should begin. Lone Wolf had no rifle with him, but carried his huge knife at his girdle—one of the most formidable instruments ever seen.
As he walked slowly about the mustang, scrutinizing him very carefully, he brought himself within a yard or two of where Sut Simpson crouched. The latter waited until he was the nearest, when he stepped forward, with his drawn knife in hand, and, placing himself directly in front of the astounded war-chief, said:
“Now, Lone Wolf, we’ll make our accounts square!”