In spite of the excitement of the last few hours, my thoughts were for the moment with the past, when they were suddenly brought back by a voice, whose tones I had recently become more than well acquainted with. They were characterized by a somewhat coarse and insolent surprise.
"Wall! I swar, if this don't beat all. It's Buckskin Mose."
This exclamation was followed by the heartier and more energetic utterance of Brighton Bill.
"Hi'm blamed, Cap, hif you weren't lucky; we 'adn't no more powder."
"Whar's yer horse?"
"May Hi be blamed hif h'it hain't nabbed by them thieving Hingins. Nare' a matter, Mose; 'ang me hif Hi don't get h'it back for you."
Bill's horse was already plunging by me, when my grasp was on its bridle.
"You won't, Bill!"
"What d' you mean?"
"What I say!"