“Reginald Mortimer!” repeated Julian, in great amazement.
“He’s the very feller whose name I spoke,” replied Sanders, turning around in his saddle and facing his prisoner.
Julian looked earnestly at the trapper for a few seconds and drew a long breath of relief.
“I begin to understand the matter,” said he. “I knew you were mistaken as to my identity.”
“Which?” exclaimed Sanders.
“I mean that you have got hold of the wrong boy. Because my name happens to be Mortimer, you think I am the one this man Reginald wants; but when he sees me and knows my history, he will release me.”
When Sanders heard this he threw back his head and burst into a loud laugh, in which he was joined by Tom. Julian could not see that he had said anything calculated to excite their mirth, but the outlaws could, and they were highly amused—so much so that it was fully five minutes before they recovered themselves sufficiently to speak.
“Wal, you are a green one,” said Sanders, at length. “The minute Reginald puts his eyes on you he will say that you are the very chap he’s been a-lookin’ fur so long, an’ instead of releasin’ you he’ll lock you up whar you’ll never see daylight again. Maybe he’ll do something wuss—I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t put myself in your place and run the risk,” chimed in Tom. “But I’d a heap sooner be rubbed out to onct than be shut up in that rancho of his’n. Sich queer doin’s as they do have thar! The ole man can’t keep a thing in his house.”