“Well, it ain’t the dog we used to know, though it may look some like him,” Joe asserted positively. “’Cause the redskins has made a meal o’ him, long ’fore this. Come on, Injin. Le’s see if we can’t find somethin’ to fill up on. I’m as empty as a frog pon’ durin’ a dry spell.”
The two comrades left the group at the gate and went to another part of the inclosure. At one of the mess-fires they were proffered food, which they gladly accepted. After eating heartily, they leisurely sauntered about the place, Joe whimsically commenting upon all they observed.
They had finished a tour of the inclosure, and were irresolutely pondering what to do next, when Farley suddenly threw up his head and stood rigid as a ramrod, his eyes fixed upon a large bloodhound that came from behind a tent and trotted toward them.
“Duke ’r his ghost!” he whispered with trembling lips. “Injin, do you see him, too?”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing managed to ejaculate.
“Then it’s Duke an’ not his ghost,” Joe said in a relieved tone. “’Cause I’ve alluz heerd it said that two folks don’t see a ghost at the same time. Injin, he’s comin’ right toward us—it is Duke, by Katy Melissy! Here, Duke—here, purp!”
The bloodhound was trotting toward them, his nose close to the ground. Evidently he was trailing them. At the sound of Farley’s voice, he threw up his muzzle and set his eyes upon the two men. Then with a short, hoarse yelp of joy, he sprang toward them.
“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” shouted Joe. “It’s ol’ Duke—an’ he knows us! Injin, he had smelt out our tracks an’ was trailin’ us. I know you, ol’ feller—of course, I do! An’ I’m as glad to see you, as you are to see me. But git down, purp; you’ll spile my nice clo’es, with y’r dirty paws—you will, by cracky!”
Farley’s voice was tremulous, and the tears were running down his furrowed cheeks. He was laughing and weeping at the same time.
The hound crouched at the feet of his old companions and whined; he fawned upon them; he circled about them, barking madly.