The two comrades were walking in the direction whence the bloodhound had gone. Just as they reached the spot where the Wyandot had seen the dog disappear among a cluster of tents, a militiaman crossed their path.
“Say, friend,” Farley said hurriedly, “do you happen to know the man that owns the big bloodhoun’ that’s runnin’ ’round the camp?”
“Yes,” the soldier answered promptly.
“Well, we’re huntin’ him. What kind of a looking critter is he?”
“He’s one o’ the scouts—a youngish-like man, big an’ stout; a kind of a surly feller, like his dog—don’t have much to say to nobody. But he knows his business—an’ ’tends to it. Anything more you’d like to know?”
“I’d like to know where to find him,” Joe replied coolly, unheeding the sarcasm of the other’s tone and words.
“You’ll find him right in that big tent. He’s in there holdin’ a conflab with the Gener’l an’ his staff. You act as if you had important business with him.”
“I have,” answered Joe, shutting his teeth with a snap. “What’s his name?”
“I—don’t—know——” the soldier began slowly. “Yes, I do. I heard our Captain call him by name the other day. Le’s see. It was somethin’ like Ruggles ’r Duggles. No, that wasn’t it. I guess I can’t think of it.”
Bright Wing’s black eyes opened very wide, and he uttered a surprised “Ugh!” Farley’s cheek paled under its coat of tan. He tried to speak; but the words would not come. At last he managed to stammer: