“You and Bright Wing will keep Duke with you and guard the door. Do nothing rash—you understand?”
Joe nodded gravely; and Ross continued:
“We’ll transact our business and get out of here, as soon as possible; the place is unsafe. Be careful of your words and actions, and restrain the hound.”
Again Joe nodded. For a wonder, he did not utter a word in reply.
Just as father and son were about to enter the low door of the hut, the latter caught sight of a burly, thick-set Indian swaggering up to the spot. His fat and flabby features were grotesquely and hideously painted. He wore a complete suit of coarse cloth, and carried an English rifle. Nearing the group at the door, he stuck his tongue into his cheek and leered impudently.
Ross started. There was something about the obese brave that seemed familiar; yet the young man could not recall that he had ever seen the bloated wretch.
“Who is the greasy knave?” Ross murmured to himself.
Farley caught the words and muttered in reply:
“I don’t know—but I’ve seen him somewheres. He’s as sassy as a pet fox—he is, by Jerushy!”