But before he could get a shot, or Seth deal the deadly blow he contemplated with the butt-end of his rifle, Ernest Wilton uttered an exclamation that stopped them both—an exclamation of surprise and agonised entreaty.
“Don’t fire!” he cried out in a voice which was half laughing, half crying. “Don’t fire, Mr Rawlings. It is only Wolf.”
“Wolf! who’s Wolf?” said Mr Rawlings and Seth together, as Ernest Wilton rose to his feet; the ex-mate adding under his breath, with a whistle to express astonishment on his part, in his usual way when so affected, “Jerusalem! this beats Bunker’s Hill, anyhow!”
“The dearest and most faithful dog, companion, friend, that any one ever had,” said Ernest with much emotion, caressing a fine, though half-starved-looking Scotch deer-hound, that appeared in paroxysms of delight at recognising his master, leaping up to his neck with loving barks, and licking his face, to express his happiness and affection in the manner customary to doggydom, almost wild with joy.
“You never told me about him?” said Mr Rawlings.
“I couldn’t. The subject was too painful a one,” replied the other. “I brought him with me from England, and he never quitted my side day, or even night, I believe, for any appreciable time, until those rascally Crow Indians stole him from me, and made him into their favourite dog soup, as I thought, weeks ago. Poor Wolf, old man!” he added, speaking to the faithful creature, and patting his head, “I never thought I should see you again.”
“He’s a fine crittur!” said Seth, making advances of friendship towards Wolf, which were cordially reciprocated; “an’ I wouldn’t like to lose him if I owned him, I guess. I s’pose he broke loose and follered your trail?”
“I expect so,” said Ernest Wilton; “but how he managed to track me through all my erratic course amongst these mountains—or hills, as you call them—puzzles me. See,” he continued, “they must have tied up the poor fellow, as well as starved him, or he would have probably found me sooner! Here is a piece of hide rope round his neck, which he has gnawed through in order to get free,”—holding up the tattered fragment of the old rope, one end of which hung down to Wolf’s feet, while the other was tightly knotted about his throat, like a cravat, so as almost to choke him.
“That must have been the case,” said Mr Rawlings. “But hullo! what is Jasper coming after us for?”
“That durned nigger,” exclaimed Seth, “is allers shirking his work. I told him he warn’t to come with us this mornin’, and here he is toting arter us with some slick excuse or other. Hullo, you ugly cuss!” he added, hailing the darkey, who was running after the party and had now got close up, “what the dickens do yer want here?”