Suddenly a voice from the bushes shouted:
“What’s up?”
“Business—that’s what,” replied the colonel.
“It’s time,” replied the voice, and its owner—a bearded six-footer—emerged from the bushes, and stroked Tipsie’s nose with the freedom of an old acquaintance. “We hain’t had a nip sence last night, an’ thar’ ain’t a cracker or a handful of flour in the shanty. The old gal go back on yer?”
“Yes,” replied the colonel, ruefully—“lost ev’ry blasted race. ’Twasn’t her fault, bless her—she done her level best. Ev’rybody to home?”
“You bet,” said the man. “All ben a-prayin’ for yer to turn up with the rocks, an’ somethin’ with more color than spring water. Come on.”
The man led the way, and Tipsie and the colonel followed, and the trio suddenly found themselves before a small log hut, in front of which sat three solemn, disconsolate-looking individuals, who looked appealingly at the colonel.
“Mac’ll tell yer how ’twas, fellers,” said the colonel, meekly, “while I picket the mare.”
The colonel was absent but a very few moments, but when he returned each of the four men was attired in pistols and knives, while Mac was distributing some dominoes, made from a rather dirty flour-bag.
“’Tain’t so late as all that, is it?” inquired the colonel.