“But won’t they be back?”
“Not they. They’ve had time to think it over by this time, and they’ll have come to realize that these ain’t early days, and that horse stealing would result in their whole reservation being turned inside out till the culprits were found.”
“Hark!” cried Ralph suddenly, “somebody’s coming now. Maybe it is those Indians coming back, after all.”
“Great Blue Bells of Scotland, it’s someone on a horse, sure enough. I’ll duck down into the cave and get your rifle up.”
For it was Jim’s “Old Trusty,” as he called it, with which Ralph had despatched one lion and wounded the other.
But to Ralph’s unspeakable relief it was no band of Bloods that rode into the clearing, but a bearded man on a wild, shaggy pony leading a pack mule by a hair rope. From the pack Ralph could see shovel and pick handles sticking out and both rider and animals appeared to have been roughing it for many months.
The man wore rough buckskin garments, and his stirrups were made of rope. On his head was a battered old Stetson hat with a leather band around it. Across his saddle bow he carried a long-barrelled rifle, with the stock embossed with silver. He glanced at Ralph in a quick, surprised sort of way.
“Wa’al, what in the ’tarnal’s bin goin’ on here?” he demanded in a nasal tone, which Ralph recognized as belonging to a native of the States.
“Why, I—that is, we’ve been mixed up in a sort of scrap with Indians and lions,” replied Ralph hesitatingly.
The man looked so wild and uncouth that he did not know but he might have to deal with a highwayman of some sort.