[CHAPTER XIX.]
JIM HICKS, PROSPECTOR.
The sharp eyes of Coyote Pete were not long in discovering the cause of the startling interruption to the adulation of Maud.
Through a clump of brush some distance above the trail, a strange, wild face was peering at them. Yet, despite its tangle of beard, and the battered hat which crowned its tangled locks, the countenance was a kindly one, and there was friendliness in its blue eyes. Above all, it was the face of an American. Pete, and Jack, too, for that matter, would have thrown themselves rejoicingly on the neck of the most disreputable of their countrymen, if they had happened to meet him at that moment.
"Traveling?" inquired the stranger, coming out from his concealment and disclosing a well-knit body dressed in plainsman's garb. The butt of a revolver glinted suggestively on his left thigh.
"Reckon so," rejoined Pete.
"Whar frum?"
"South."
"Whar to?"
"North."