A dark form suddenly sprung out before him, with leveled rifle-muzzle threatening him. As his eyes fell upon the intruder, John fancied he recognized the figure.
"Is that you, Dusky Dick?" he called out, halting and half-raising his rifle.
"Keep your gun down—don't offer to shoot, or I'll plug ye! Yes, it's me. But who the devil are you?" returned the man.
"Stevens—John Stevens, you know," laughed the young settler. "Why, who'd you take me for?"
"Fer a Injun. They're 'round at thar tricks, I b'lieve. But whar are you goin'?"
"Over to Wilson's—why?"
"Oh, nothin'—I didn't know. Folks all well at home?"
"Yes, all well; that is, all of our own. But there is a lame Indian there, who hurt himself somehow, while out hunting, I believe. You know him—Bob-tailed Horse?" added John, the better to allay any suspicions the other might have entertained.
"Yes; a drunken dog. Mind out or he'll sarve you some dirty trick, yet. Wal, if you're goin' to Wilson's, I won't hinder you no more. Jest give them my respects, will you?" and Dusky Dick stepped to one side of the path.
But, as he did so, John noted an evil glitter in his eyes as the moonlight fell upon the renegade's countenance, through a rift in the tree-tops. Stevens realized that Dusky Dick meant mischief.