“I started with a party, but we were surprised a week since by a party of Cheyenne Indians, and I alone escaped destruction.”
Mrs. Cooper turned pale.
“Are the Indians so bloodthirsty, then?”
“Some of them, my dear lady, some of them. They took all our supplies, and I have been living on what I could pick up. Pardon my saying so, but I am almost famished.”
“Our supper is nearly ready,” said Mrs. Cooper hospitably. “You are welcome to a portion.”
“Ah, how kind you are!” ejaculated the stranger, clasping his hands. “I shall, indeed, be glad to join you.”
“What is your name, sir?” asked the blacksmith cautiously.
“Dionysius Silverthorn.”
“That’s a strange name.”
“Yes, but I am not responsible for it. We do not choose our own names.”