“Good morning, fellow pilgrims,” said the new-comer, as he came up abreast of our two friends.
“Good mornin’ yourself,” said Brush. “What’s the news?”
“Just what I would like to know,” said the other. “I haven’t heard a word from civilization for weeks. Whom have I the honor of addressing?”
“My name is Peter Brush, at your service. This boy is my friend, Tom Thatcher. We are on our way to Californy, and we may get there if we don’t run a-foul of any murderous Indians. I ain’t quite ready to part with my scalp yet, so I hope they’ll keep away.”
“It’s very painful, being scalped,” said the new arrival, meditatively.
“I reckon so.”
“I know it. For I had that little operation performed on me.”
Peter Brush drew in his horse, and stared at the stranger in profound surprise.
“What was that you were sayin’?” he ejaculated.
“I’ve been scalped myself, and I know how it seems.”