“What! Bob Lincoln? Bob Lincoln of the Peaks?”
In the voice I had recognised a celebrated mountain trapper, and an old acquaintance, whom I had not met for several years.
“Why, Lord save us from Injuns! it ain’t you, Cap’n Haller? May I be dog-goned if it ain’t! Whooray!—whoop! I knowed it warn’t no store-keeper fired that shot. Haroo! whar are yur, Jack?”
“Here I am,” answered the boy, from the pavement.
“Kum hyur, then. Ye ain’t badly skeert, air yur?”
“No,” firmly responded the boy, crossing over.
“I tuk him from a scoundrelly Crow thet I overhauled on a fork of the Yellerstone. He gin me a long pedigree, that is, afore I kilt the skunk. He made out as how his people hed tuk the boy from the Kimanches, who hed brought him from somewhar down the Grande. I know’d it wur all bamboozle. The boy’s white—American white. Who ever seed a yeller-hided Mexikin with them eyes and ha’r? Jack, this hyur’s Cap’n Haller. If yur kin iver save his life by givin’ yur own, yur must do it, de ye hear?”
“I will,” said the boy resolutely.
“Come, Lincoln,” I interposed, “these conditions are not necessary. You remember I was in your debt.”
“Ain’t worth mentioning Cap; let bygones be bygones!”