“Think you so?” whispered Bertram in an anxious tone, with an involuntary motion of his hand to the pouch in which lay that marvellous sketch-book of his.
“Think it’s him?” said Redhand to Hawkswing.
The Indian gave a slight grunt of assent.
But the strange horseman soon put all doubt on the point at rest by bearing down upon them like a whirlwind, his long hair and tags and scalp-locks streaming in the wind as usual. Dick had a distinct purpose in thus acting. He wished to terrify men, or, at least, to impress them with a wholesome dread of him, in order that he might simply be let alone!
He did not check his slashing pace until within four or five bounds of the party. Reining up so violently that he tore up the turf for a couple of yards under his horse’s heels, he looked at the trappers with a grave, almost fierce expression, for a second or two.
“You come from the Mountain Fort?” he said.
“Yes,” replied Redhand.
“All right there?”
“All right. The redskins threatened an attack, but we were too quick for ’em.”
A gleam of satisfaction passed across Dick’s face as he added, “You’ve lost a comrade, han’t ye?”