“Right in the camp, Golden George! I know 'em too; but Setting Sun an' the rest never dream of the facts.”
“They're fools!”
“Who? Midnight Jack and the Eagle?”
“Yes. But what brought 'em hyar?”
“The same thing what brought me, I suspect—the prettiest face that ever left old Sully in a Conestoga.”
“A white gal?”
“Yes; but come on. I'll tell the story as we walk, I'm tired; jest got in. I rode all day without stopping. Am I on the right trail? Is the girl in the camp?”
How eagerly Midnight Jack leaned forward to catch the answer that fell from the lips of the squatty man, over whose head towered a crest of feathers. But it was so incoherent that it tormented him.
“Am I never to find you, Dora?” he said. “Does another man hunt you for your pretty face? If so let him stand clear of Midnight Jack.”
That the dumpy man was old Tanglefoot the road-agent was certain. His companion was straight and well built, and was attired as many Indians were, in a cavalry jacket and blue pantaloons.