The scout quickly drew his young comrade into a tent, near at hand, and, parting the curtains just the least, they watched the savage.
He was walking directly toward the Sibley, and was distinctly visible in the soft April gloaming.
His Spencer was slung on his back, and he walked rapidly, as though something on the other side of the camp demanded his attention.
Suddenly, when New York Harry had arrived opposite the tent, Evan Harris caught Kit’s arm.
“Don’t you know him?” he cried, looking up into the scout’s face, excitedly.
“Know him—yes; he’s a Modoc scoundrel.”
“He is not,” said the younger ranger. “His name is Rafe Todd.”
The old scout started at the mention of the deserter’s name, but shook his head.
“That won’t do, boy. When did you see Rafe last?”
“Yesterday.”