"W—w—why!" gasped Texas.
Whereupon Dewey turned upon his heel and walked out of the tent.
Texas was dumfounded. He stared at the others; they were all there except Mark, and they gazed at the intruder in cold indifference. None of them apparently had ever seen him before.
"Look a yere!" demanded Texas at last. "Ain't you fellows a-goin' to speak to me?"
Evidently they were not, for they didn't even answer his question. Texas stood and stared at them for a few moments more, wondering whether he ought not to sail in and do up the crowd. Finally, as the silence grew even more embarrassing, he decided to go out and find Mark to learn what on earth was the matter. With this intention he turned and hurriedly left the tent, while the five inmates looked at one another and smiled.
Mark was walking up the street; Texas espied him and made a dash for him.
"Hi, Mark!" he roared. "What's the matter with them——"
Texas stopped in alarm; a feather might have laid him flat. Mark, his chum, his tent mate, was staring at him without a sign of recognition! And a moment later Mark turned on his heel and strode away in silence, while Texas gasped, "Great Scott!"
That evening, seated on one of the guns up by Trophy Point, was visible a solitary figure, looking about as lonely and wretched as a human being can. It was "the Texas madman." Everybody kept a safe distance away from him, and so no one had a chance to notice that the madman's eyes were filled with tears.
"Poor Texas," Mark was thinking. "He'll come to terms pretty soon."