They crouched down in the bushes once more. Bull would probably come around the camp to hunt for them, for he must have seen them go out.
They waited, but they waited in vain; Bull did not put in an appearance.
“Perhaps he’s gone up there to the place to wait,” suggested Mark. “Perhaps he thinks we’re up there.”
There was another lengthy pause then. It was not very much longer before Texas, the hot-blooded, hot-headed Texan, began to get impatient.
“Plague take it!” he growled. “’Praps he is up there. I say, let’s go and see!”
Texas’ recklessness soon prevailed over Mark’s caution. He vowed he’d go alone if Mark wouldn’t go. A brief consultation was held then, and the two decided that that was the best plan, anyway. One ought to stay there and wait, to watch the camp; and so Texas, revolver in hand, would go up to the scene of the feast and see what was “up.”
That just suited the ex-cowboy. He was off like a shot. Mark smiled to himself, and then settled down again, his heart still beating with excitement. There was something so mysterious about all this that he still half suspected foul play.
It is necessary for us to follow Texas; Texas was having a high old time back in that mountain forest.
A few years’ training on the plains had made quite an Indian of Texas; he knew pretty well how to take care of himself, especially since he had his two favorite shooting-irons in his hands. And he was not the least bit afraid as he stole along in the darkness.
Two contingencies presented themselves to his mind, two dangers to guard against. There might be a surprise from the yearlings or one from the “maniac.” He didn’t mean to be caught by either of them, and he was a picture of vigilance as he went peering behind and before, and creeping with all possible stealthiness.