Dave Brandon looked earnestly at the picturesque circle of teepees, one in the center dominating all the rest, and at the red men he could see on every side. Many, attracted by their appearance, were stalking solemnly forward.
“Oh, ho, this is mighty interesting,” he murmured. “What a nice sheltered retreat.” His eyes wandered from the teepees to the break in the hills beyond, where a silvery streak of white indicated a water course. “Guess I’ll have to devote a whole chapter in my book to this, eh, Bob?”
“At least two or three,” laughed Bob.
“Hello,” cried Sam Randall, “what’s that scarlet spot down there? See it, fellows?”
He pointed toward a group in the furthest part of the encampment. Strikingly prominent in the midst of the dusky mass was a spot of color.
“Him a policeman,” answered Teddy Banes.
“Great Scott!” cried Dick Travers. “Wouldn’t it be the jolliest luck if it should prove to be Jed Warren?”
The half-breed sniffed contemptuously.
“He gone, I tell you—never come back.”
“Oh, forget it,” scoffed Tom. “Sail ahead, fellows. Bet I’ll get there first.”