The ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His manner had been alert, and now it became tense.
“Come here, one of you men, quick,” he called, without turning in the least toward the camp-fire.
“Hello! What's up, Pickens?” came the swift reply. It was followed by a rapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form crossed the gleams from the fire-light. Then a ranger loomed up to reach the side of the guard. Duane heard whispering, the purport of which he could not catch. The second ranger swore under his breath. Then he turned away and started back.
“Here, ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is peaceful—friendly if you'll let it be. Mind, I was asked to come here—after dark.”
Duane's clear, penetrating voice carried far. The listening rangers at the camp-fire heard what he said.
“Ho, Pickens! Tell that fellow to wait,” replied an authoritative voice. Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark, moving group at the camp-fire and hurried out.
“Better be foxy, Cap,” shouted a ranger, in warning.
“Shut up—all of you,” was the reply.
This officer, obviously Captain MacNelly, soon joined the two rangers who were confronting Duane. He had no fear. He strode straight up to Duane.
“I'm MacNelly,” he said. “If you're my man, don't mention your name—yet.”