In the Pecos Country | Page 2

face of the hunter. As they were spoken, he winked one of
his eyes and cocked his head to one side, in a fashion that made the words still more
impressive. As Sut looked about the group, his gaze was attracted by two figures--a man
and a boy. The former was an Irishman--his nationality being evident at the first
glance--while the latter seemed about fourteen years of age, with a bright, intelligent face,
a clear, rosy, healthy complexion, and a keen eye that was fixed steadily and inquiringly
upon the horseman who was giving utterance to such valuable information. The hunter
was attracted by both, especially as he saw from their actions that they were friends and
companions. There was something in the honest face of the Irishman which won him,
while the lad by his side would have carried his way almost anywhere upon the score of
his looks alone.
As the entire group were gazing up in the face of the scout, he spoke to them all, although,
in reality, his words were now directed more at the two referred to than at the others.
When he had completed the words given, there was silence for a moment, and then
Mickey O'Rooney, the Irishman, recovered his wits. Stepping forward a couple of paces,
he addressed their visitor.
"From the manner of your discourse, I judge that you're acquainted with the American
gentleman that you've just referred to as Mr. Lone Wolf?"
"I rather reckon I am," replied Sut, with another of his peculiar grins. "Me and the Wolf
have met semi-occasionally for the past ten years, and I carry a few remembrances of his
love, that I expect to keep on carrying to my grave."
As he spoke, he laid his finger upon a cicatrized wound upon his cheek, a frightful scar
several inches in length, and evidently made by a tomahawk. It ran from the temple to the
base of the nose, and was scarcely concealed by the luxuriant grizzled beard that grew
almost to his eyes.
"That's only one," said Sut. "Here's another that mebbe you can see."
This time he removed his coon-skin hunting-cap and bending his head down, he parted
the hair with his long, horny fingers, so that all saw very distinctly the scar of a wound
that must have endangered the life of the recipient.
"I've got half a dozen other scars strung here and there about my body, the most of which
was made by that lonely Apache chief that is called Lone Wolf; so I reckon you'll
conclude that he and me have some acquaintance. Oh! we was as lovin' as a couple of
brothers!"
Mickey O'Rooney lifted his cap, and scratched his red head in a puzzled way, as if he
were debating some weighty matter. Suddenly looking up, he asked:

"Was this Mr. Wolf born in these parts?"
"I can't say, precisely, where he first seed the light, but it must have been somewhere
round about this part of the world. Why did you ax?"
"I was thinking p'raps he was born in Ireland, and came to this country when he was of
tender age. I once knowed a Mr. Fox, whose petaty patch was so close to ours, that the
favorite amoosement of me respected parents was flingin' the petaties over into our field
by moonlight. His name was Fox, I say, but I never knowed anybody by the name of
Wolf."
"He's a screamer," continued Sut Simpson, who seemed to enjoy talking of such a
formidable foe. "The Comanches and Apaches sling things loose in these parts, an' the
wonder to me is how you ever got this fur without losing your top-knots, for you've had
to come right through their country."
"We have had encounters with the red men times without number," said Caleb Barnwell,
who was standing erect, with arms folded, looking straight at the hunter. He spoke in a
deep, rich, bass voice, recalling the figures of the early Puritans, who were unappalled by
the dangers of the ocean and forest, when the question of liberty of conscience was at
stake. "We have encountered the red men time and again," he continued, "so that I may
conclude that we have become acclimated, as they say, and understand the nature of the
American Indian very well."
Sut Simpson shook his head with a displeased expression.
"If you'd understood Injin nature, you'd never come here to settle. You might have gone
through the country on your way to some other place, for, when you're on the way, you
can keep a lookout for the varmints; but you've undertook to settle down right in the heart
of the Apache country, and that's what I call the biggest piece of tom-foolery that was
ever knowed."
This kind of