“Yes; but come on. I'll tell the story as we walk, I'm tired; jest got in. I rode all day without stopping. Am I on the right trail? Is the girl in the camp?”
How eagerly Midnight Jack leaned forward to catch the answer that fell from the lips of the squatty man, over whose head towered a crest of feathers. But it was so incoherent that it tormented him.
“Am I never to find you, Dora?” he said. “Does another man hunt you for your pretty face? If so let him stand clear of Midnight Jack.”
That the dumpy man was old Tanglefoot the road-agent was certain. His companion was straight and well built, and was attired as many Indians were, in a cavalry jacket and blue pantaloons.
The name Golden George was not unfamiliar to Midnight Jack. It told him that another foe had risen against him in the very heart of the Sioux camp.
He did not follow the train, but saw them disappear.
Thinking of his companion, he resolved to return to their lodge, and hastened from the uncomfortable spot.
The Indians on every side were rapidly seeking their wigwams again, full of the scene which they had just witnessed.
All at once Midnight Jack noticed a figure standing statue-like at the side of a lodge just ahead. The starlight fell full upon him, and the road-agent saw that his face was turned away.
“Now, Golden George, I'll turn the tables,” said Midnight Jack, and the next moment, with the tread of the panther, he had glided over the well-trodden ground to the person's side.
The heavy “navy” was clutched in the road-agent's hand, and before the imperilled person was aware of his presence, the muzzle of the pistol was thrust against the back of his head.
“There's death at your brain, Golden George!” whispered Midnight Jack, as his left hand dropped on the startled man's shoulder, and prevented him from turning round. “One word of warning and I'll burst your brain-pan. You are a man of your word—so am I. Swear to leave this Indian town immediately—nor to interfere with me here—or by the gold of Ophir, I'll kill you now where we stand! No cringing! Swear! or the bullet!”
The man attacked never turned his head, but his eyes flashed hate and murder, and he said through clenched teeth—
With the last word the revolver and hand were withdrawn, and Golden George moved off without a reply.