He repeated the call in a low, cautious voice, but still loud enough to be heard a dozen yards or more from where he stood; but no response came, and, although neither of the two gave any expression to it, yet they were sensible of a growing fear that this absence or silence of their friend had a most serious meaning. “Yonder he is now,” suddenly exclaimed Fred. “He's a great sentinel, too, for he's sound asleep.” The stalwart figure of Thompson was seen seated upon the ground, with his back against a tree, and his chin on his breast, like one sunk in a deep slumber. The sentinel had seated himself on the edge of the grove, where all the trees and undergrowth were behind, and the open space in front of him. At the time of doing so, no doubt his figure was enveloped in the shadow, but since then the moon had climbed so high in the sky that its rays fell upon his entire person, and the instant the two chanced to glance in that direction, they saw him with startling distinctness. “Begorrah! if that does n't bate the mischief!” exclaimed Mickey, impatiently, as he looked at his unconscious friend. “I thought he was the gintleman that had traveled, and knew all about these copper-colored spalpeens. S'pose we' all done the same, Lone Wolf and his Apaches would have had all our skulp-locks hanging at their goordles by this time. I say, Thompson, ain't you ashamed of yourself to be wastin' your time in this fashion?” As he spoke, he stooped down, and seizing the arm of the man, shook it quite hard several times, but without waking him. “Begorrah, but he acts as if he had n't a week of sleep since he had emigrated to the West. I say, Thompson, me ould boy, can't ye arouse up and bid us good night?” While Mickey was speaking in this jocose manner, he had again seized the man, but this time by the shoulder. At the first shake the head of the man fell forward, as if he were a wooden image knocked out of poise. The singularity of the move struck Mickey, who abruptly ceased his jests, raised the drooping head, and stooped down and peered into it. One quick, searching glance told the terrible truth. _“Be the howly powers, but he's dead!”_ gasped the horrified Irishman, starting back, and then stooping still lower, and hurriedly examining him. “What killed him?” asked the terrified Fred, gazing upon the limp figure. “Lone Wolf, the haythen blackguard. See here,” added Mickey, in a stern voice, as he wheeled about and faced his young friend, “you told me you had your gun pinted at that spalpeen; now it's meself that wants to know why in blazes you did n't pull the trigger?” “He hadn't hurt me, Mickey, and I did n't know that he had been doing anything of this kind. Would you have shot him, in my place?” The Irishman shook his head. It looked too cowardly to send a man, even though he were an Indian, out of the world without an instant's warning.