“Shut up, Injin—shut up!” Farley cried sternly. “Don’t go to raisin’ no false hopes like that, in a feller’s gizzard. Ross Douglas is dead—me an’ you saw him dyin’. The redskins—led by that dang Bradford—found him an’ the dog together. No doubt they scalped an’ stripped the master an’ drug away the dog. But somebody got the houn’ away from the thievin’, murderin’ red devils—an’ here he is. I can read it all like readin’ a book. A heap better, in fact, fer I ain’t much on book learnin’. But ther’s one thing we want to do—find this scout that claims to own the dog, an’ make him tell where he got him.” “Ugh!” And Bright Wing nodded assent. “Come on, then,” Joe began excitedly, but stopped and stared stupidly around. “Wher’s the purp?” he muttered. “Duke him clean gone,” muttered the Wyandot. “Him gone that way”—pointing with his rifle. “Gone hunt new master.” “Well, we’ll foller him,” Farley said decidedly. “An’ I’ll mighty soon tell this new master he hain’t got no right to the houn’, an’ that we’re goin’ to take the brute with us. Eh, Injin?” “Ugh! All right—me, too.” And again Bright Wing nodded vigorously. “An’ if he gives me any of his sass,” Farley went on savagely, “I’ll whip the scoundrel within an inch of his worthless life—I will, by Lucindy! Nobody but you an’ me has any right to Duke now. An’ we’ll have him ’r know the reason why. Gol-fer-socks! How I wish Ross Douglas was alive an’ here. I’d be willin’ to let the danged Winnebagoes punch my nose an’ pierce my ears an’ pull out my hair an’ whiskers, to the’r heart’s content. Yes, I’d be willin’ to let ’em destroy the last remnants o’ my beauty, an pull out my lairipin’ tongue by the roots—I would, ’r my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!” The two comrades were walking in the direction whence the bloodhound had gone. Just as they reached the spot where the Wyandot had seen the dog disappear among a cluster of tents, a militiaman crossed their path. “Say, friend,” Farley said hurriedly, “do you happen to know the man that owns the big bloodhoun’ that’s runnin’ ’round the camp?” “Yes,” the soldier answered promptly. “Well, we’re huntin’ him. What kind of a looking critter is he?” “He’s one o’ the scouts—a youngish-like man, big an’ stout; a kind of a surly feller, like his dog—don’t have much to say to nobody. But he knows his business—an’ ’tends to it. Anything more you’d like to know?” “I’d like to know where to find him,” Joe replied coolly, unheeding the sarcasm of the other’s tone and words. “You’ll find him right in that big tent. He’s in there holdin’ a conflab with the Gener’l an’ his staff. You act as if you had important business with him.” “I have,” answered Joe, shutting his teeth with a snap. “What’s his name?” “I—don’t—know——” the soldier began slowly. “Yes, I do. I heard our Captain call him by name the other day. Le’s see. It was somethin’ like Ruggles ’r Duggles. No, that wasn’t it. I guess I can’t think of it.”