This exclamation was caused by the sudden turning of heads, and a sort of hush that fell upon the group for the moment, close to the approach of someone on horseback.  It was already so close to dusk that he could not be identified until he came closer, when Sut was surprised to find that it was not the chieftain, after all.  It was a man altogether different in appearance, probably a subordinate chief, who had performed some daring deed which had won him the admiration of his comrades.  The indications, too, were that he brought interesting news about something.

“That varmint has been away somewhar,” concluded Sut, carefully noting everything, “and they expect him to tell something worth hearin’, and I guess they’re about kerrect, so I’ll see what I kin do in the way of listening myself.”

The scout was right in his supposition.  The Indian was the avant courier of a party three or four times as great as that which had gathered about him in the ravine.  His companions had separated and gone in other directions, while he, learning the course taken by his chief, Lone Wolf, had hastened to report directly to him.

Sut Simpson suspected what all this meant.  He saw a number of scalps hanging at the girdle of the Apache, and he had not listened long when his fears where more than confirmed.  The embryo town of New Boston, planted in the valley of the Rio Pecos, was no more.  Repulsed bloodily at the first, Lone Wolf had gathered together the best of his warriors, placed them under one of his youngest and most daring chiefs, and sent them forth with orders to clean out the settlement that had been planted so defiantly in the heart of their country.  And now this chief had returned to say that the work had been completed, precisely as commanded.

“I knowed it war coming,” muttered the scout.  “I told that Barnwell that Lone Wolf would bounce him afore he knowed what the the matter was, and I urged ’em to make for Fort Severn, which war only fifty miles away, and save their top-knots.  He did not say so, but I could see he thought I war a big fool, and now he’s found out who the fool was.  Wonder whether any of the poor cusses got away?  Thar couldn’t have been much chance.  ’Twon’t do to ax this rooster, cause he wouldn’t be likely to answer me, and, if he did, he would be sartin’ to tell me a lot of lies.”

The young chief having communicated his good tidings, and exchanged congratulations with those about him, started his mustang forward, heading him directly up the ravine or pass.  This brought him within arm’s length of the scout, who was standing mute and motionless.  The redskin drew up his horse and stared fixedly at him, as if, for the moment, uncertain of his identity.

“I’m Sut Simpson, the man that has slain so many Apache warriors that he cannot number them,” said the scout, with a view of helping the Indian to recognize him.

There was no real braggadocio about this.  As Sut could not hide his personality, the best plan for him was to make an open avowal, backed up by a rather high-sounding vaunt.  This was more pleasing to the Indians, who were addicted to the most extravagant kind of expression.