“Did you ever hear tell of Lone Wolf?” he continued, as a group, including nearly the entire population, gathered about the veteran of the plains.  “I say, war any of you ever introduced to that American gentleman?”

He looked around, from face to face, but no one responded.  Whenever he fixed his eye upon any individual, that one shook his head to signify that he knew nothing of the Apache chief whose name he had just mentioned.

“What I meant to say,” he continued, “is that any of you have got any yearnin’ toward Lone Wolf, feeling as if your heart would break if you did n’t get a chance to throw your arms about him, why, you need n’t feel bad, ’cause you’ll get the chance.”

There was a significance in these words which made it plain to every one of those who were looking up in the scarred 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.