“Did you ever toss a hunk of buffler meat to a hungry hound, and seen how nice he’d catch it in his jaws, and gulp it down without winkin’, and then he’d lick his chops, and look up and whine for more.  Wal, that’s just the fix you folks are in.  Lone Wolf and his men will swallow you down without winkin’, and then be mad that there ain’t somethin’ left to squinch thar hunger.”

As the hunter uttered this significant warning, he gathered up the reins of his mustang and rode away.

CHAPTER II A BRIEF CONFERENCE

Sut Simpson was thoroughly impatient and angry.  Knowing, as well as he did, the dangerous character of Arizona, New Mexico, Northwestern Texas and Indian Territory, he could not excuse such a foolhardy proceeding as that of a small colony settling in the very heart of that section.  The nearest point where they could hope for safety was Fort Severn, fifty miles distant.  There was a company of soldiers under command of an experienced United States officer, and they knew well enough to keep within the protection of their stockades, except when making reconnoissances in force.

All those who were acquainted with the veteran scout were accustomed to defer to his judgment, where Indians were concerned, and he was so used to receiving this deference, that when he was contradicted and gainsayed by these new settlers, he lost his patience, and started to leave them in a sort of mild passion.

The place fixed for the location of New Boston was in a gently sloping valley, with the Rio Pecos running on the right.  The soil was fertile, as was shown in the abundance of rich, succulent grass which grew about them, while, only a few hundred yards up the river, was a grove of timber, filled in with dense undergrowth and brush—­the most favorable location possible for a band of daring red-skins, when preparing to make a raid upon the settlement.  The hunter turned the head of his mustang in the direction of this wood, and rode away at a slow walk.  He had nearly reached the margin, when some one called to him: 

“Hist, there, ye spalpeen!  Won’t ye howld on a minute?”

Turning his head, he saw the Irishman walking rapidly toward him, after the manner of one who had something important to say.  He instantly checked his horse, and waited for him to come up.

“Do you know,” struck in Mickey, “that I belaved in Misther Barnwell till we reached Kansas City?  There we met people that had been all through this country and that knew all about it, and every one of the spalpeens told us that we’d lose our sculps if we comed on.  I did n’t consider it likely that all of them folks would talk in that style unless they meant it, and half a dozen of us made up our minds that the best thing we could do was to go back, or stop where we was.  We wint to Misther Barnwell and plaided with him, and I was ready to break a shillalah over his head by way of convincin’ him of the truth of me remarks, but it was no use.  He just grinned and shook his head.  The folks all seem to be afeard of him, as though he were St. Patrick or some other sensible gintleman, and so we comed on.”