The face of the Indian could be seen very distinctly, and it was one with
more individual character than any Mickey had as yet noticed. It was not
handsome nor very homely, but that of a man in the prime of life, with a
prominent nose--a regular contour of countenance for an Indian. The face
was painted, as was the long black hair which dangled about his shoulders.
His eye was a powerful black one, which flitted restlessly, as he keenly
searched the ravine below.

Not seeing that which he wished, he arose to his feet, and walked slowly
along and away from where the fugitives were crouching. That is, his face
was turned toward the main ravine or pass, while he stepped upon the very
edge of the fissure, moving with a certain deliberation and dignity, as he
searched the space below for the man and boy whom he was so anxious to
secure.

"I wonder if he ain't the leader?" said Mickey, in a whisper. "I never saw
better shtyle than that."

"I should think he was the leader. Don't you know him?"

"How should I know him? I never traveled much in Injun society. Are ye and
him acquainted?"

"He's Lone Wolf--their great war-chief."

"Ye don't say so?" exclaimed the astonished Irishman, staring at him.
"He's just the spalpeen I loaded me gun for, and here goes!"

Softly raising the hammer of his rifle, he lifted the weapon to his