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."

"What made _you_ come?" asked Sut, throwing his knee upon the saddle
and looking down upon the Irishman. "You could do as you choosed."

"No, I could n't. I hired out to Mr. Moonson for a year, and there
ain't half a year gone yet, and I've got to stick to him till the time
is up."

"Whose little boy is that I seed standing by you?"

"That's Mr. Moonson's boy, Fred, one of the foinest, liveliest lads ye
ever sot eyes on, and I'm much worried on his account."

"Are his parents with you?"