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.
"I've got half a dozen other scars strung here and there about my body, the most of which was made by that lonely Apache chief that is called Lone Wolf; so I reckon you'll conclude that he and me have some acquaintance.