The chase was ended, and he sat up, confused for the moment, and half questioning the evidence of his own eyes.
A small tent, dirty and patched, stood with its back against the slope of earth down which he had plunged.

Its flap flung aside revealed within a pile of disarranged blankets, together with some scattered articles of wearing apparel, while just before the opening, his back pressed against the supporting pole, an inverted pipe between his yellow, irregular teeth, sat a hideous looking man.

He was a withered, dried-up fellow, whose age was not to be guessed, having a skin as yellow as parchment, drawn in tight to the bones like that of a mummy, his eyes deep sunken like wells, and his head totally devoid of hair, although about his lean throat there was a copious fringe of iron-gray beard, untrimmed and scraggy.

Down the entire side of one cheek ran a livid scar, while his nose was turned awry.
He sat staring at the newcomer, unwinking, his facial expression devoid of interest, but his fingers opening and closing in apparent nervousness.

Twice his lips opened, but nothing except a peculiar gurgling sound issued from the throat, and Brant, who by this time had attained his feet and his self-possession, ventured to address him.
"Nice quiet spot for a camp," he remarked, pleasantly, "but a bad place for a tumble." The sunken eyes expressed nothing, but the throat gurgled again painfully, and finally the parted lips dropped a detached word or two.
"Blame--pretty girl--that." The lieutenant wondered how much of their conversation this old mummy had overheard, but he hesitated to question him.