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was about over, and Danny was beginning to wash the few dishes they had used, when suddenly Bob leaped to his feet.

"Joseph Farvel, as sure as fate!"

"Where?" demanded Robert Menden.

"Coming through the brush back of us. See! There he is!"

The youth was right; Farvel was making straight for the shack, followed by his two negro companions. He looked dirty and tired out, and his clothing was in tatters.

When he beheld them he stared in amazement; then halted, and drew his pistol.

"Stop, Farvel; we want no shooting here," cried Robert Menden, sternly. "Put your firearm back in your pocket."

"It's a fine game you played on me," growled Farvel, as he concealed his pistol and came closer. "Thought you were mighty clever, didn't you?"

"I don't understand you?"

"Don't you? See here; you can't play any