What a dining room that was! All of logs, high ceilinged, with smoked
rafters stained like an old meerschaum pipe. It reminded me of a wealthy
man's hunting lodge in Maine, perhaps, rather than the abode of a wild
man. There was a huge yawning fireplace at one end, above which was the
finest specimen of an elk's head I have ever seen. There were other
heads, too, prong-horned antelope, beautiful bison heads, remarkable
specimens of bighorn sheep and mountain goats, there were buffalo robes
and wolf robes strewn over the floor, and there were abundant well
stocked gun cases on every hand.
But conspicuous among the collection of firearms was one, kept apart,
polished and cleaned, and on a rack made of elk horns handily placed
just above the big mantle. It was beautifully though not elaborately
made, with a fine damascus barrel of tremendous length, a lock and set
trigger that showed expert handicraft, and stock of beautifully polished
birds-eye maple. An expert would have known immediately that it was a
first-water product of an expert gunsmith.
Big Pete noticed it as soon as I did and he could not keep his eyes from
roving to it occasionally during the meal.
"You may scalp me, stranger, fer sayin' it, but I'd like mightily well
to heft that tha' shooting iron o' your'n and examine it when we git
through with chuck," he said.
Our strange host looked up at the rifle, then searchingly at Big Pete.
"I don't mind showing it to you, but you must not touch it," he said
finally.
"I reckon I wouldn't hurt it none. I've handled guns before," said Big
Pete shortly, and I could see that he was piqued at the man's attitude.
"Guess you wouldn't, but I've made it a rule never to let strange hands
touch that rifle," said the strange man, and there was a grimness about
his tone that forbade quibbling.
"Huh, well I can't say as perhaps yore not right about yore shootin'
hardware at that," said Pete. Then after glancing at it again, he added,
"a hunter's gun and a woodsman's ax should never be trusted in strange
hands. Bet a ten spot it's a Patrick Mullen. Hain't it?"
The name of my kinsman, the famous gunsmith, brought a sudden
realization that Mullen was my own family name.
The mention of the gunsmith seemed also to have a curious effect on the
old man. His face grew red under the tan and his brow wrinkled and I
could see his cold blue eyes scrutinizing Big Pete closely. Finally he
said bluntly,
"It is, and it's worth a thousand dollars."
"A thousand dollars!" I exclaimed, "a thousand dollars?"
"Yes," cried the old man almost fiercely, "yes, yes, and it is my gun.
He gave it to me, he did--to me and not to Donald. He--"
He stood up suddenly as if he intended to stride over and seize the gun,
to protect it from us but as quickly sat down again and buried his face
in his hands, and I could see him biting his lips as if he were
attempting to control his feeling.
As for me, quite suddenly a great light seemed to dawn. This strange old
man was mentioning names that were familiar--that meant worlds to me. I
leaned toward him eagerly. Big Pete stood quietly listening, a silent
but interested spectator.
"Did you know Donald Mullen, a brother to the famous gunsmith? Tell me,
did you know him? I have come all the way--"
I stopped in wonder. Never in all my life do I ever expect to witness
such a pitiful expression of anguish pictured so vividly on the human
countenance as it was on the face of the Wild Hunter.
"What," he whispered, "did you know him?"
"He was my father," I answered simply.
For a moment the Wild Hunter looked at me intently, then said, "I
believe you, you favor him somewhat." He then came forward as if to
shake my hand, but changed his mind and sat down with a forced and wan
smile.
"Did I know Don Mullen? Did I? He was my partner, my bunkee for many
years and on many prospecting trips, a better bunkee no man ever had,
but he is dead now, dead! dead! dead! been dead for a dozen years. He
was killed by an avalanche. A better partner no man ever had," he
murmured and relaxed into silence.
My efforts to get more information of my parents were of no avail. The
Wild Hunter turned the conversation in other directions.
Of course, the knowledge that my real father was dead, had been dead a
long time, caused me a feeling of sadness, yet strangely enough the
little knowledge that I had gleaned from this strange old man brought a
sense of relief to me. I think that it must have been a certain sense
of satisfaction to know that this queer man was not my father.
But if he was not Donald Mullen, who was he? That question kept me
pondering and for the rest of the meal I was silent, speculating on this
strange situation, nor did I have an opportunity to note, as Big Pete
did, the tearful, kindly glances that the Wild Hunter shot at me now and
then.
Still, for all, he was sociable, extremely sociable, and talkative, too,
but I fancy now as I recall it, he was simply keeping the conversation
in safe channels, for it was very apparent that the rifle and his former
mining partner were painful subjects.
Dinner over, we all went out onto the porch of the ranch house, where we
talked while the twilight lasted. At least Big Pete and the Wild Hunter
talked as they smoked two of those mysterious long cigars, but I was
still silent because of the many strange thoughts that were romping
through my mind.
Soon darkness settled down and Big Pete began to yawn. I also was
heavy-eyed, and presently the Wild Hunter clapped his hands and summoned
a leather-skinned old Indian to whom he gave brief low command in the
Mewan Indian tongue, as I was afterwards informed by Big Pete, then
turning to us he said in his fascinating soft voice:
"It will probably be a novelty for both of you gentlemen to again sleep
in a bed between sheets and under a roof. I doubt whether you will enjoy
it even though the sheets are clean linen which were spun and woven by
my noble Indians. Moose Ear, here, will conduct you to your rooms and I
will take a turn about the place before retiring to see that all is
well, and also to see that my black wolf pack is securely confined
within the wolf corral. This is a precaution, gentlemen, which I take
every night, because a wolf is a wolf no matter how well trained he may
be upon the surface, and night is the time wolves delight to run. These
beasts are especially dangerous to strangers and it is for that reason I
am putting you in the house in place of allowing you to camp outdoors,
as I know you would prefer to do. Good-night, gentlemen, see that the
doors are closed. Pleasant dreams."
As we said good-night to him I wondered vaguely if the wolf pen was
securely built, for it seemed to me that I detected a suggestion of
doubt in the mind of the Wild Hunter himself. I little realized,
however, the horrors the darkness had in store for us.