ANOTHER UNEXPECTED MEETING.
When two or three bends in the path had shut the stranger out from view,
Oscar drew a long breath of relief and began a mental description of
him.
He was fully as tall as Big Thompson, as thin as a rail, and blessed
with a most sneaking, hangdog cast of countenance. He was clad in a blue
flannel shirt, a soldier’s overcoat, and a pair of buckskin trousers,
all of which had grown dingy with age and hard usage.
On his head he wore a brimless slouch hat, and on his feet a pair of
ancient moccasins, and between the moccasins and the tattered bottom of
his trousers—which were much too short for him—could be seen an ankle
which was the color of sole-leather. His hands and the very small
portion of his face that could be seen over a mass of grizzly whiskers,
were of the same hue.
This uncouth object sat on his saddle—a piece of sheepskin—with his back
rounded almost into a half circle, and his long neck stretching forward
over his pony’s ears.
He did not look like a very dangerous character, but still there was
something about him which made Oscar believe that he was a man to be
feared.
While the young hunter was busy with his mental photograph of the
stranger, his pony was walking rapidly down the path which now emerged
from the sage-brush and entered the mouth of one of the ravines.
Oscar looked into its gloomy depths and drew in his reins, although he
did not draw them tightly enough to check the advance of his pony.
“I don’t know whether I had better go in there or not,” thought Oscar,
facing about in his saddle to make sure that the ill-looking fellow who
had obstructed his path in the sage-brush was out of sight. “If he
followed this road, he must have come out of this ravine, and who knows
but there may be more like him hid away among these trees and bushes?
But who cares if there are?” he added, slackening the reins again. “If I
am going to be a hunter, I may as well begin to face danger one time as
another, for it is something I cannot avoid. I’ll never start out by
myself again without my rifle or shot-gun.”
The path was quite as plainly defined at this point as it was in the
sage-brush, and of course Oscar had no difficulty in following it.
Neither did he have any fears of being lost in the labyrinth before him,
for all he had to do when he had ridden far enough was to turn about and
the path would lead him back to the sage-brush again.
He kept on down the ravine for a mile or more, peering into the dark
woods which had so often echoed to the war-cry of the hostile Sioux,
wondering all the while who the strange horseman was and where he lived,
and finally he began to think of retracing his steps, but just then his
ear caught the sound of falling water a short distance in advance of
him.
He had heard much of the trout-streams of this wild region, and his
desire to see one induced him to keep on, little dreaming that when he
found the stream he would find something else to interest him.
When Oscar had ridden a few rods farther he came within sight of the
falls, the music of whose waters had attracted his attention, and also
in sight of a smouldering camp fire. Seated on a log in front of it,
with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands, was a
figure almost as forlorn and dilapidated in appearance as was the
horseman he had seen in the sage-brush.
He was gazing steadily into the fire and seemed to be very much
engrossed with his own thoughts; but when the sound of the pony’s hoofs
fell upon his ear he sprang up and gazed at Oscar as if he were
fascinated.
The camp, upon which our hero had so unexpectedly stumbled, was located
in the mouth of a ravine that branched off from the one he had followed
from the foot of the ridge.
The fire was built upon the opposite bank of the stream, which here ran
across the main ravine to mingle its waters a few miles farther on with
those of the Platte, and behind it was a clear space a dozen or more
feet in diameter that served as the camp.
Various well-known signs, which did not escape his quick eye, told Oscar
that the camp had been occupied for several days, and yet nothing in the
way of a shelter had been erected, the campers, no doubt, being fully
satisfied with the protection afforded them by the overhanging cliff and
the thick cluster of evergreens that grew at its base.
And there were other things missing, too, which Oscar had never failed
to see in every camp whose inmates had any respect for their health and
comfort. The supply of wood was exhausted, and although there was an axe
handy the campers had sat musing by the fire until it had almost burned
itself out, being too lazy to chop a fresh supply of fuel.
There was nothing in the shape of bed clothes in sight, or any
provisions, or any packages that looked as though they might contain
provisions; and the only cooking utensil to be seen was a battered and
blackened coffee-pot, which lay on the edge of the brook, where it had
stopped when its owner angrily kicked it out of his way.
Having noted these evidences of the extreme poverty and utter
shiftlessness of the campers, the young hunter turned his attention to
the figure before the fire, who still stood and gazed at him as if he
were spellbound.
The boy was somewhat surprised at the result of his hurried
observations, for he saw at once that the camper was not a born
plainsman. Beyond a doubt he had known better times. His clothing, as
well as a certain indefinable air and manner which are inseparable from
those who have all their lives been accustomed to good society, loudly
proclaimed these facts.
He looked like a broken-down gentleman, but still there was something of
the backwoods about him, too. A stiff hat that had once been black
covered his long uncombed hair, and his clothing was all of the finest
broadcloth, and cut in faultless style; but his trousers were worn in a
pair of heavy cowhide boots, and a glaring red shirt-collar was turned
down over the collar of his coat. He was young in years, but wore a full
beard and mustache, the latter having been long and carefully
cultivated, while the whiskers were of recent growth.
Oscar took all these little points in at a glance, and was about to turn
away with an apology for his intrusion, when something in the carriage
of the head and the position assumed by the camper caused him to pause
long enough to look him over a second time. He had never seen the face
before, that was certain; but there was something about the form that
seemed familiar to him.
“It is nothing but a foolish notion of mine, of course,” said Oscar to
himself, as he drew in the reins preparatory to turning his pony about.
Then speaking aloud, he said:
“I didn’t mean, sir, to jump over in your camp in this unceremonious
way. I wasn’t aware there was anyone here. I wish you good-day!”
To Oscar’s unbounded surprise, the reply that came across the brook was
a volley of violent imprecations. They were called forth, not by anger,
apparently, but by overwhelming amazement; and the strangest part of the
whole proceeding was that they were uttered by a familiar and well-known
voice—a voice that Oscar had not heard for many a long month.
The effect of this interchange of compliments was astonishing. The
camper came close to the bank of the stream, and leaning forward until
his body was bent almost double, shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed
fixedly at Oscar, who, having suddenly grown too weak to keep his feet
in his stirrups, was obliged to cling to the horn of his saddle with
both hands, in order to keep his swaying body from toppling over
headlong to the ground.
They stood thus for a few seconds without speaking, and then the camper,
after a great effort, recovered the use of his tongue.
“It _is_ Oscar Preston, as sure as I’m a sinner!” he exclaimed, in a
hoarse whisper.
“Tom, is that you?” said Oscar, in the same husky voice.
Then there was silence. The two seemed to have been struck dumb again,
and to be utterly unable to remove their eyes from each other. But at
length the camper slowly, inch by inch, brought himself into an upright
position, and, moving with stealthy footsteps, and keeping his gaze
fastened upon Oscar, as if he feared that the boy was an apparition that
might vanish into thin air if he made the least noise or lost sight of
him for an instant, he walked back to his log by the fire, and seating
himself upon it, buried his face in his hands.
These actions aroused Oscar, who rode across the brook, and, after tying
his pony to a convenient sapling, he went up to the log and seated
himself beside the camper.
The latter did not notice him for several minutes; but, at length, as if
he began to feel ashamed of the weakness he had exhibited, he
straightened himself up and looked defiantly into Oscar’s face.
It was Tom Preston, sure enough (Oscar recognized him now, in spite of
his whiskers), but how changed from the dashing, dandified book-keeper
he had known at Eaton! He seemed to have grown ten years older since the
day his brother last saw him.