162 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 



Our trail ran by his ranch and some of us were for 

 stopping on the way and bidding him "adios." 



But Brown threw cold water on the suggestion. 



"Better not bother with the old man," he cau- 

 tioned. "Ef he didn't come over the last few 

 nights he must-a-had his reasons. He takes streaks 

 that-a-way." 



It was as well that we decided to abide by Brown's 

 advice. As we neared the ranch we heard at regu- 

 lar intervals the sound of shooting two shots at a 

 time. We wondered what it might portend. 



As we came within sight of the weather-beaten 

 log cabin the mystery was solved. The Hermit sat 

 alone in a particularly dignified attitude on his front 

 steps, puffing slowly on his corn-cob pipe and gazing 

 straight before him. Every once in so often he laid 

 down his pipe, raised a huge demijohn to his lips, 

 and drank long and lovingly. Then he carefully set 

 down the demijohn in its turn, and, emitting several 

 ear-splitting whoops, picked up a shotgun and 

 emptied both barrels into the innocent empyrean. 

 The pipe and the dignified mien were thereupon re- 

 sumed, until a recurrent impulse impelled a repeti- 

 tion of the performance we had witnessed. 



As we passed out of sight he was just coming into 

 action for the fifth time. And the last I recall of 

 the Hermit is the sound of his unleashed voice in 

 my ears, the sight of his white-haired, gaunt person 

 posed erectly on his threshold, eyes aflame and shot- 

 gun thrust menacingly toward the zenith. 



