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. 
