392 



RECREATION 



my companion. "Yes, of course," I ad- 

 mitted ; "but why do you suppose he cut 

 out the bullets ?" 



"Wal' I reckon they be right scarce 

 and he haster be sparing with them. I 

 calculate you'd like to have a hat full 

 of them balls, leastwise most folks 

 would ; 'cause the wild hunter don't use 

 no common, low-flung lead for his bul- 

 lets, no - sir- ree -bob-horse-fly ! 'Tain't 

 good 'miff. He shoots balls of Virgin 

 Gold !" 



I w r as not at all surprised at this state- 

 ment, for I was rapidly becoming as 

 credulous as my stalwart companion. 

 Before the discovery of gold in Califor- 

 nia, the trappers at what is known as 

 "Peg-leg Smith's" mine used the yellow 

 metal for bullets, at least that is what 

 the legend says ; and I remembered 

 many other similar stories. When old 

 Hank Ellison, of Jefferson county, New 

 York, was in the West, it is said, he 

 fired half a fortune of gold into a party 

 of redskins before he escaped from 

 them. All these stories came up in my 

 mind and I did not doubt that Pete's 

 statement was true, but if it was, here 

 was a man who for a hundred and odd 

 years had used nothing but gold for bul- 

 lets ! But I was more interested in 

 knowing what had become of our weird 

 friend than in the sort of projectiles he 

 used in his gun and so dismissed the 

 subject with a request for further infor- 

 mation about our rescuer. 



"This morning when I woke up," 

 Pete continued, "I thought maybe the 

 wild hunter had only gone off for a 

 tramp ; but he's done cleared out for 

 good, and tuk his wolves and bird with 

 him ; and they do say that he is a wolf 

 himself and head of the pack/' 



"What's that, Pete? Steady, old 

 man. Now let's go slow." 



"All right ; tha's what I mean ter do, 

 'cause it ain't a varmint's natur' to help 



men folks, and he helped us, and no 

 mistake, and left us the bulk of the b'ar, 

 too, — only took the claws, teeth and a 

 tenderloin or two for hisself and pack ; 

 that is, if he is a wolf. But we will 

 settle that if your fut will let you walk 

 a bit." 



"How far?" I asked. 



"Only over yan way to the first 

 piece of moist ground, and the trail 

 leads down to the spring thar, and thar 

 is quite a right smart bit of muddy 

 swail beyond." 



"All right, I'll try it," I exclaimed. 



But I could not touch my foot to the 

 ground, and it was not 'till my guide 

 had made me a crutch of a forked 

 branch, padded with a piece of fur, that 

 I was able to go limping along after 

 Big Pete. 



We followed the trail left by the wild 

 hunter to the spring. The trail after 

 that was plain, even to my inexperi- 

 enced eyes ; and when we reached the 

 muddy spot the prints of the moccas- 

 ined feet and the dog-like tracks of the 

 wolves were distinctly visible — but look 

 at Big Pete ! 



As motionless as a statue, with a 

 solemn face, he stoops, with a rigid 

 finger pointing to the trail ! I hastened 

 to his side, and saw that the moccasin 

 prints ceased in the middle of an open, 

 bare, muddy space ; and beyond were 

 nothing but the doglike tracks of the 

 wolves. 



I looked up, and all around, there 

 w 7 ere no overhanging branches that a 

 man could swing himself upon, no 

 stones that he could leap upon — noth- 

 ing but straggling bunches of ferns ; 

 but here, in this open spot, the wild 

 hunter had vanished. 



We walked back in silence, for I had 

 nothing to say, and Pete did not volun- 

 teer any further information. 

 (To be continued.) 



