“Aw, shucks!” exclaimed the ranchman’s niece, “don’t bawl none about it. The bear won’t hurt you now. He’s dead as can be.”
But Ruth did not believe that Mary Cox was crying about the bear. Her words and subsequent actions did puzzle the girl of the Red Mill. Ruth had whispered to Tom, before they left the scene of the bear shooting:
“See if you can find that man. If you can, bring him into camp.”
“But if he’s crazy?” Tom suggested, in surprise.
“He isn’t too crazy to have saved my life,” declared the grateful girl. “And if he is in his right mind, all the more reason why we should try to help him.”
“You’re always right, Ruthie,” admitted Helen’s brother. But when the boy and Jib returned to camp two hours later, with the bear pelt and some of the best portions of the carcass, they had to report that the stranger who had shot the bear seemed to have totally disappeared. Jib Pottoway was no bad trailer; but over the rocks it was impossible to follow the stranger, especially as he had taken pains to hide his trail.
“If you want to thank that critter for saving you from the b’ar, Miss Ruthie,” the Indian said, “you’ll hafter go clear over to Tintacker to do so. That’s my opinion.”
“How far away is that?” demanded Mary Cox, suddenly.
“Near a hundred miles from this spot,” declared Jib. “That is, by wagon trail. I reckon you could cut off thirty or forty miles through the hills. The feller’s evidently l’arnt his way around since Winter.”
Mary asked no further question about the man from Tintacker; but she had shown an interest in him that puzzled Ruth.