“Who is Uncle Billy?”
“Oh, he belongs to the Coyle side of the family—the side that I’m from. Only he ain’t a fightin’ man like the rest of the Coyles and all the Caldwells. He jest believes in lettin’ everybody do what they want—and the animals, too. He’s queer, but everybody likes him, and you’ll be safe there because nobody bothers Uncle Billy. There’s his place now.”
The Texan, who was wondering how many rods farther he could ride without falling from the saddle, looked ahead, past the slim figure of Alma Caldwell, and saw a tiny cabin nestled in an opening in the pine forest. In the doorway stood a tall, white-bearded man, watching from beneath a shading hand.
CHAPTER VI
SWINGLEY HAS HIS SAY.
The young Texan’s life during the next few days was in striking contrast with what had gone immediately before. He had a confused recollection of sinking to rest on a comfortable bed, in a room filled with the forms of animals—elk, deer, bears and smaller creatures, all in most lifelike poses. There were even some shaggy buffaloes in a perfect state of preservation. In small glass cases were groups of insects, and there were some giant trout on the wall, evidently taken from near-by lakes, or from the alluring stream which ran close to the cabin.
Bertram’s recovery, under the ministrations of Uncle Billy and Alma Caldwell, was rapid. In a few days he was able to walk about the place. The inflammation left his shoulder and his strength returned to him, as it always returns to healthy youth in the great outdoors.
The old naturalist proved a delight to Bertram, and he was both expert and gentle in applying surgical dressings. Alma accounted for his skill by explaining that he had studied to be a surgeon.
“But he had no real taste for the profession,” said the girl. “What he wanted was to live close to the heart of nature, to study wild life at its source. So he moved here, when the rest of the family came, and, after a few years of ranching, gave up everything else and settled down in this little place in the mountains, determined to follow out his ambition.”
The girl had ridden over to Uncle Billy’s place from the Caldwell ranch, and she was walking about in the bright sunshine, while the Texan stood in front of the naturalist’s cabin.
“Well, I can testify that if Uncle Billy had turned surgeon he would have made a success of his calling,” said Bertram, stretching his arms above his head, in the joy that a strong man feels when convalescent. “He’s fixed me up more quickly than I would have thought possible. Your fighting cousin’s bullet, it seems, just nicked the top of a lung. Luckily it drilled me clean and did not shatter a bone, or I might have been on Uncle Billy’s hospital list a long time.”