Merriwell was not at all satisfied with these directions. There was something in the manner of the old redskin that seemed to arouse his suspicions and make him feel that he was being deceived. Of a sudden Frank asked:
“Who lives in this valley?”
The old man shook his head.
“No know,” he said. “Wolf, bear, mebbe.”
“That’s not what I mean. Is there a white man who lives in this valley?”
Again a shake of the head.
“Wolf, bear, that all. No; big mount’n-lion—him there. Him kill hunter—one, two, t’ree, four hunter—what come for him. Him vely bad lion—heap bad.”
Frank was watching the man closely.
“That’s just what I’m looking for!” he exclaimed, as if delighted. “I want to shoot a mountain-lion.”
“You no can shoot him. Big hunter try—no do it. Him kill you heap quick, you go in there.”