“Why, young feller,” he went on, “that ol’ man shoots gold bullets out o’ a real Patrick Mullen gun.”
“A Mullen gun, Pete?” I cried, “how do you know, man; speak for goodness sake!”
“I don’t know it’s a Patrick Mullen and guess it tain’t one ’cause a Patrick Mullen rifle would cost a thousand or more. But the old Injun, Beaver Tail, says, someone told his father and his father told him that et is a Patrick Mullen gun an’ is a special make inlaid with gold and silver, an’ all ornamented up, an’ built for an ol’ muzzle-loadin’ flint-lock. Now Mullen never made no flint-lock rifles that I hear’n tell of, his specialty be shotguns an’ if he made this rifle I’m ganderplucked if I cud tell how this spook got it.”
“Unless the wild Hunter might be a relative of old Patrick Mullen,” I said, thinking aloud, and gasping at the thought, for the description of the rifle somehow impressed me again with the possibility that this wild man of the mountains might himself be Donald Mullen, and my own father!
“Why do you say that, kid?” asked Big Pete with a queer look in his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know, I was just wondering to myself. But what makes you think he’s a supernatural being, and, Pete, does this wild loony hunter look at all like me?”
“Super what? Say when did you swallow a dictionary?—Oh, you mean what makes me think he’s a devil. No, he don’t favor you none,” he added with a grin, “he’s a handsome devil, although he’s done terrified every white man, an’ Injun, in these parts half t’ death, so most of ’ems afeared to come back here at all. Men have gone in the park jest to get this wild man’s scalp, but they’ve done come back scared yaller an’ they ain’t opened their trap much about him since nuther. They do say he spits fire an’ chaws his meat offen the bone an’ then cracks the bones like a dog an’ swallers it all. They do say, too, that he roars like forty devils with their tails cut off when he gits mad an’ some say as when he wants t’ git som wha’ in a hurry he jest grabs aholt o’ the feet o’ tha’ there thunder bird and she flies off with him and draps him anywha’ he asks her to—Nope, I hain’t seen none of these things myself but others say they has, an’ believe me, I’m plumb cautious when travelin’ these parts alone. Howsomever, he hain’t yet skeered me ’nough to make my ha’r come out by the roots,” said Pete with a yawn. “There, kick that back log over so’s the fire can lick at t’other side; now let’s turn in.”
CHAPTER IV
Big Pete and I spent several weeks in our charming little camp at the lower end of the park, for my guide decided that despite the recent presence of the wild hunter, here would be a good place to get a shot at some black-tail deer. In fact we saw signs of those animals all about and my guide was only looking for fresh indication to start out on our last hunt before we made our way deeper into the wilderness.
On the third day of our stay I was returning to camp with my shotgun over my shoulder and a brace of sage grouse in my hand, when I came upon Big Pete in a swail about a mile from camp. He was bending low and examining fresh signs when he saw me.