“It is, and it’s worth a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars!” I exclaimed, “a thousand dollars?”
“Yes,” cried the old man almost fiercely, “yes, yes, and it is my gun. He gave it to me, he did—to me and not to Donald. He—”
He stood up suddenly as if he intended to stride over and seize the gun, to protect it from us but as quickly sat down again and buried his face in his hands, and I could see him biting his lips as if he were attempting to control his feeling.
As for me, quite suddenly a great light seemed to dawn. This strange old man was mentioning names that were familiar—that meant worlds to me. I leaned toward him eagerly. Big Pete stood quietly listening, a silent but interested spectator.
“Did you know Donald Mullen, a brother to the famous gunsmith? Tell me, did you know him? I have come all the way—”
I stopped in wonder. Never in all my life do I ever expect to witness such a pitiful expression of anguish pictured so vividly on the human countenance as it was on the face of the Wild Hunter.
“What,” he whispered, “did you know him?”
“He was my father,” I answered simply.
For a moment the Wild Hunter looked at me intently, then said, “I believe you, you favor him somewhat.” He then came forward as if to shake my hand, but changed his mind and sat down with a forced and wan smile.