“Did I know Don Mullen? Did I? He was my partner, my bunkee for many years and on many prospecting trips, a better bunkee no man ever had, but he is dead now, dead! dead! dead! been dead for a dozen years. He was killed by an avalanche. A better partner no man ever had,” he murmured and relaxed into silence.
My efforts to get more information of my parents were of no avail. The Wild Hunter turned the conversation in other directions.
Of course, the knowledge that my real father was dead, had been dead a long time, caused me a feeling of sadness, yet strangely enough the little knowledge that I had gleaned from this strange old man brought a sense of relief to me. I think that it must have been a certain sense of satisfaction to know that this queer man was not my father.
But if he was not Donald Mullen, who was he? That question kept me pondering and for the rest of the meal I was silent, speculating on this strange situation, nor did I have an opportunity to note, as Big Pete did, the tearful, kindly glances that the Wild Hunter shot at me now and then.
Still, for all, he was sociable, extremely sociable, and talkative, too, but I fancy now as I recall it, he was simply keeping the conversation in safe channels, for it was very apparent that the rifle and his former mining partner were painful subjects.
Dinner over, we all went out onto the porch of the ranch house, where we talked while the twilight lasted. At least Big Pete and the Wild Hunter talked as they smoked two of those mysterious long cigars, but I was still silent because of the many strange thoughts that were romping through my mind.
Soon darkness settled down and Big Pete began to yawn. I also was heavy-eyed, and presently the Wild Hunter clapped his hands and summoned a leather-skinned old Indian to whom he gave brief low command in the Mewan Indian tongue, as I was afterwards informed by Big Pete, then turning to us he said in his fascinating soft voice:
“It will probably be a novelty for both of you gentlemen to again sleep in a bed between sheets and under a roof. I doubt whether you will enjoy it even though the sheets are clean linen which were spun and woven by my noble Indians. Moose Ear, here, will conduct you to your rooms and I will take a turn about the place before retiring to see that all is well, and also to see that my black wolf pack is securely confined within the wolf corral. This is a precaution, gentlemen, which I take every night, because a wolf is a wolf no matter how well trained he may be upon the surface, and night is the time wolves delight to run. These beasts are especially dangerous to strangers and it is for that reason I am putting you in the house in place of allowing you to camp outdoors, as I know you would prefer to do. Good-night, gentlemen, see that the doors are closed. Pleasant dreams.”
As we said good-night to him I wondered vaguely if the wolf pen was securely built, for it seemed to me that I detected a suggestion of doubt in the mind of the Wild Hunter himself. I little realized, however, the horrors the darkness had in store for us.