Si was gathering dry grass and wood for the fire and soon had a blaze started. The meal was a short one, but they enjoyed it thoroughly. They were finishing up when a well-built man, bronzed by exposure to the elements, sauntered up.
"Boys, kin ye spare an old hunter a cup o' coffee?" he asked. "I had some, but the canister got busted an' the coffee is layin' all the way from Ten-Mile Stake to here!"
"Yes, there is just one cup left," said Mark. "Here you are," and he poured it into a tin dipper the old hunter carried. The man sat down, opened a haversack and brought forth some bread and meat, and began his meal.
"My name's Dixon," he said. "Hank Dixon, although most o' the boys call me Maybe Dixon, although I don't know why, exceptin' maybe it pleases 'em to call me so. I see you three lads are travelin' alone. I'm travelin' alone, too. I hope to git to the Land o' Gold some day, but maybe I won't make it."
"The name Maybe hits him true enough," whispered Mark.
"Maybe you won't mind havin' me travel along with you," went on the man. "It's more sociable-like than travelin' alone."
"Why, yes, come along," said Bob.
"All right then—jest as soon as I've covered this hunk o' bread an' meat an' washed 'em down with that coffee. It's good coffee, I kin smell it—none o' your third-rate Rio!" And he took a gulp and smacked his lips.
"Where are you from, Mr. Dixon?" asked Si.
"Whoop! Don't call me mister, onless you want me to have a fit. Call me plain Dixon, or Maybe Dixon if thet suits better. I'm from 'most any old place. I war born in Vermont, raised in Pennsylvania, emigrated to Ohio at the age o' twelve or thirteen, went down South when I was eighteen, got married in Georgia, settled down in North Carolina, moved over to Kentucky, lost my wife in Iowa, an' now I'm here an' bound fer Californy."