“Who the mischief are you?” he asked, as Alden appeared.
“A young fellow in need of the help you gave.”
“How comes it you’re on foot and in this fix?”
Alden hastily explained.
“So Dick Lightfoot’s dead, eh? Too bad; where did you leave him?”
“Two or three miles back; he was shot from his pony by an Indian arrow.”
“Where’s his pony?”
“He made off when I sprang from the saddle and hid here.”
“Umph! never run from a bear like that.”