Alden raised the glasses again and studied the section.
“I see the white tents of an emigrant train well to the southwest and several miles behind them, other wagons, both slowly pushing westward.”
“Ye’re right; I wonder how many hundred of ’em there is atween St. Joe and Sacramento?”
“It isn’t possible, Shagbark, that either of those trains is the one to which Mr. Chadwick belongs?”
The veteran guffawed.
“Ef it war Jeth that asked that tom fool question I shouldn’t be ’sprised, but I didn’t look for anything like it from yerself, younker. How could the company ye’re speaking off, which war a purty long way to the northwest swing round into that part of the world, ’specially when there ain’t any reason for them doing so?”
“It wasn’t a sensible question, Shagbark, but it was caused by my wish to meet that chap who visited us with his uncle last night.”
The hunter looked curiously at his young friend, but said nothing. The simple minded fellow was not without a natural share of curiosity, but he asked no question. What may be called a rude delicacy restrained him. If Alden chose to tell him more, he would listen, but it rested with the young man himself.
The latter was on the point of describing that affray on the streets of St. Joe, but a curious feeling of shame restrained him. He was not sure how the veteran would view it. He might discourage the resolution of Alden, though the probabilities were the other way.
“He can’t dissuade me, but I don’t want him to try. If I let him know I am eager to meet that fellow again, he will do all he can to help, without my saying anything further.”