“And I am glad to see you. My name is Hammond—Fred Hammond, and I am pleased to meet you.”
These words of welcome were uttered as the tall, graceful form of the speaker moved forward, and he reached out his hand and grasped the hard palm of the hunter.
Black Tom looked significantly around him.
“What’s the matter?” asked Hammond, with a smile.
“S’pose it had been a red-skin instead of Black Tom that crept up to you in that style, the crack of the twig would have been the crack of a rifle, and that would have been the last of Fred Hammond.”
“It looked foolhardy, I’ll admit,” said he, with a laugh, “but then it wasn’t, after all. There is no danger of either you or me being disturbed by Indians to-night.”
“How do you know so much ’bout the red-skins in these parts?” asked the trapper, in some surprise.
“I’ve been here several months, and during that time I ought to have learned something, had I not?” he returned, with a smile.
“Wal, I tell yer what I know,” added the trapper, earnestly, “thar ar’ red-skins in a few miles of hyar.”
Black Tom noticed how his companion started, as he instantly asked: