The crackling of the bushes continued, while the Rifleman compressed his lips and stood like a tiger at bay. In a moment he saw a man making his way through the tangled shrubbery, and almost immediately he lowered his rifle with an expression of disappointment. The individual before him was so different from what he expected, that a fuller notice of him is necessary, especially as he now takes his place as one of the dramatis personæ of this tale.
He appeared to be an awkward countryman, cowardly, ignorant of wood-craft, and completely bewildered by the dangers that beset him. His dress was half-savage and half-civilized, torn and disfigured, as if he had been running at the top of his speed through a thicket of briers and brambles. The only weapon he carried was a large knife firmly grasped in his hand. His face was blank and expressionless, save that it bore the impress of great animal fear, now mingled with surprise at confronting our two friends so unexpectedly. His head was round, bullet-like, with sandy hair, while the face seemed stained and begrimed with dirt and perspiration. He stood a moment with both hands stretched stiffly downward, his mouth wide open, apparently unable to find words to express his astonishment.
"Well, young man, good-day to you," said Dernor, advancing toward him.
"Good-day—good-day; fine weather for corn," he repeated, as if anxious to gain the good opinion of the hunter.
"How came you in these parts, my friend?"
"Heaven save you, I run here. The Injins have been after me."
"They didn't catch you?"
"No, sir," replied the young man, bursting into a loud guffaw. "I run too fast."
"What might be your name?"
"Zeke Hunt, but I'm derned 'fraid it won't be any name at all if I stay in these parts much longer. Oh, dear," whined the young man, "I wish I was back in Pennsylvany, on the farm."