Once more the bland expression appeared on the face of the stranger, but no reply was given to the query.
“Are you Jean Badeau?” demanded Reuben sharply.
Again the smile was seen, but still there was no answer.
Reuben was almost persuaded that the man before him was indeed his lost companion, but the expression in his eyes and the childlike smile on his face certainly were not characteristics of the missing French trapper. He was a man strong and of slow speech, even when he spoke, as he did only on rare occasions. Unlike most of his race in the North, apparently he did not show any signs of the impulsive temperament which many of the early French possessed. Now the lad felt that his flesh was creeping. There was something in the uncanny bearing and expression of the man, who, if he was not the trapper, Jean Badeau, at least strongly resembled Reuben’s former comrade.
“Lad, don’t you know?”
Reuben turned quickly at the unexpected question and saw that Kit Carson was beside him. “Don’t you know,” repeated the leader, “that this man is crazy?”
“No, I didn’t know anything about him. He looks so much like Jean Badeau that I was sure at first that it was my friend.”
“It may be and it may not be.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is this: this man is the same one we found at San Gabriel. Somehow he made his way to the North and the Indians have taken him into their village.”