He waited, however, excitedly watching the stranger as he led the little procession up the narrow natural pathway. It soon was evident that the stranger was a white man, and, once convinced of that fact, Reuben’s fears in a measure departed. What a man could be doing among the foothills of the Rockies, so far from companions and civilization, was something he was unable to conjecture. The bundles on the backs of the horses indicated that it might be possible that he had come with a purpose not unlike that which had drawn him and Jean to the region. At all events, he decided that he would not flee immediately. Hastily examining his rifle to make sure that it was ready for immediate use if occasion required, he awaited the coming of the man.
There was a slight bend in the valley, which for a moment hid the approaching stranger from sight. As soon as the man turned the bend, however, he discovered Reuben before him, and instantly stopped, grasped his rifle, and gazed intently at the unexpected sight.
“Who are you?” demanded the stranger.
“I was just going to ask you that question myself,” replied Reuben, laughing in a manner that served to allay much of the suspicions of the newcomer.
“My name is Rat True. Now that I have told you that much,” said the stranger, “tell me who you are.”
“My name is Reuben Benton,” acknowledged the young trapper.
“Good name,” said the other man, laughing boisterously. Now that he had discovered that apparently there was only one man approaching, Reuben’s confidence in his own ability to protect himself returned in full measure.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Rat.
“Trying to get out.”
“Where did you come from?”