Donald and Adrian exchanged glances.
“What do you make of it, Ad?” queried the former.
“Why, just as Billie here says, it does look queer,” replied the other, seriously. “If that had been a cowboy, or an honest miner, or even a prospector in these dangerous mountains, he might have had the decency to wave a hand at us, even if it was too much trouble for him to make his way down here to say how-d’ye.”
“Never made a single wave, just backed out of sight,” grumbled Billie. “But anyhow, you don’t
reckon it could have been one of them hostile Indians, do you, boys?”
“Oh! no, not at all,” chuckled Adrian. “We’d have seen that fact right away, for they wear feathers in their hair; and besides, you can’t mistake an Apache as far as you can see him. It was a white man all right, don’t think anything else.”
“But you can’t guess who, now?” persisted Billie.
“Of course not,” declared Donald. “There’s always a chance to come across some rascal in this country, a fellow who has been run out of the mining camps, or else is wanted on the ranges for some thieving job, and has to live a hermit life. That may have been just such a man. Fact is, I reckon he was no other.”
“And he didn’t like our looks one little bit, did he?” pursued Billie. “Seemed to be too honest in our get-up to suit him, mebbe. Well, that’s some satisfaction, anyway; though it goes against the grain to have a fellow dodge at sight of you, like you had the epidemic in your clothes.”
After waiting some little time to see if the mysterious stranger would show himself again, and meeting with disappointment, the three Broncho Rider Boys determined to resume their journey.