Just at that moment another shot rang out, the sound reverberating from the cañon below. The camper was evidently hunting for game. Indeed he probably had nothing else to eat, though lower down and near the lake there were rushing streams in which the little mountain trout could be caught in abundance.
The lad hardly knew what to do. He feared it would not be wise for him to go boldly into this unknown man’s camp while he was away, for if it should be one of the “dangerous characters” occasionally described by the Genoa “Crier,” who sought a hiding-place in the high Nevadas, the lad would want to slip away unobserved.
He decided to remain under cover until the camper had returned. Luckily, Ken had not long to wait, for a nearer shot told that the hunter was approaching, and in another moment a tall, sinewy, broad-shouldered young man swung into view, a small deer flung over his shoulder.
His brown hair was long and his face nearly covered with a beard. Indeed, at first glance, he looked as though he might be a very dangerous character, but just as Ken had made this decision, the young man, little knowing that he was being so closely observed, began to sing in a tenor voice that carried to the heart of the listener the conviction that, whatever might be the reason for his hiding, it was not because of an evil record.
However, he did not leave his place of observation at once. He watched as the young giant dropped the small deer upon the ground, stretched his arms out as though to rest them, and then disappeared in his pine shelter. A moment later he reappeared without the gun, and carrying a long sharp knife. Kneeling by the deer, he prepared to skin it.
Silently the lad drew nearer, but so intent was the camper upon his occupation that he did not hear a footfall nor a sound of any kind until the boy spoke hesitatingly, “I say, mister, I’m awful good at skinning creatures. Couldn’t I help?”
The young man, who had believed himself to be alone near the top of an almost unscaleable mountain, leaped to his feet, amazed. His keen gray eyes swept over the very small figure of the barefooted boy, and then, to the unutterable joy of the lad, his hands were seized and a voice he knew and loved was fairly shouting: “Ken Martin, old pal; I’ve been wondering how in time I could get word to you that I was—well, sort of a neighbor of yours. I fully intended to drop down into Woodford’s soon and hunt you up, but I’m mighty glad you called first, so to speak. Sit down, old man. But wait; I’ll get you a drink of aqua pura from my near-by sparkling fount. You look petered out, as though you had climbed to near the end of your strength.”
The boy drank long of the water which was given him in a folding cup, and then, as he sank down on the ground in a truly weary heap, he gasped, “I say, Mr. Edrington, what-all are you doing up here?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
KEN’S OLD FRIEND
“Ken, you’ve been doing some growing since we put the highway through your cañon two years ago.” The young man, with folded arms, stood smiling down at the boy, who grinned back as he replied with enthusiasm, “If I can keep right on till I’m big as you are, I’ll like it mighty well.”