Harry was a fine young man, strong and intelligent, in whom his father had every confidence.
He was the complete juvenile type of the American squatter and pioneer, up to Indian devilries, riding like a centaur, and able to put a ball in the eye of a panther at a hundred yards. His great passion was life in the open air, and the pleasures of the chase in the forest or field.
One fine morning Harry, soon after the rising of the sun, galloped off into the forest. He was bent on a journey to see a fine cutting that was going to create meadows, and make room for sawmills on the banks of the great Missouri.
He had nearly reached the spot, when he was startled by a whistle of a peculiar kind, at no great distance.
At the same moment a horseman came in sight—a man of fifty, tall, thin and gaunt, with parchment skin.
The horse was as bony as his master.
The man was dressed after the fashion of the ordinary American farmer, and apparently carried no arms.
"Eh, eh," cried he, "you are out early. Were you looking for me?"
"No, M. Lagrenay; I was not even thinking of you."
"That is not polite. Why did you stop when I whistled?"