"What! you're not Pete Martin, the prospector, are you?" and Perdue's eyes opened with astonishment.
And not only was the saloon-keeper surprised. The men in the room moved a little nearer, and craned their necks to obtain a better view of the stranger. Much had they heard of him: his great strength, wonderful endurance, feats of daring, and simplicity of life.
"Way back in New Brunswick," replied the prospector, "the old Parish Register says that I was baptized Peter Bartholomew Martin. I was ginnerally known, however, as 'Pete,' while up here I only git 'Old Pete,' though it doesn't make any difference what a feller's called. I guess the Lord'll know me by any name; I only hope so."
"But what are the Indians doing?" asked one of the men.
"Doin'? What ain't they a-doin'! They're gittin' down to bizness mighty lively; that's what they're a-doin'."
"In what way?"
"Wall, they're tryin' to decide whether it's best to pinch only the ones who burnt their store, or to hand out a bunch to the whole gang. Ye see, it's this way," and Pete glanced around upon the eager listeners, "they're sorter divided like, some wantin' to go the limit, an' others not. Now, the ones who hold back are the rale Christians, the best men of the lot. This camp jist depends upon which side wins out, an' if ye're saved ye may give the credit to that parson chap ye hiked away from here in sich a mighty hurry."
"We're better rid of him," said Perdue.
"Ye may think what ye like, pard; it's a free country in that way. But let me remind ye that if ye'd done this same trick to them Injuns ten years ago, when I fust struck these diggin's, they'd a wiped ye out quicker'n ye could say Jack Rabbit."
"Ye seem to know a heap about things here for a stranger," remarked Perdue.