“Sure,” he said, “and you nearly broke your neck at the same time. I wonder if the ‘Chief’ has fallen a victim to anyone yet?”
“I ain’t been in the valley for four years,” responded Sam. “But I reckon’ he ain’t and never will. I kind o’ believe he ain’t nothin’ but a ghost anyway.”
Every one had pricked up his ears. Captain Ludington especially seemed to be no less curious about Old Indian Chief than Frank and Phil.
“What’s that?” broke in Phil.
“Sam’ll tell you, sometime,” explained Mr. Mackworth, “but let’s have dinner now. It’s sort of a myth of the mountains. Every one tells it and each one a different way.”
“About goats?” persisted Phil.
“About a great Bighorn sheep,” added Mr. Mackworth.
“But where does the Indian part come in?” insisted Phil.
“Now I’m not going to try to piece together an old camp-fire tale,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth, “especially when I’m hungry. But here’s the chapter heading of it, as you might say. For twenty-five years the Indians and old-time hunters of the Selkirk Mountain and Kootenai River region have circulated a picturesque tale of a hermit Indian, a kind of a spirit savage who, with a monster Bighorn ram always at his heels, is seen now and then by some hunter but never overtaken.”