He was dressed in a complete suit of buckskin, which, although well worn, was nevertheless very neat, and, in spite of his years, his step was firm, and he walked as erect as an Indian. He carried a long heavy rifle on his shoulder, and from his belt peeped the head of a small hatchet of peculiar shape, and the buck-horn handle of a hunting-knife. He walked slowly through the camp, and when he came opposite the boys, Dick suddenly sprang from the ground where he had been seated, watching some steaks that were broiling on the coals, and, striding up to the stranger, laid his hand on his shoulder. The latter turned, and, after regarding him sharply for a moment, thrust out his hand, which the trapper seized and wrung in silence. For an instant they stood looking at each other without speaking, and then Dick took the old man by the arm and led him up to the fire, exclaiming:
“Bob Kelly, the oldest an’ best trapper on the prairy!”
The boys arose as he approached, and regarded him with curiosity. They had heard their guide speak in the highest terms of “ole Bob Kelly,” and had often wished to see the trapper whom Dick was willing to acknowledge as his superior. There he was—a mild, good-natured-looking old man, the exact opposite of what they had imagined him to be.
“Them are city chaps, Bob”—continued the trapper, as the old man, after gazing at the boys for a moment, seated himself on the ground beside the fire—”an’ I’m takin’ ’em out to Californy. In course they are green consarnin’ prairy life, but they are made of good stuff, an’ are ’bout the keerlessest youngsters you ever see. What a doin’ here, Bob?”
“Jest lookin’ round,” was the answer. “I’m mighty glad to meet you ag’in, ’cause it looks nat’ral to see you ’bout. Things aint as they used to be. Me an’ you are ’bout the oldest trappers agoin’ now. The boys have gone one arter the other, an’ thar’s only me an’ you left that I knows on.”
“What’s come on Jack Thomas?” asked Dick.
“We’re both without our chums now,” answered the old man, sorrowfully. “Jack an’ ole Bill Lawson are both gone, an’ their scalps are in a Comanche wigwam.”
The trapper made no reply, but went on with his preparations for supper in silence, and the boys could see that he was considerably affected by the news he had just heard. His every movement was closely watched by his companion, who seemed delighted to meet his old acquaintance once more, and acted as though he did not wish to allow him out of his sight. There was evidently a good deal of honest affection between these two men. It did not take the form of words, but would have showed itself had one or the other of them been in danger. They did not speak again until Mr. Winters came up, when Dick again introduced his friend as the “oldest an’ best trapper agoin’.” Uncle James, who understood the customs of the trappers, simply bowed—a greeting which the old man returned with one short, searching glance, as if he meant to read his very thoughts.
“Now, then!” exclaimed Dick, “Grub’s ready. Pitch in, Bob.”