“Say, you!” repeated Zeke impatiently; “you got any tobacker? That’s what I want ter know.”
“Plenty of it,” replied Guy. “You’ll find it in the pack-saddle. Mr. Wilson thought you would want a good supply.”
“Then why didn’t he send it afore?” growled the hunter.
“He sent it as soon as he could. He came from Frisco only yesterday.”
Zeke leaned his rifle against the nearest tree, plunged his hands into the pack-saddle, and while he was searching for the tobacco, repeatedly ran his eyes over the face and figure of the boy, who seemed to be a great curiosity to him.
He said nothing, however, until he had found a plug of the coveted weed, and thrust a good portion of it into his cheek. After he had chewed on it a while the effects became perceptible. The discontented, almost savage, look his face had worn, gave place to an expression a trifle more amiable, and when he spoke his voice sounded more like a human being’s, and less like the growl of an angry bear.
“Who be you?” he demanded. “I never seed you in these parts afore.”
“No,” said Guy, “you never did. My name is Harris, and I used to be a sailor; but I’m a hunter now.”
“You!” exclaimed Zeke, with undisguised contempt in his tones and looks. “What do you hunt—squirrels?”
“Well, I have never hunted anything yet,” said Guy, who thought it best to tell the truth; “but I want to be a buffalo hunter like you; so I hope that we shall be fast friends, and that you will teach me all you know. Will you?”