Guy Harris, the Runaway

by Harry Castlemon

“Humph!” was the answer Zeke deigned to give.

In accordance with Guy’s request the hunter proceeded to load the rifle, and as the boy knew that it was one of the first things he must learn, he kept a close watch of his movements.

Zeke first took from the game-bag a bullet, which he placed in the palm of his hand, and then from the horn poured powder enough on it to cover it. This done he put the bullet into his mouth, and after pouring the powder down the barrel and hitting the weapon a knock or two on the ground to drive it into the tube, begun searching in Guy’s game-bag for something.

Failing to find the article, whatever it was, he took from the string which hung suspended from his button-hole, a small piece of thick cloth, which Guy saw was greased on one side. This the hunter placed over the muzzle of the rifle—the greased side down—put the bullet upon it, and drove it home with the ramrod. It was all done then except putting on the cap, and that occupied scarcely more than a second’s time.

Taken altogether it was a complicated operation, Guy thought, and he did not know whether he could remember all the details or not. He found that he had forgotten one thing, and that was the cloth which the hunter wrapped around the bullet. No doubt that was the “patching” he had often read about.

When the rifle was loaded the hunter raised it to his shoulder and started down the trail, Guy following with his game-bag in one hand and Zeke’s rifle in the other. He was anything but pleased at the manner in which his advances had been received, but still he was not disheartened by it.

No doubt the hunter was wearied with his day’s work—Guy knew that he had been in the saddle ever since sunrise watching the cattle under his charge—and perhaps after the tobacco had had time to have its full effect, and Zeke had taken a good supper and smoked a pipe, he would be better-natured. Then Guy could make another effort to work his way into his good graces.

While on the way to the valley in which Zeke’s camp was located, Guy had frequent opportunities to witness his companion’s skill with the rifle. Squirrels were abundant, and the hunter, without leaving the trail, succeeded in bringing down a dozen or more, and every one of them shot through the head. This was Guy’s first lesson in hunting, and he watched every move Zeke made. He now saw how the man came by that stealthy, crouching style of progression which he had noticed. He had practiced it so often while in pursuit of game that it had become a part of his nature.

At the foot of the mountains the woods terminated, and of course there were no squirrels to be found on the open plain. By the time they reached this point the tobacco, aided perhaps by the fine shooting he had enjoyed, was beginning to tell upon the hunter, who showed a disposition to throw off his reserve altogether. He found his way to Guy’s heart by assuring him that his rifle was as “fine a we’pon as he had ever drawed to his face,” and followed it up by inquiring very particularly into the boy’s history. And Guy was quite willing to tell him everything he wanted to know. He told him how long he had been away from home, why he had left it, what he had done since he had been adrift in the world, and what he wanted to do next. Being anxious to make a friend of the hunter he concealed nothing, not even the fact that he had twenty-five dollars in money, which he was willing to turn over to Zeke to be expended in any way the latter saw fit, so long as it benefited them both.

The hunter became more and more interested as Guy proceeded, and the mention of the money and the sight of the purse the boy carried about his neck broke down the last barrier between them. Suddenly stopping and facing Guy, he extended to him one of his huge, dirty paws.