CHAPTER XXVI.
FRED’S STORY.
WHITE-HORSE FRED and his long-lost but now recovered brother were boys who were not much given to sentiment; but although they did not go into ecstasies over one another, they were none the less delighted at their reunion. They kept as close together as possible, and clung to each other’s hands as they galloped along, as if afraid that something might again come between them to separate them.
“Well, old fellow,” said Fred at length, “it didn’t take you long to raise a row after you got here, did it. Uncle Reginald little dreamed, when he was working so hard to find you in order to further his own ends, how completely you would kick over his kettle of fish in less than twenty-four hours after your arrival. We’ll keep those white horses as long as we live, won’t we? They are the best friends we’ve ever had.”
“I believe that now,” replied Julian; “but I didn’t think so when they were roaming about among the mountains with me and carrying me to robber dens. But, Fred, you are not a horse-thief?”
“I never stole a horse, or anything else, if that is what you mean; but I have been a member of the band for more than a year. I’ve had charge of a good many dollars’ worth of stolen property first and last, and if I had happened to fall into the hands of the settlers while I had it in my possession, I’d have been gone up sure.”
“Why, Fred, what made you do it.”
“I had an object in view—one that justified even worse things than that. It will not retard our speed in the least if we talk as we go along, so I will tell my story first—I know you are dying to hear it—and then I will listen to yours. Where shall I begin?”