CHAPTER III.
BIG THOMPSON.
“How, kurnel!” exclaimed the newcomer.
“How!” replied the officer. “Sit down.”
“The race of giants is not extinct, after all,” thought Oscar, as his eyes rested on the tall, broad-shouldered man, who stepped across the threshold, carrying a soldier’s overcoat on his arm and a slouch hat in his hand. “I don’t wonder that he is called ‘Big’ Thompson.”
He was big—that was a fact. He stood considerably over six feet in his moccasins, and must have weighed at least 250 pounds, although there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him.
He moved as if he were set on springs, and his tightly fitting jacket of buckskin showed muscles on his arms and chest the like of which Oscar had never seen before.
He wore no weapon, and in fact the boy did not think he needed any, for he looked strong enough to battle empty-handed with anybody or anything.
Like most big men he was good-natured,—his face testified to that fact,—and it needed but one glance at it to satisfy Oscar that the owner of it was a man who could be trusted under any circumstances.
“Thompson,” continued the colonel, as the scout seated himself in the chair that was pointed out to him, and deposited his hat and coat on the floor, “this young gentleman is Mr. Oscar Preston, who has come out here from the States to spend the winter in hunting. He needs a guide who knows all about the country and the game that is to be found in it, and I have recommended you. Now see if you can strike a bargain with him.”
The scout listened attentively, and when the colonel ceased speaking he turned and gave Oscar a good looking over.