Seeing Oscar sitting at the foot of the rock, he called out to him in a cheery voice:
“Wal, perfessor, if ye haint done it fur Ole Ephraim this time I’m an Injun. What be ye sittin’ up thar fur? Come down an’ take a look at him.”
The boy tried to obey. With great difficulty he arose to an upright position; but his legs refusing to support him, he rolled helplessly down the hill and landed in a snow-drift, from which he was extricated by Big Thompson, who placed him firmly upon his feet.
“Why, perfessor!” he exclaimed with some anxiety, as he gazed into the boy’s pale face; “what’s the matter of ye? Thar aint no color into ye at all.”
“I don’t wonder that I look white,” panted Oscar. “I never before was so badly frightened. I haven’t a particle of strength. I thought you were a goner, sure.”
“Me too,” said Big Thompson cheerfully.
“I must say that you took it very coolly. You didn’t show the least fear. Your face isn’t white.”
“Wal, arter ye have been knocked about the mountains an’ prairies, an’ been snowed an’ rained an’ blowed on as often as I have, ye won’t show much white neither,” was the reply. “Of all the tenderfeet I ever seed yer the best. Put it thar!”
Oscar complied, and an instant afterward made the firm resolution that if he ever again did his guide a service he would not shake hands on the strength of it.
The hunter’s long, bony fingers closed over his palm with almost crushing force, and it was a long time before he forgot the terrible shaking up that followed. This was Big Thompson’s way of showing his gratitude.