"Who is he?" asked Frank.
"He's a hunter, and a mighty good one, too, I reckon, for he used to be post-hunter at Fort Laramie."
"Is he all right?"
"Is he?" exclaimed the landlord. "He's the best fellow in the world; good-natured (he hasn't had but three fights since he's been here), free-hearted, and spends his money like water. He killed eight hundred buffalo this season, and he's going back to kill some more. You needn't mind putting out your candle, 'cause he'll be up directly. He always goes to bed early since he and his money quit. Good-night!"
"That's just the man we want to see," exclaimed Leon, when the landlord had left the room. "He can tell us everything we want to know, and if he will let us, we can't do better than go with him."
The boys had hardly got into bed (Leon took the precaution to place his trousers, which contained the money, under his pillow) when a heavy step sounded in the hall, the door opened, and the third occupant of the room stalked in.
He was roughly dressed, and carried a knife and revolver in his belt.
The runaways, who looked at him with great interest, could not see much of his face, for the lower part of it was concealed by thick, bushy whiskers, which looked as though they had never been combed, and his slouch hat was drawn low over his forehead. There was something forbidding about him, but the boys could not have told what it was.
"Hallo, pilgrims!" said he, as he placed his hands on his hips and looked down at the runaways. "Are you the kids who are going out on the plains!"
"Yes, sir," answered Leon.