"Then, my young tenderfoot, you're a runaway, that's what you are. No father or mother livin' would let a kid like you come out here to make his bread and bacon by huntin' and trappin'. You're a nice lad to talk about roughin' it in the mountains, aint you, now? Jest step over here 'longside of me and look at yourself."
The old wagon-master spoke seriously, and his words did not raise a laugh at Leon's expense, as the latter expected they would. He hung his head, and it was all he could do to keep his tears from bursting out afresh.
One of the teamsters declared that it was a perfect shame, and this remark brought about a general conversation, during which Leon learned how foolish he had been in taking into his confidence a man with whom he was not acquainted.
Eben had never been post-hunter at Laramie, nor anywhere else. He was nothing but a renegade, who had married an Indian wife that he might share in the annuities that are yearly distributed among the different friendly tribes.
Leon was also informed that Eben had fled the country a few months before to escape arrest; that he had never killed eight hundred buffaloes during all the years he had been on the plains, and that he was too lazy and too big a coward to spend a winter in the mountains, hunting and trapping. He much preferred to settle down in his teepee and eat government rations.
As for the articles he had stolen, the boy might just as well give them up for lost. Eben had doubtless drawn a bee-line for the place where the band to which he belonged was encamped, and Leon would never see him again.
While this conversation was going on, the wagon-master arose and walked away.
He was gone but a few minutes, and when he came back he beckoned to Leon, who promptly joined him.
"Pilgrim," said he, as they walked away together, "I wish I was your father for 'bout half an' hour, so 't I could gin you a good trouncin' to pay you for runnin' away from a good home, and comin' out here where you aint got no sort of business in the world. But seein' I aint your father, I'm kinder sorry for you, though you aint wuth no sorrer, and I've been sayin' a good word to the trader for you. I heard him tell one of the leftenants last night that he reckoned he'd have to send to the States for a boy to help him take care on the store. You see, his last clerk, growin' tired of stayin' here, stole some money of his'n and put for home. Now, mebbe you can work yourself into his place."
Leon's thanks were cut short by their arrival at the door of the trader's store.