Fred jumped to his feet trembling like a leaf, and found himself facing an old mountaineer, gray-bearded, long-haired, looking curiously at him.
“I scared ye, didn’t I?” the old man continued calmly. “Wal, stop shakin’; I won’t hurt ye; but what are ye doin’ here anyway?”
“Why, I was just roaming about the hills, and—and—I happened to see the smoke of your house, and thought it might be Indians, so I slipped up to see.”
“Hain’t lost any Injuns, hev ye?” the calm gray eyes lighted with a little twinkle.
“No, not exactly,” Fred returned more easily; “I’m just out hunting chickens.”
“You hain’t found many.”
“No, I haven’t had very good luck.”
“That old hen’s pretty tough eatin’! You better come down and try some young ones I killed this mornin’. It’s gettin’ near supper time.”
Fred was ready enough to accept the invitation. The afternoon’s excitement had made him hungry; but he was hungrier to learn more about his new acquaintance.
They trudged down the trail to the cabin. The dog leaped up at their coming and bounded toward his master; but he stopped uncertain how to greet the boy, till the mountaineer said calmly, “It’s all right, Tobe”; and the dog turned to trot ahead of them back to the house.