Standing erect upon a large bowlder, half-way up the hill, was a human form, though strange and wild-looking enough to have been taken for something supernatural. One long arm was extended, pointing toward them, the rags that only partially clothed the member fluttering in the brisk breeze.
The stranger seemed far above the usual height of men, and of great age, if the long, flowing hair and beard of a snowy whiteness be taken as evidence. This the wind tossed wildly around his face, in a fleecy cloud.
Rude, uncouth garments partially covered his body and limbs, patched here and there with pieces of skin and fur. In one hand he bore a heavy bow, tightly strung. At his shoulder could be seen the feathered tips of a number of arrows.
"It's the Mountain Devil!" muttered Chicot, in a low, hushed tone, as he shrunk back, his bronzed cheek paling, his eyes dilating with a look of fear.
"Man or devil, I do not fear him!" said Upshur, as his rifle clicked sharply as the hammer was lifted.
"Don't shoot! Make him mad, an' he'll clean out the whole crowd!" warningly cried Paul; his eyes still riveted upon the strange form. "He's a devil—you can't hurt him."
"I'll try it, anyhow," and the man's rifle spoke sharp and clear.
The wild-man started and seemed to stagger, as though the bullet had found its mark. Then, with a shrill cry, he turned and leaped from the bowlder, the next moment disappearing far up the hillside.
"There's your devil, Paul," chuckled Upshur, as he dropped his rifle and began reloading it. "And I had only a leaden bullet in, too."
"You laugh now—but the time 'll come when you won't. Believe it or not, Nate Upshur, you've signed your death papers. A man never shot at the Mountain Devil but he died for it. You will, too. Mebbe not to-day—mebbe not for a year, but the time 'll come, I tell you—the time 'll come at last. Mark my words."