THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER.
By E. K. NOSTWELL.
My shanty was situated in the Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming. With the exception of two companions and some friendly trappers, who lived about five miles distant, I had not seen a white man for nearly a year.
One day I was out hunting with Anderson Picket. We had just sighted an antelope, and were occupied in stalking the animal, when we suddenly heard the neighing of a horse near us. Surprised at such an unusual sound in a neighborhood where very few human beings were to be encountered, we looked up and saw, hardly three hundred paces from us, a rider whose head was uncovered and his long hair floating in the wind that blew across the hills. He was a white-faced, haggard man, mounted on a thin horse.
For a few seconds he remained motionless, and then disappeared as suddenly as he had come.
“A highwayman,” whispered Picket.
“What should a marauder be doing here?” I replied doubtfully, “for a distance of three or four hundred miles no one, with the exception of you, myself, and the trappers upon the creek, can be found. Not a single soul to hold up. Let us see who the fellow is.”
Quickly mounting our horses and dropping our game for the time being, we galloped up the hill, following the stranger, who was slowly riding toward the north.
“That animal hasn’t had much fodder or rest lately,” laughed my companion. “I’ll wager he hasn’t ten pounds of flesh on his bones.”
“I’d like to know who the man is, and what he is doing alone in these solitary hills,” said I inquisitively. “Come, get a gait on the horse; let’s get our game, and follow the fellow.”
After acting upon the suggestion, we returned to our pursuit, and were hardly a hundred paces behind, when I shouted: