“Ghost or not, we must be prepared to meet him,” said Will, loosening a large hunting-knife in its sheath and examining the priming of his rifle.
The strange horseman had evidently observed the party, for he presently descended the rising ground and rode slowly towards them. In doing so he passed out of the strong light, and consequently assumed more ordinary proportions, but still when he drew near, it was evident that he was a man of immense size. He rode a black steed of the largest and most powerful description; was clad in the leathern hunting-shirt, belt, leggings, moccasins, etcetera, peculiar to the western hunter, and carried a short rifle in the hollow of his right arm.
“Good-evening, strangers,” he said, in a tone that savoured of the Yankee, but with an easy manner and good-humoured gravity that seemed to indicate English extraction. “Goin’ far?”
“To California,” said Will, smiling at the abrupt commencement of the conversation.
“H’m, a longish bit. Come far?”
“From England.”
“H’m, a longish bit, too. Lost and starvin’, I see.”
“Not exactly, but pretty nearly so,” said Will. “I had entertained the belief, presumptuous if you will, that I could find my way in any part of the wilderness by means of a sextant and pocket compass, and, to say truth, I don’t feel quite sure that I should have failed, but before I had a sufficient opportunity of testing my powers, one of our baggage horses rolled down the bank of a creek and broke my sextant. In trying to save him I rolled down along with him and smashed my compass, so I have resigned the position of guide in favour of my friend here, who, being a native, seems to possess a mysterious power in the matter of finding his way.”
“From the other side of the mountains?” asked the strange horseman, glancing at Bunco.
“Yoo’s right,” said Bunco, with a grin.