“If ye’ve got the body all c’rect, it’s easy to calculate the legs by the rules o’ proportion, d’ye see?” observed Bounce.
“Come, lads, that’s good news about March, anyhow,” cried Redhand; “an’ I’m of opinion that the Wild Man o’ the West an’t just so wild as people think. I, for one, will trust him. There’s somethin’ about the corner of a man’s eye that tells pretty plain whether he’s false or true. Depend on’t we shall find March where he told us, so the sooner we set off the better.”
Without waiting for a reply, Redhand urged his horse into a gallop, and, followed by his comrades, made for the valley indicated by the Wild Man.
Meanwhile, the Wild Man himself was already far ahead of them, keeping out of sight among the woods, and galloping nearly in the same direction—for his cave lay not more than four miles from the valley in question. Being much better mounted than they, he soon left the trappers far behind him, and when night closed in he continued his journey, instead of halting to eat and take a few hours’ rest as they did. The consequence was that he reached his cave several hours before the trappers arrived at the valley, where they expected to find their missing comrade.
Of course March was filled with surprise at this second unexpected return of Dick; but the latter relieved his mind by explaining, in an offhand way, that he had met a man who had told him the Mountain Fort was all safe, and that his comrades also were safe, and wandering about in that part of the country in search of him. After a good deal of desultory conversation, Dick turned to his guest with a sad, serious air, and, fixing his large blue eyes on him, said—
“March, lad, you an’ me must part soon.”
“Part!” exclaimed the youth in surprise, glancing at Mary, who sat opposite to him, embroidering a pair of moccasins.
“Ay, we must part. You’ll be well enough in a day or two to travel about with yer comrades. Now, lad, I want ye to understand me. I’ve lived here, off and on, for the last fourteen or fifteen years—it may be more, it may be less; I don’t well remember—an’ I’ve niver suffered men to interfere wi’ me. I don’t want them, an’ they don’t want me.”
He paused. There was a slight dash of bitterness in the tone in which the last words were uttered; but it was gone when he resumed, in his usual low and musical voice—
“Now, although I chose to bring you to my cave, because I found ye a’most in a dyin’ state, an’ have let ye into one or two o’ my secrets—because I couldn’t help it, seein’ that I couldn’t stop up yer eyes—an’ yer ears—yet I don’t choose to let yer comrades know anything about me. They’ve no right to, an’ you have no right to tell ’em; so, when ye meet ’em again ye mustn’t talk about me or my cave, d’ye see?”