“Does any one know where he lives?” asked Bertram, who was gradually becoming interested in this strange being.
“No. We have sometimes tried to track him, but at a certain place we have invariably lost all traces of him.”
“But what is his face like, and how does he dress?” inquired March eagerly; “you have not yet said anything about that.”
McLeod was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a loud shouting in the yard of the fort. Leaping from their seats, the whole party ran to the windows.
“I thought so,” cried McLeod, seizing his cap and hurrying out. “These are six of my men who have been out after the buffalo, and I see they have been successful.”
The fort gate had been swung open, and, just as the guests issued from the reception hall, six hunters galloped into the square with all the reckless noise and dash peculiar to that class of men. Leaping from their foaming steeds, they were quickly surrounded by their comrades, and by the women and children of the place, who congratulated them on their success in the chase, and plied them with eager questions.
That they had indeed been successful was evident from the masses of fresh meat with which the horses were laden.
“Well done, Davis,” said McLeod, stepping up to one of the men, who, from his age and intelligence, had been put in command of the hunting party. “You are back sooner than I anticipated. Surely, your good genius sent the buffalo across your path.”
“We have bin in luck, sir,” replied the hunter, touching his cap. “We’ve killed more than we could carry, an’, what’s worse, we’ve killed more than we wanted.”
“How so?”