"Well, that is certainly a queer character to come across," was Uncle Tom's comment. "But how about the boy, Sam? How does he happen to be in such company?"
"Why, about twelve or thirteen years ago, old Bergen was 'doing' the country somewhere northwest of Santa Fé, when he made a very strange discovery. It was a bad piece of country for snowslides, which were frequent and dangerous in the spring, and one day, being anxious to get to a particular point quickly, the professor was crossing the tail of a new slide—a risky thing to do—as being the shortest cut, when his attention was attracted by some strange object lodged half way up the great bank of snow. Climbing up to it, he found to his astonishment that the strange object was a wagon-bed, while, to his infinitely greater astonishment, inside it on a mattress, fast asleep, was a three-year-old boy—young Dick!"
"That was an astonisher, sure enough!" exclaimed I, who had been an eager listener. "And was that all the professor found?"
"That was all. The running-gear of the wagon had vanished; the horses had vanished; and the boy's parents or guardians had vanished—all buried, undoubtedly, under the snow."
"And what did the professor do?"
"The only thing he could do: took the boy with him—and a fortunate thing it was for young Dick that the old gentleman happened to find him. But though he inquired of everybody he came across—they were not many, for white folks were scarce in those parts then—the professor could learn nothing of the party; so, not knowing what else to do, he just carried off the youngster with him, and with him Dick has been ever since."
"That's a queer history, sure enough," remarked Uncle Tom. "And was there nothing at all by which to identify the boy?"
"Just one thing. I forgot to say that in the wagon-bed was a single volume of Shakespeare—one of a set: volume two—on the fly-leaf of which was written the name, 'Richard Livingstone Stanley, from Anna,' and as the boy was old enough to tell his own name—Dick Stanley—the professor concluded that the owner of the book was his father. Moreover, as the boy made no mention of his mother, though he now and then spoke of his 'Daddy' and his 'Uncle David,' the old gentleman formed the theory that the mother was dead and that the father and uncle, bringing the boy with them, had come west to seek their fortunes, and being very likely tenderfeet, unacquainted with the dangerous nature of those great snow-masses in spring time, they had been caught in a slide and killed."
"Poor little chap," said Uncle Tom. "And he has been wandering about with the old gentleman ever since, has he? He must be a sort of Wild Man of the West in miniature."