The darkness which blurred detail melted as Fraser approached, and the moonlight showed him a tall, lank, unshaven old mountaineer, standing behind a horse, his shotgun thrown across the saddle.
“That's near enough, Mr. Fraser from Texas,” said the old man, in a slow voice that carried the Southern intonation. “This old gun is loaded with buckshot, and she scatters like hell. Speak yore little piece. How came yo' here, right now?”
“I got lost in the Wind River bad lands this mo'ning, and I been playing hide and go seek with myself ever since.”
“Where yo' haided for?”
“Gimlet Butte.”
“Huh! That's right funny, too.”
“Why?”
“Because all yo' got to do to reach the butte is to follow this road and yore nose for about three miles.”
A bullet flung up a spurt of sand beside the horse.
The young fellow behind the dead horse broke in, with impatient alarm: “He's all right, dad. Can't you tell by his way of talking that he's from the South? Make him lie down.”