This visitor resembled one of the Beemans, judging from the way he sat his horse, and presently Dale recognized him to be John.
At this juncture the jaded horse was spurred into a trot, soon reaching the pines and the camp.
“Howdy, there, you ole b'ar-hunter!” called John, waving his hand.
For all his hearty greeting his appearance checked a like response from Dale. The horse was mud to his flanks and John was mud to his knees, wet, bedraggled, worn, and white. This hue of his face meant more than fatigue.
“Howdy, John?” replied Dale.
They shook hands. John wearily swung his leg over the pommel, but did not at once dismount. His clear gray eyes were wonderingly riveted upon the hunter.
“Milt—what 'n hell's wrong?” he queried.
“Why?”
“Bust me if you ain't changed so I hardly knowed you. You've been sick—all alone here!”
“Do I look sick?”