“Hello, Dismukes!” called Adam. “Come on. Plenty room to camp here.”
The prospector halted stolidly and slowly turned back. “You know me?” he asked, gruffly, as he came up.
“Yes, I know you, Dismukes,” replied Adam, offering his hand.
“You’ve got the best of me,” said Dismukes, shaking hands. He did not seem a day older, but perhaps there might have been a little more gray in the scant beard. His great ox eyes, rolling and dark, bent a strange, curious glance over Adam’s lofty figure.
“Look close. See if you can recognize a man you befriended once,” returned Adam. The moment was fraught with keen pain and a melancholy assurance of the changes time had made. Strong emotion of gladness, too, was stirring deep in him. This was the man who had saved him and who had put into his mind the inspiration and passion to conquer the desert.
Dismukes was perplexed, and a little ashamed. His piercing gaze was that of one who had befriended many men and could not remember.
“Stranger, I give it up. I don’t know you.”
“Wansfell,” said Adam, his voice full.
Dismukes stared. His expression changed, but it was not with recognition.
“Wansfell! Wansfell!” he ejaculated. “I know that name.... Hell, yes! I’ve heard of you all over the Mohave!... I’m sure glad to meet you.... But, I never met you before.”