pocket sat down to remove the skins from the animals he had just captured.
“I’m rich!” he exclaimed, looking about him with a smile of satisfaction. “Counting in my money and what my horse, hunting rig and hunting furs are worth, I have at least $250. I have purchased everything I need, and some fine, frosty morning, when Mrs. Bowles calls for ‘you, Julian,’ to get up and build the fire, he won’t answer. He’ll be miles away, and be making quick tracks for the Rocky Mountains. I only wish I was there now. There’s where I came from when I was brought to Jack Bowles’ house. I just know it was, because I can remember of hearing people talk of going over the mountains to California, and I know, too, that there were gold diggings on my father’s farm, or rancho, I believe he called it. I’m going to try to find my father when I get there, and if I ever see him I shall know him.”
Julian’s thoughts ran on in this channel while he was busy with his knife, and in half an hour the skins had all been stretched, and the young trapper was ready to return to the miserable hovel he called home. He extinguished his candle, crawled out of the cave, and after concealing the door by piling leaves against it, hurried down the bluff and into the woods, happy in the belief that no one was the wiser for what he had done; but no sooner had he disappeared than Jake and Tom Bowles came out of the bushes in which they had been hidden, and clambered up the cliff toward Julian’s store-house.
It was rapidly growing dark, and Julian, anxious to reach the cabin before his absence was discovered, broke into a rapid run, which he never slackened until he reached the road leading from The Corners to the clearing. There he encountered a stranger, who, as he came out of the bushes, accosted him with:
“Hold on a minute, my lad. I believe I am a little out of my reckoning, and perhaps you can set me right.”
Julian stopped and looked at the man. He could not get so much as even a glimpse of his face, for the broad felt hat he wore was pulled down over his forehead, and his heavy muffler was drawn up so high that nothing but his eyes could be seen; but the boy at once put him down as a gentleman, for he was dressed in broadcloth, and wore fine boots and fur gloves. Julian looked at his neat dress, and then at his own tattered garments, and drew his coat about him and folded his arms over it to hide it from the stranger’s gaze.
“Is there a hotel about here?” continued the gentleman, approaching the place where Julian was standing.
“No, sir,” was the reply; “none nearer than The Corners, and that’s ten miles away.”
“Is there no dwelling-house near?”
“There is a shanty about a mile distant belonging to Jack Bowles, but I wouldn’t advise you to go there.”
“Then I am on the right road after all,” said the stranger, with a sigh of relief. “Jack Bowles! He’s just the man I want to see. I have some important business with him. He can accommodate me with a bed and supper, can he not?”
“He can give you some corn bread and venison, but as for a bed, that’s a thing he doesn’t keep in his house. If you happen to have half a dollar in your pocket, however, he will stow you away somewhere. Jack will do almost anything for half a dollar. Why, what’s the matter, sir?”
It was no wonder that Julian asked this question, for the gentleman, who had now advanced quite near to him, took just one glance at his face, and started back as if he had seen some frightful apparition. He pushed his hat back from his forehead, pulled his muffler down from his face, and stared at Julian as if he meant to look him through. The boy was astonished at his behavior, and he would have been still more astonished if he had been able to look far enough into the future to see all that was to grow out of this meeting.
“Boy!” exclaimed the gentleman, in a voice which his agitation rendered almost indistinct, “who are you? What’s your name?”
“Julian Mortimer,” replied our hero.
“Julian! Julian Mortimer!” repeated the man, as if he could scarcely believe his ears. “It cannot be possible. Why, boy, you’re just – ahem! I mean – what a striking resemblance.”
The stranger spoke these last words hurriedly, and then, as if recollecting himself, hastily pulled his hat down over his forehead again, and once more concealed his face with his muffler – all except his eyes, which he kept fastened upon Julian.
“No doubt you think I act very strangely,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “and perhaps I do, but the truth of the matter is, you look so much like a young friend of mine – a relative, in fact – that for a moment I was almost sure you were he. But, of course, you can’t be, for he is dead – been dead eight years. If you are ready we will go on.”
Julian was forced to be contented with this explanation, but he was not quite satisfied with it. It was made in a bungling, hesitating manner, as if the man were thinking about one thing and talking about another. More than that, the excitement he had exhibited on the first meeting with Julian seemed to increase the longer he looked at him; and now and then he rubbed his gloved hands together as if he were meditating upon something that afforded him infinite pleasure. He continued to watch the boy out of the corner of his eye, and finally inquired:
“Is this man Bowles, of whom you spoke, your father?”
“No, sir,” replied Joe, emphatically. “I live with him, but he is no relative of mine. My father, as I remember him, was a different sort of man altogether.”
“Eh!” ejaculated the stranger, with a start. “As you remember him? Ah! he is dead, then?”
“Not that I know of, sir. He was alive and well the last time I saw him. I’ll see him again in a few weeks.”
“Where is he?”
“Out West. He owns a rancho near the mountains with a gold mine on it.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I can’t help myself. I didn’t come here of my own free will, but was brought by one who will have good cause to remember me if I meet him again when I become a man.”
“Do you think you would know him if you should see him again?” asked the stranger, looking sharply at Julian, and putting his hat lower over his eyes.
“I am quite sure I should. He stole me away from my home and brought me here; but why he did it I can’t tell. I don’t intend to stay any longer, if it would do him any good to know it. I’ve got a good horse and rifle, and plenty of money, and I am going to leave here in a few days and go back to the mountains where I belong, and I shall not ask Jack Bowles’ consent, either.”
“Do you think he would oppose it?”
“I know he would. He would beat me half to death, or his wife would, and lock me up in the smoke-house till I promised never to think of such a thing again. I’m going to run away, and by the time he misses me I shall be a long distance out of his reach.”
The man listened attentively to all Julian had to say, and when the latter ceased speaking he placed his hands behind his back, fastened his eyes on the ground, and walked along as if he were in a brown study. He did not look up until they reached the door of the cabin where Jack Bowles, who had just finished his supper, stood smoking his cob pipe.
“Wal, who have ye got thar?” was his surly greeting.
“A gentleman who wishes to find a place to stay all night,” replied Julian.
“Why
