“Two or three miles back; he was shot from his pony by an Indian arrow.”
“Where’s his pony?”
“He made off when I sprang from the saddle and hid here.”
“Umph! never run from a bear like that.”
“I never met a grizzly before.”
“And you didn’t meet one this time: only an ordinary black hear. Why didn’t you use your rifle?” asked the rider, with a glance at the weapon on the ground.
“My bullets don’t fit.”
The horseman scrutinized the gun.
“Why it’s Dick’s; you didn’t think to take his bullets; I can let you have a few; you may need ’em before you reach the station.”
He deftly extracted a half dozen which he passed to the grateful Alden.
“Don’t lose any time in reloading, which reminds me.”
And he proceeded to recharge his own weapon.
During this brief chat, it struck Alden that the man resembled in looks and voice the rider who lay on the ground several miles away. The alert manner and crisp way of speaking were the same.
