LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER XXVII.

       THE HERMIT.

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      At last little Fay was placed within the tent on the softest bed that could be prepared for her.

      "In ther mornin'," said Old Rocks, "I'll hunt up her mamma."

      The fire glowed pleasantly, being replenished now and then by Barney.

      Professor Scotch occupied the hammock, Frank stretched himself at full length on the ground, and the guide sat with his back against a tree, still pulling away at the black pipe, his constant companion. He had smoked so much that his flesh seemed cured, like that of a ham.

      At heart Old Rocks was tender as a child, but he had a way of spluttering and growling that made him seem grouty and cross-grained. He seemed to take real satisfaction in picking a quarrel with any one.

      Professor Scotch was alarmed by the story Frank had told of the encounter with the Blackfeet, and he was for leaving that vicinity as soon as possible.

      "Not till I get a photograph of real wild buffalo," said the boy, stiffly.

      Old Rocks grunted derisively.

      "I reckon you came as nigh it ter-day as ye will at all," he said. "You've clicked yer old machine at everything from one end o' ther park to t'other, an' I ain't seen nary picter yit."

      "They have not been developed."

      "Woosh! Whatever is thet?"

      Frank explained, and the guide listened, with an expression of derision on his face.

      "I'll allow you don't know northin' abaout takin' picters," drawled the man. "I hed my picter took up at Billings last winter, an' ther man as took it didn't hev ter go through no such fussin' as thet."

      "How do you know?"

      "Wa-al, I know."

      "But how do you know?"

      "I jest know, thet's how!"

      Frank laughed.

      "You are like some other people who know everything about anything they don't know anything about."

      That was quite enough to start the old fellow, and he seemed ready to fight at the drop of the hat; but, at this moment, something happened to divert his attention.

      Out of the darkness stalked a man, who calmly and deliberately advanced toward the party.

      "Halt thar!" cried Old Rocks, catching up a rifle and covering the stranger.

      The man did not pay the least attention to the command, but continued to advance.

      "Halt, or I'll shoot!" shouted the guide.

      Still the unknown refused to obey, and, to the bewilderment of Old Rocks, he walked straight up to the muzzle of the weapon, where he stopped, saying:

      "I knew you wouldn't shoot. If you had, you could not have killed me. Nothing can kill me, because I have sought death everywhere, and I have not been able to find it. It is he who flees from death who finds it first."

      Then he sat down.

      "Wa-al, dern me!" gasped Old Rocks. "I dunno why I didn't soak yer; but thar wuz somethin' held me back."

      "It was the hand of fate."

      The man was dressed roughly, but he carried a handsome rifle. His wide-brimmed hat was slouched over his eyes, so the expression of his face could not have been seen very well, even if it had not been covered by a full brown beard. His hair was long and unkempt.

      Having seated himself on the ground, he sat and stared into the fire for some moments before speaking again. Finally he turned a bit, saying:

      "Who was singing here a short time ago?"

      Frank explained that he had been singing, and the stranger said:

      "I don't know why I should wish to take a look at you, for you caused me more misery than I have known for a year."

      "Thot's a compliment fer ye're singing, Frankie!" chuckled Barney.

      "I tried not to listen," said the stranger; "but I could not tear myself away. What right has a man without a home to listen to songs that fill his soul with memories of home and little ones!"

      He bowed his face on his hands, and his body shook a bit, betraying that he was struggling to suppress his emotions.

      After a moment, Old Rocks said:

      "I reckons I knows yer now. You're the hermit."

      The man did not stir or speak.

      "Ain't yer the hermit?" asked the guide.

      "Yes," was the bitter reply, "I am a man without a home or a name. Some have said that there is trouble with my brain, but they are wrong. I am not deranged. This is the first time in a year that I have sought the society of human beings, unless it was to trade for such things as I need to sustain life. It was those songs that brought me here. They seemed to act like a magnet, and I could not keep away."

      Then he turned to Frank, and asked him to sing one of the lullabys over again.

      For all of his peculiar manner, the man seemed sane enough, and the boy decided to humor him.

      Frank sang, and the man sat and listened, his face still bowed on his hands. When the song was ended, and the last echo had died out along a distant line of bluffs, the man still sat thus.

      Those who saw him were impressed. Beyond a doubt, this man had suffered some great affliction that had caused him to shun his fellows and become one "without a home or a name."

      All at once, with a deep sigh, he rose. He was finely built, and, properly dressed and shaved, he must have been handsome.

      "Thank you," he said, addressing Frank. "I will not trouble you longer. I am going now."

      "Look yar," broke in Old Rocks, in his harsh way; "I wants ter warn you ag'in comin' round yere ther way you done a short time ago. It ain't healthy none whatever."

      "What do you mean?"

      "Jest this: I might take a fancy ter shoot fust an' talk it over arterward. I don't want ter shoot yer."

      A strange, sad smile came to the man's face.

      "You need not fear," he said. "If you were to shoot at me, you would not hit me."

      The

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