“My name is Wayland,” I made haste to explain, “and I left the Fort but now, hoping by this round-about route to reach the Kinzie place and return under cover of darkness.  I slipped on the edge of the bank up yonder, and the next thing I knew we were at it.  I can assure you, friend, I supposed myself in the arms of a savage.  You say your name is Burns?”

“Ol’ Tom Burns.”

“What?  It is not possible you are the same who brought a message to Major Wayland on the Maumee?”

“I reckon I am,” he said, deliberately.  “An’ be you the boy I met?”

“Yes,” I said, still doubtful.  “But how came you here?”

“Wal, here’s whar I belong.  I’ve bin a sorter huntin’ an’ trappin’ yer’bouts fer goin’ on nine year or so, an’ I built a shanty to live in up yonder by the forks.  I hed n’t much more nor got home frum down east, when the Injuns burnt thet down; an’ sence then I ain’t bin much o’ nowhar, but I reckon’d I ’d go inter ther Fort to-morrow and git some grub.”

He spoke with a slow, deliberate drawl, as if not much accustomed to converse; and I pictured him to myself as one of those silent plainsmen, so habituated to solitude as almost to shun companionship, though he had already let drop a word or two that made me deem him one not devoid of humor.  Suddenly I thought of De Croix.

“Has any one passed here lately?” I asked, rising to my feet, the old emulation throbbing in my veins.  “A white man, I mean, going north.”

“Wal,” he answered slowly, and as he also stood up I could make out, what I had not noted in our previous meeting, that he was as tall as I, but spare of build; “I ain’t seen nuthin’, but some sort o’ critter went ploughin’ down inter the gulch up yonder, maybe ten minutes ’fore ye lit down yere on me.  Dern if I know whether it were a human er a bar!”

“Will you show me the nearest way to the Kinzie house?”

“I reckon I ’ll show ye all right, but ye bet ye don’t git me nigher ner a hundred foot o’ the door,” he returned seriously.  “John Kinzie ‘s a mighty good man, stranger, but he an’ Ol’ Tom Burns ain’t never hitched worth a cent.”

We climbed silently, and came out together upon the top.  A slight beam of light crept along through the open door of the log house just in front of us, and for the first time I caught a fair view of my companion.  He was a tall, gaunt, wiry fellow, typical in dress and manner of his class,—­the backwoodsmen of the Southwest,—­but with a peculiarly solemn face, seamed with wrinkles, and much of it concealed beneath a bushy, iron-gray beard.  We eyed each other curiously.

“Dern if ever I expected ter meet up with ye agin in no sich way as this,” he said shortly.  “But thet ‘s the house.  Be ye goin’ ter stay thar long?”

“No,” I answered, feeling anxious to have his guidance back to the Fort, “not over five minutes.  Will you wait?”

“Reckon I may as well,” and he seated himself on a stump.