alk through
the woods had given the Rifleman an appetite something akin to that of
his new-found companion, so that he did not forget the expressed wish
of the latter. He had no difficulty in bringing down another turkey and
cooking it. There was one peculiarity which did not escape either
Dernor or Edith. On the part of the latter it occasioned no concern,
but it was the subject of considerable wonder and speculation with the
former. Zeke Hunt, as he called himself, professed to be ravenously
hungry; but when the tempting, juicy meat of the turkey was placed
before him, he swallowed but a few mouthfuls. This was a small matter,
it was true, and with any one except the Rifleman, would have escaped
notice but this sagacious hunter considered it of so much importance as
to ask an explanation.

"You appeared to be dying with hunger, and now, when food is offered,
you hardly touch it. What is the meaning of that?"

"I don't know," said Zeke, wiping his fingers on the hair of his head.

"Yes, you do know. Tell me the meaning of it."

"S'pose I ain't hungry."

"Isn't the bird cooked well enough?"

"Wouldn't hurt if 'twas cooked better."

The Rifleman at first was disposed to resent this insult, but, on
second thought, he set the man down as a fool, and one unworthy of
notice. There is no disguising the fact that his action had given the
hunter an unpleasant suspicion, which, however, was dissipated by the
perfect coolness with which he met his inquiry.

"I guess yer ain't used to cookin', be you?" he asked, perfectly
unabashed by the frigid manner of the hunter.

"I've done considerable, sir, in the last few years."

"Don't say so. Shouldn't have thought it, from the way that thing
looks."

"What is the matter with this cooking, I should like to know; eh?"

"Oh, nothin', as I knows on. The gal appears to like it well enough."

"Indeed I do," said Edith, unable to restrain a laugh at the manner of
their new companion, who, seeing it, rolled his head back and gave an
answering "horse-laugh" that could have been heard a half-mile distant.

"Don't let me hear that agin," said the Rifleman, rising to his feet.

"Why don't you want to hear it?" asked Zeke, in blank astonishment.

"It's no wonder the flat-boat left you, if you were in the habit of
making such noises as that. It's enough to wake every sleeping Injin in
these woods."

"It'll scare 'em, I guess, won't it?"

"I should think it would, so don't try i