Mullen? Did I? He was my partner, my bunkee for many
years and on many prospecting trips, a better bunkee no man ever had,
but he is dead now, dead! dead! dead! been dead for a dozen years. He
was killed by an avalanche. A better partner no man ever had," he
murmured and relaxed into silence.

My efforts to get more information of my parents were of no avail. The
Wild Hunter turned the conversation in other directions.

Of course, the knowledge that my real father was dead, had been dead a
long time, caused me a feeling of sadness, yet strangely enough the
little knowledge that I had gleaned from this strange old man brought a
sense of relief to me. I think that it must have been a certain sense
of satisfaction to know that this queer man was not my father.

But if he was not Donald Mullen, who was he? That question kept me
pondering and for the rest of the meal I was silent, speculating on this
strange situation, nor did I have an opportunity to note, as Big Pete
did, the tearful, kindly glances that the Wild Hunter shot at me now and
then.

Still, for all, he was sociable, extremely sociable, and talkative, too,
but I fancy now as I recall it, he was simply keeping the conversation
in safe channels, for it was very apparent that the rifle and his former
mining partner were painful subjects.

Dinner over, we all went out onto the porch of the ranch house, where we
talked while the twilight lasted. At least Big Pete and the Wild Hunter
talked as they smoked two of those mysterious long cigars, but I was
still silent because of the many strange thoughts that were romping
through my mind.

Soon darkness settled down and Big Pete began to yawn. I also was
heavy-eyed, and presently the Wild Hunter clapped his hands and summoned
a leather-skinned old Indian to whom he gave brief low command in the
Mewan Indian tongue, as I was afterwards informed by Big Pete, then
turning to us he said in his fascinating soft voice:

"It will probably be a novelty for both of you gentlemen to again sleep
in a bed between sheets and under a roof. I doubt whether you will enjoy
it even though the sheets are clean linen which were spun and woven by
my noble Indians. Moose Ear, here, will conduct you to your rooms and I
will take a turn about the place before retiring to see that all is
well, and also to see that my black wolf pack is securely confined
within the wolf corral. This is a precaution, gentlemen, which I take
every night, be