"Bet a cookie that
that gun does belong to my father and if we can find it we will probably
find him too--would not that be bully?"

"I feel the same way too, Don. But finding that missing gun will be as
difficult as finding your father. I have searched the country over for
it and made a wonderful collection of flint-lock guns, as you see by
looking at yonder gun-rack; I have had dozens of arms collectors and
detectives looking for guns of that description, but no Patrick Mullen
rifle has turned up anywhere. There have, of course, been many false
clues and many queer rifles offered to me and I have put a great many
thousands of dollars into the search, and my collection of flint-locks
is the best in the land, Don. But so far nothing but failures seem to
have rewarded my search--no, I'm wrong, there is one man out west--out
in the little jerk-water town of Grave Stone, who insists that there is
a wild man living in a lonely, almost inaccessible valley in the
mountains, who shoots a gun which looks like the one for which I am
searching. For a number of years this man of mystery, it seems, has been
appearing and reappearing, according to Big Pete Darlinkel, my
informant, but even Pete has never got in personal touch with this
eccentric hermit. Neither have several detectives I have sent out there
for that purpose. The detectives seem to be all right in towns or cities
and are undoubtedly brave men, but something out there appears to
frighten them and they lose interest the moment they cut the trail of
the wild hunter. I begin to think this wild man is a myth, too.
Strange, though, that just a week ago I received another letter from
Pete Darlinkel. Wait, I'll find it."

He returned from the library presently with a letter which he opened and
passed over to me. It read:

DEAR MR. CRAWFORD:--

Maybe you hain't interested no more but thet tha' ole Dopped
ganger, the Wild Hunter, the spooky old critter, has been seen
agin. i wuz on the top of the painted Butte yesterday squinten
one i in the valley look'n for elk and look'n up with tother i
for Big horn on the mountain, when i staged the old duffer
snoop'en along in one of the parks an' he had the same long hair
and long rifle he uster have. He sure is a ghost or else he's a
nut or an old timer gone locoed. He sends the chills down my
backbone every time i sots my eyes on him.

Your obedients sarvent,
BIG PETE.

There was