To say that the whole spectacle that I had just witnessed startled me would be stating it mildly indeed. The strange appearance of this big, powerful, smooth shaven man in a buckskin hunting costume with a retinue of black wolves and a trained eagle, the mysterious manner of his hunting and his coming and going, aroused in me great interest and curiosity and I could realize the effect it evidently had upon Big Pete’s superstitious mind in spite of the fact that the big fellow was accustomed to facing almost any sort of danger. As for me, I could not myself prevent the creeping chills from running down my spine whenever I thought of the wild man.

Could it be possible that this strange, half-wild man of the mountains, this killer, this master of a wolf pack, could be in any way connected with my father? I wondered, and as I wondered I found that a vague fear of this mad man who despite his reputed age seemed as youthful and as agile as a man in his thirties, was gripping me. Perhaps the strangeness of the wilderness park added to my awe, for certainly one could expect almost anything supernatural to happen in the twilight of the forest of giant trees, whose interlacing branches overhead shut out the light of heaven.

Recovering somewhat from my astonishment and surprise, I realized that what I had witnessed, strange though it appeared, was not a supernatural occurrence. I knew that it was a real gun I had heard, real smoke I had seen, real man, real bird, real elk, and real wolves.

“But, Pete,” I exclaimed, as a sudden thought struck me, “what’s become of our dogs?”

“Better ask them black fiends up the mountains. I reckon you won’t see them tha’ hounds of yours agin.”And I never did, but having hunted the wolf with cowboys and having been a witness to their extraordinary biting power, I knew the fate that must necessarily befall a couple of ordinary hounds when overtaken by half a dozen full-grown wolves. On such occasions we do not spend much time in grief over a loss of any kind, “it taint according to mountain law,” Pete would say.

“Reckon we had better swipe some of that elk before the coyotes get at it,” growled Pete. “The wild mountainman knows the good parts, but an elk is an elk, and one wild man, even if he is a giant, can’t carry off all the good meat, not by a long shot.”

“He may come back,” I suggested.

“Not he,” said Pete. “He’s too stuck up for that. When he wants more, them tha’ black demons and that voodoo bird of his’n will get ’em for him, and he’s a hanging his long legs off’ner a rock some whar smoking a long cigar.”

“Dod rot him,” growled Pete. “Why couldn’t he leave a piece of hide to carry the meat in and the stomach to cook it in? That’s the fust time I ever stayed long ’nough to see him collar his meat, though they say he do eat the game raw, but I reckon that’s a lie, leastwise he didn’t do’t this time.”

With a good square meal of the locoed hunter’s elk under our belts and a rousing camp fire before which to toast our shins, both the big westerner and I felt a little more natural and comfortable, but our conversation turned again to this wild hunter of the mountains.

I could see that the mysterious old man with his wolf pack and eagle aroused almost every possible form of superstition in Big Pete and I confess that I was not free from some of it myself. The guide was certain that the man was either a ghost or a reincarnated devil, and he displayed no uncertain signs of awe.

“I tell you,” said Pete, “he’s a devil. He’s over a hundred years old, for my dad says he seed him, an’ an Injun before dad’s time told him about him. They are all skeered t’ death o’ him. An’ I don’t blame ’em. He’s a shore enough hant and them tha’ houn’s o’ his’n is devils in wolf skins. Jumping Gehoosaphats, ef they shed ever cut my trail I reckon I’d just lay right down an’ die,” and Big Pete actually shuddered at the possibility.

“Why, young feller,” he went on, “that ol’ man shoots gold bullets out o’ a real Patrick Mullen gun.”

“A Mullen gun, Pete?” I cried, “how do you know, man; speak for goodness sake!”

“I don’t know it’s a Patrick Mullen and guess it tain’t one ’cause a Patrick Mullen rifle would cost a thousand or more. But the old Injun, Beaver Tail, says, someone told his father and his father told him that et is a Patrick Mullen gun an’ is a special make inlaid with gold and silver, an’ all ornamented up, an’ built for an ol’ muzzle-loadin’ flint-lock. Now Mullen never made no flint-lock rifles that I hear’n tell of, his specialty be shotguns an’ if he made this rifle I’m ganderplucked if I cud tell how this spook got it.”

“Unless the wild Hunter might be a relative of old Patrick Mullen,” I said, thinking aloud, and gasping at the thought, for the description of the rifle somehow impressed me again with the possibility that this wild man of the mountains might himself be Donald Mullen, and my own father!

“Why do you say that, kid?” asked Big Pete with a queer look in his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know, I was just wondering to myself. But what makes you think he’s a supernatural being, and, Pete, does this wild loony hunter look at all like me?”

“Super what? Say when did you swallow a dictionary?—Oh, you mean what makes me think he’s a devil. No, he don’t favor you none,” he added with a grin, “he’s a handsome devil, although he’s done terrified every white man, an’ Injun, in these parts half t’ death, so most of ’ems afeared to come back here at all. Men have gone in the park jest to get this wild man’s scalp, but they’ve done come back scared yaller an’ they ain’t opened their trap much about him since nuther. They do say he spits fire an’ chaws his meat offen the bone an’ then cracks the bones like a dog an’ swallers it all. They do say, too, that he roars like forty devils with their tails cut off when he gits mad an’ some say as when he wants t’ git som wha’ in a hurry he jest grabs aholt o’ the feet o’ tha’ there thunder bird and she flies off with him and draps him anywha’ he asks her to—Nope, I hain’t seen none of these things myself but others say they has, an’ believe me, I’m plumb cautious when travelin’ these parts alone. Howsomever, he hain’t yet skeered me ’nough to make my ha’r come out by the roots,” said Pete with a yawn. “There, kick that back log over so’s the fire can lick at t’other side; now let’s turn in.”