h, Budd let go all holds and slid head first
to the ground. He bumped his forehead and skinned his nose on a rock.
His legs and back were scratched and torn by the brush, his clothes
were in tatters, and he was almost seasick from the lurching motion of
his steed.

Mills came up roaring with laughter. He thought it was the funniest
thing he ever had seen in his life. But Budd was not a man of much
humor and he failed to appreciate the ridiculous features of the
adventure. He got up slowly, ruefully brushed away the blood and dirt
from his face, and solemnly and methodically gave Joe Mills the most
serious and matter-of-fact licking that a man ever got in this world.

CHAPTER XIV.

A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

In the flickering of the camp-fire the glooming wall of firs advanced
and receded like the sea upon the shore, whispering, too, like the sea,
of mysteries within its depths; for this is true: the wind in the
forest and the wave upon the beach make the same music and tell the
same strange tales. Through a rift in the darkening wall the last
afterglow on the snow-cap of Mount Hood made a rosy point against the
western sky, a "goodnight" flashed from the setting sun to the man by
the camp-fire.

Out from the enfolding night that fell as a mantle when the light died
on Mount Hood, came a shape, followed by a shadow that seemed to be
with but not of the shape. Like a menacing enemy the shadow dogged the
steps of the man who came out of the night, now towering over him in
monstrous height against a tree trunk, now suddenly falling backward
and darting swiftly down a forest aisle in panic fear, only to spring
forth with gigantic leaps and grotesque waxings and wanings and inane
caperings at his heels as the firelight rose and fell.

A cheery "Howdy, stranger!" drew the attention of the man by the
fire--known to his Indian guide by the generic name of "Boston," which
is Chinook for white man--and he returned the greeting to the tall,
gray-bearded man who strode toward him, glad to have company in the
absence of the Indian, Doctor Tom, who had gone down to the Columbia
for supplies. A haunch of venison confirmed the stranger's brief
explanation that he was hunting and made his arrival doubly welcome.

When the pipes were lighted, Boston drew the old fellow out, found that
he hunted for a living and soon had a hunt for the next day all
arranged. They were telling camp-fire yarns, and the stranger was
speaking