something about that crude letter that stirred me deeply.

Could this strange freak that Big Pete saw from the top of the painted
Butte possess that Patrick Mullen rifle? If so did he know anything
about the whereabouts of my father? It is not uncommon for people
suffering from a mental breakdown to flee to the country or wilderness
and there live the life of a recluse, and from my father's last letter
it was evident that he had had a nervous breakdown from anxiety and
brooding over the loss of my mother, to whom he evidently was devotedly
attached. It might, therefore, be possible that this strange, wild man
himself was my father, an unpleasant possibility. At any rate, I felt
that I could not rest, at least until I discovered to a certainty the
name of the maker of the long rifle said to be carried by the wild
hunter and I told dad just how I felt about it.

"I knew you would feel that way, son," said he. "I have often wanted to
go west for the very same purpose and I knew that when I told you
everything you would want to go too. I intended to lay all the facts
before you when you were twenty-one but now that Blink Broosmore has
taken it upon himself to inform you and his truck-driving friends of the
mystery surrounding your real parentage, I guess it is best you know all
there is to be known about the situation. The rest I'll leave to you. In
fact, it would please me a great deal if you would run down this last
vague clue to see if your father really is still alive. Go, Donald, and
God bless you, and take that bag of gold with you, unopened, for it may
now stand your father in good stead, and if you do find him, bring him
here and I promise you he will never want for a thing, nor will you, my
son, for you are still my boy whatever your real parentage may be."

CHAPTER II

The stage pulled up in front of a typical western saloon, post office
and general store. There was the usual crowd of prospectors, gamblers,
cow punchers and trappers assembled to meet the incoming stage. When I
scrambled off the top of the old-fashioned coach, and before I had time
to shake the alkali dust from my clothes, or moisten my dry and cracked
lips, a typical western bully approached me roaring the verses of a song
with which he evidently intended to terrify me,

"He blowed into Lanigan swinging a gun
A new one,
A blue one,
A colt's forty-one,
An' swearing
Declaring
Red Rivers 'ud run
Down