One bright morning, while he was at his camp-fire, the tame cougar gave a low, growling warning. Dale was startled. Tom did not act like that because of a prowling grizzly or a straying stag. Presently Dale espied a horseman riding slowly out of the straggling spruces. And with that sight Dale's heart gave a leap, recalling to him a divination of his future relation to his kind. Never had he been so glad to see a man!
This visitor resembled one of the Beemans, judging from the way he sat his horse, and presently Dale recognized him to be John.
At this juncture the jaded horse was spurred into a trot, soon reaching the pines and the camp.
"Howdy, there, you ole b'ar-hunter!" called John, waving his hand.
For all his hearty greeting his appearance checked a like response from Dale. The horse was mud to his flanks and John was mud to his knees, wet, bedraggled, worn, and white. This hue of his face meant more than fatigue.
"Howdy, John?" replied Dale.
They shook hands. John wearily swung his leg over the pommel, but did not at once dismount. His clear gray eyes were wonderingly riveted upon the hunter.
"Milt--what 'n hell's wrong?" he queried.
"Why?"
"Bust me if you ain't changed so I hardly knowed you. You've been sick--all alone here!"
"Do I look sick?"
"Wal, I should smile. Thin an' pale an' down in the mouth! Milt, what ails you?"
"I've gone to seed."
"You've gone off your head, jest as Roy said, livin' alone here. You overdid it, Milt. An' you look sick."
"John, my sickness is here," replied Dale, soberly, as he laid a hand on his heart.
"Lung trouble!" ejaculated John. "With thet chest, an' up in this air?... Get out!"
"No--not lung trouble," said Dale.
"I savvy. Had a hunch from Roy, anyhow."
"What kind of a hunch?"
"Easy now, Dale, ole man.... Don't you reckon I'm ridin' in on you pretty early? Look at thet hoss!" John slid off and waved a hand at the drooping beast, then began to unsaddle him. "Wal, he done great. We bogged some comin' over. An' I climbed the pass at night on the frozen snow."
"You're welcome as the flowers in May. John, what month is it?"
"By spades! are you as bad as thet?... Let's see. It's the twenty-third of March."
"March! Well, I'm beat. I've lost my reckonin'--an' a lot more, maybe."