Being warmed, and having much to say, words came of themselves. Surely
it would do no harm to tell the story to this queer urchin, who might
be able to throw some light on the nature of the invisible protector.
"I started with a man for guide." She fixed a searching gaze on the
boy. "His name was Dick Wilbur."
She could not tell whether it was a tremble of the boy's hand or a
short motion to knock off the cigarette ash.
"Did you say 'was' Dick Wilbur?"
"Yes. Did you know him?"
"Heard of him, I think. Kind of a hard one, wasn't he?"
"No, no! A fine, brave, gentle fellow--poor Dick!" She stopped,
her eyes filling with tears at many a memory.
"Hm!" coughed the boy. "I thought he was one of old Boone's gang? If
he's dead, that made the last of 'em--except Red Pierre."
It was like the sound of a trumpet call at her ear. Mary sat up with a
start.
"What do you know of Red Pierre?"
The boy flushed a little, and could not quite meet her eye.
"Nothin'."
"At least you know that he's still alive?"
"Sure.
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