The Black Wolf Pack | Page 6

probably
find him too--would not that be bully?"
"I feel the same way too, Don. But finding that missing gun will be as
difficult as finding your father. I have searched the country over for it
and made a wonderful collection of flint-lock guns, as you see by

looking at yonder gun-rack; I have had dozens of arms collectors and
detectives looking for guns of that description, but no Patrick Mullen
rifle has turned up anywhere. There have, of course, been many false
clues and many queer rifles offered to me and I have put a great many
thousands of dollars into the search, and my collection of flint-locks is
the best in the land, Don. But so far nothing but failures seem to have
rewarded my search--no, I'm wrong, there is one man out west--out in
the little jerk-water town of Grave Stone, who insists that there is a
wild man living in a lonely, almost inaccessible valley in the mountains,
who shoots a gun which looks like the one for which I am searching.
For a number of years this man of mystery, it seems, has been
appearing and reappearing, according to Big Pete Darlinkel, my
informant, but even Pete has never got in personal touch with this
eccentric hermit. Neither have several detectives I have sent out there
for that purpose. The detectives seem to be all right in towns or cities
and are undoubtedly brave men, but something out there appears to
frighten them and they lose interest the moment they cut the trail of the
wild hunter. I begin to think this wild man is a myth, too. Strange,
though, that just a week ago I received another letter from Pete
Darlinkel. Wait, I'll find it."
He returned from the library presently with a letter which he opened
and passed over to me. It read:
DEAR MR. CRAWFORD:--
Maybe you hain't interested no more but thet tha' ole Dopped ganger,
the Wild Hunter, the spooky old critter, has been seen agin. i wuz on
the top of the painted Butte yesterday squinten one i in the valley look'n
for elk and look'n up with tother i for Big horn on the mountain, when i
staged the old duffer snoop'en along in one of the parks an' he had the
same long hair and long rifle he uster have. He sure is a ghost or else
he's a nut or an old timer gone locoed. He sends the chills down my
backbone every time i sots my eyes on him.
Your obedients sarvent, BIG PETE.
There was 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