He had hardly a chance to slip into his reflections again, however, when he felt the eyes once more, and this time, looking sharply ahead of him, he saw the green gleaming of eyes among the shadows.
He snatched out a revolver, ready to fire. But the eyes had disappeared.
For a time a peculiar and unearthly fear troubled him, so that he could not move. Then he got up, lighted a match, and went to examine the place from which the eyes had been watching him.
There he found the footprints of a wolf, but prints of such a size that he could hardly convince himself that they were not made by a bear or a mountain lion.
No, they were the sign of a wolf, beyond any doubt! He measured the spread of the forepaws on his own hand, and went back to his dim little fire, shaking his head.
Then a thought stiffened him with a stroke of joy.
Huge prints of a wolf’s foot? Why, it was the very thing that he had come to Iron Mountain to search for. Frosty’s paws left on the ground gigantic sign, because Frosty was a gigantic monster of his kind. It must be that strange companion of Jim Silver that had come to look in on the interloper. In that case, if he could follow the back trail of the wolf, might he not reach Jim Silver even sooner than he had dared to hope?
He went on into the brush, lighting matches, finding the sign of the wolf, losing it again. At last he felt that he had discovered the general line of the retreat of the big animal, and along that course he headed up the mountainside for a considerable distance, the big trees shifting slowly around him, the moon throwing patches of dazzling silver onto the ground here and there.
Then he came to a runlet of water, an incredible stream of brightness under the moon that seemed to drink up all of the rays and cast them confusedly out again. He paused to drink. His shadow stained the brilliant water with darkness. He picked up a handful of the water and drank. It was so cold that his fingers tingled; his palate ached a little from the iciness.
He stepped onto a small stone in the center of the stream. As he did so, a voice from behind him said:
“Hunting for something, stranger?” The sudden unexpectedness of that speech plucked Jimmy Lovell around by the shoulder. He slipped off the rock he had been standing on and stood waist-deep in the tugging swiftness of the current, with a revolver ready for action.
But he saw nothing. The big trees stood in a dense row before him. Their black shadows lay evenly at their feet. The pine needles that covered the ground were moon-whitened, except where the shadows lay. And not a living thing was in sight!
Frightful suspicious darkened the mind of Jimmy Lovell. Out of books in his childhood he had read stories of werewolves. Fancies such as he did not dare to conceive haunted him in an instant. Then the same deep bass voice spoke to him from nowhere, saying:
“Put up that gun, please.”
“Who are you?” asked Lovell.
“My name is Silver,” said the other.
It was not pleasure that Lovell felt at first, but a shock of thrilling fear. During so many years he had dreaded that name—he and all his kind. During so many years he had heard the stories, the legends of this relentless pursuer of crime and criminals, this unpaid agent of the law, this protector of the defenseless. But now he felt that Jim Silver was his one resource. And he gasped:
“Thank Heaven! I was looking for you.”
He put up his gun as he spoke. At the same time, from behind a tree there stepped out into the moonlight the biggest wolf that Jimmy Lovell had ever seen. The beast remained motionless, staring fearlessly at the stranger. After the wolf appeared a tall man with broad shoulders.
He did not seem so very big until he had walked close to Lovell. But his stature appeared to grow with every step that he made forward, until he was accepting the hand which Lovell held out to him. In the distance Jim Silver seemed rather made for speed and lightness of movement. It was only at close hand that one could appreciate the solid weight of those shoulders and the bulk and extent of the arms. He differed from other men as race horses differ from draft animals.
With a chilly awe, Lovell looked up at him.
“You’re as big as they say,” said Jimmy. “Did that wolf tell you that I was looking for you?”
“Frosty acted as though some one were on my trail,” admitted Silver. “He can’t tell why people want me, but he generally knows when they’re on the trail.”
“They say that he can talk to you,” said Lovell, staring at the wolf, which waited on his master at a little distance.
Silver made a short gesture of denial, answering: “He’s like any dog that’s been well trained. That’s all. He’s not a bit cleverer than a thousand circus dogs. Most of the things that people say about him are bunk. Why do you want me? Are you bringing me news?”
“Aye,” said Jimmy Lovell. “If you come back to my camp, I’ll show you about the biggest news that you ever got in your life.”
Silver made a pause. He seemed to be reading the man before him, line by line and feature by feature; it was not hard to guess that he did not altogether approve of what he saw.
“I’ll go back with you,” he said at last.
He whistled. Out of the distance a horse whinnied, not loudly. After a moment came a crackling of brush, and then there glided into the clearing the great stallion, Parade. He halted and tossed up his head as he saw the stranger. Then he sidled around behind his master.
Lovell looked on the horse almost with more awe than he had looked on the master, for he could remember the stories of how Parade had run down a fleeing man in spite of relayed horses that were used to save the fugitive; he could remember tales of how Parade had snatched Jim Silver time and again away from death.
There was no bit in the stallion’s mouth. It was only a light cavalry saddle that was on his back. He looked almost as free and as wild as in the earlier days when he had roamed the desert as the lord of a herd. Creatures which are enslaved and subdued are dull of eye and low of head; but Parade had not ceased thinking for himself, even though he included his master in his thoughts.
The big horse followed the two man as Lovell showed the way back through the woods. On the way he kept turning in his mind various words, various ways of opening the conversation and making his proposals to Silver.
He was still in doubt when at last they came into the clearing where he had camped. Of his fire there remained one red eye alone. He took up some brush to freshen the fire to a blaze, and presently the warm, yellow light was flooding out in waves over the ground, and making thin filters of shadow dance among the piae trees. By that kinder light, Lovell looked at Silver again and wondered at the youth of the man.
The legend of him was so full and rich that it seemed he must have spent a long lifetime iq passing through so many adventures; but, as a matter of fact, he was not over thirty, perhaps. Yes, he might even be younger. He had taken off his broad-brimmed sombrero, and Lovell saw the two gray spots above the temples, looking like small, silver horns pushing through the rest of the hair. He had heard them mentioned a thousand times. It was by imitating those marks that Duff Gregor, in another day, had managed to complete his resemblance to the true Silver and make himself pass off as that famous and trusted man.
Famous, honest, trusted—and what was Jimmy Lovell to talk with him?
He thought of his stolen money. He would offer half of it if Silver guaranteed him safety.
No, because if the money were offered to Silver, that man would first of all inquire as to the source if it. And when he learned the truth, he would surely take it back to the ruined bank from which it had been stolen, far away in Elkdale. He would probably truss up Jimmy Lovell, also, and carry him along, to be received by the hands of the law.