By the time we had climbed up the other canyon and skinned the
other bear and returned to camp it was dark. As for me, I was so tired I
could hardly crawl.
In spite of my aches and pains, that was a night for me to remember. But
there was the thought of Dick Leslie. His rescue was the only thing needed
to make me happy. Dick was in my mind even when Hiram cooked a supper that
almost made me forget my manners. Certainly the broiled bear meat made me
forget venison. Then we talked before the burning logs in the stone fire-
place. Hiram sat on his home-made chair and smoked a strong-smelling pipe
while I lay on a bearskin in blissful ease. Occasionally we heard the cub
outside rattling his chain and growling. All of the trappers and Indian
fighters I had read of were different from Hiram Bent and Jim Williams.
Jim's soft drawl and kind, twinkling eyes were not what any book-reader
would expect to find in a dangerous man. And Hiram Bent was so simple and
friendly, so glad to have even a boy to talk to, that it seemed he would
never stop. If it had not been for his striking appearance and for the
strange, wild tales he told of his lonely life, he would have reminded me
of the old canal-lock tenders at home.
Once, when he was refilling his pipe and I thought it would be a good time
to profit from his knowledge of the forests, I said to him:
"Now, Mr.
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