By H. Irving Hancock
“Look, Tom! There is a real westerner!” Harry Hazelton’s eyessparkled, his whole manner was one of intense interest.
“Eh?” queried Tom Reade, turning around from his distant viewof a sharp, towering peak of the Rockies.
“There’s the real thing in the way of a westerner,” Harry Hazeltoninsisted in a voice in which there was some awe.
“I don’t believe he is,” retorted Tom skeptically.
“You’re going to say, I suppose, that the man is just some freakescaped from the pages of a dime novel?” demanded Harry.
“No; he looks more like a hostler on a leave of absence from astranded Wild West show,” Tom replied slowly.
There was plenty of time for them to inspect the stranger in question.Tom and Harry were seated on a mountain springboard wagon drawnby a pair of thin horses. Their driver, a boy of about eighteen,sat on a tiny make-believe seat almost over the traces. Thisyouthful driver had been minding his own business so assiduouslyduring the past three hours that Harry had voted him a sullenfellow. This however, the driver was not.
“Where did t