Dick called him by his name and advanced, while Charlie met him
half-way, and allowed himself to be saddled, bridled, and mounted
forthwith.
After this Dick had no further trouble with his wild horse.
At his next camping-place, which was in the midst of a cluster of
bushes close beside a creek, Dick came unexpectedly upon a little
wooden cross which marked the head of a grave. There was no
inscription on it, but the Christian symbol told that it was the grave
of a white man. It is impossible to describe the rush of mingled
feelings that filled the soul of the young hunter as he leaned on the
muzzle of his rifle and looked at this solitary resting-place of one
who, doubtless like himself, had been a roving hunter. Had he been
young or old when he fell? had he a mother in the distant settlement
who watched and longed and waited for the son that was never more to
gladden her eyes? had he been murdered, or had he died there and been
buried by his sorrowing comrades? These and a thousand questions
passed rapidly through his mind as he gazed at the little cross.
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