Fifty yards farther on, they met Brian Oakley.
"Howdy, you two," called the Ranger, cheerily--without stopping his horse.
"Rather late to-night, ain't you?"
"We'll be there by dark," called the artist And the Ranger passed on.
At sound of the mountaineer's voice, the man in the bushes drew quickly
back. The officer's trained eyes caught the movement in the brush, and he
leaned forward in the saddle.
A moment later, the man reappeared in the road, farther down, around the
bend. As the Ranger approached, he was hailed by a boisterous, "Hello,
Brian! better stop and have a bite."
"How do you do, Mr. Rutlidge?" came the officer's greeting, as he reined
in his horse. "When did you land in the hills?"'
"This afternoon," answered the other. "We're just making camp. Come and
meet the fellows. You know some of them."
"Thanks, not to-night,"--returned Brian Oakley,--"deer hunt, I suppose."
"Yes--thought we would be in good time for the opening of the season. By
the way, do you happen to know where Lagrange and that artist friend of
his are camped?"
"In that bunch of sycamores back of the old orchard down there," answered
the Ranger, watching the man's face keenly.
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