The stranger seemed far above the usual height of men, and of great age, if the long, flowing hair and beard of a snowy whiteness be taken as evidence. This the wind tossed wildly around his face, in a fleecy cloud. Rude, uncouth garments partially covered his body and limbs, patched here and there with pieces of skin and fur. In one hand he bore a heavy bow, tightly strung. At his shoulder could be seen the feathered tips of a number of arrows. "It's the Mountain Devil!" muttered Chicot, in a low, hushed tone, as he shrunk back, his bronzed cheek paling, his eyes dilating with a look of fear. "Man or devil, I do not fear him!" said Upshur, as his rifle clicked sharply as the hammer was lifted. "Don't shoot! Make him mad, an' he'll clean out the whole crowd!" warningly cried Paul; his eyes still riveted upon the strange form. "He's a devil--you can't hurt him." "I'll try it, anyhow," and the man's rifle spoke sharp and clear. The wild-man started and seemed to stagger, as though the bullet had found its mark. Then, with a shrill cry, he turned and leaped from the bowlder, the next moment disappearing far up the hillside. "There's your devil, Paul," chuckled Upshur, as he dropped his rifle and began reloading it. "And I had only a leaden bullet in, too." "You laugh now--but the time 'll come when you won't. Believe it or not, Nate Upshur, you've signed your death papers. A man never shot at the Mountain Devil but he died for it. You will, too. Mebbe not to-day--mebbe not for a year, but the time 'll come, I tell you--the time 'll come at last. Mark my words." "Bah! you've listened too much to Indian legends, Chicot. That is no devil, but a man, like you or I, turned hermit like. To prove it, I'm going to follow after. Come on, boys! Let's go and see what Paul's devil is made of, anyhow," recklessly said Upshur, who was no coward, whatever else he might be. Pale and disturbed, Chicot followed the boaster, and close behind came the other emigrants, curious to see the denouement. At the bowlder Upshur paused, with a harsh laugh. "See!" and he pointed at the rocks before him. "Your devil bleeds, Paul, like an ordinary man. I thought I touched the rascal." Here and there drops of blood sprinkled the rocky surface, and Chicot, though still skeptical, brightened up. After all, this wild-man was not proof against mortal weapons. Laughing scornfully, Upshur led the way along the bloody trail, up the hillside, until it crossed the ridge, keeping a good look-out to guard against surprise, for none knew better than he what awkward weapons flint-headed arrows are, at close quarters, when guided by a strong and experienced hand. And after his wound, the wild-man would not be likely to stand on ceremony, should he be overtaken. But overtaken he was not, at least on that occasion. The hillside seemed to be unoccupied, save by the trail-hunters, but Upshur suddenly paused, when half-way down the hill, shrinking back with a cry of horror.