Another thing that made an instant impression upon me was the number of men at work about the place. The workmen were all, without an exception, Indians, and as they moved about silently, their stoic, almost expressionless faces held a decided look of contentment, a few of them turned toward the porch with a frank, honest stare. There was no evidence of fear or restraint in their actions but they always gave the wolf dogs plenty of room as they passed them. These black beasts were ugly, snarling things that showed no love for anyone; on the least provocation menacing growls rumbled in their throats. What manner of place was this that we had permitted ourselves to be led into? Indeed, what manner of man was this strange host of ours? I shot a sidelong glance at him and it seemed to me as if I caught a strange, hunted look in his eyes, and a sad smile on his handsome but grim countenance. A slight feeling of fear crept into my heart. Could this strange man be my father? For some reason he certainly did attract me and excite my sympathy, yet I stood in awe of him. The strangeness of my surroundings, too, settled upon me. I turned toward Pete and I had a premonition of evil. I could see that he too was affected the same way. The valley was an earthly paradise, the Wild Hunter a kindly gentleman, what then was it that gave me an uncomfortable and uneasy feeling? I was eager to be alone with Pete for I knew that he would have some interesting observations to make. “I am disappointed, gentlemen, you say nothing. Isn’t my ranch interesting to you?” demanded the Wild Hunter, with a smile. In a low smooth voice he gave some orders to a young Indian who was walking toward the stables. The Indian instantly snapped into action and hurried away as if one of the black wolf dogs were snapping at his heels, and I felt certain that it was the youth whom we had been trailing. A hurried and very unpleasant thought flashed through my mind: What was the source of the power the Wild Hunter held over these Indians? They were not slaves in this mountain-surrounded prison; this grim, forceful but kindly wild man did not hold them through fear. He always smiled when he greeted them, but he never smiled at his wolves; when giving them orders or even looking at them, the expression of his face was stern and almost fierce. But the man had asked a question. He was expecting an answer. “It is a wonderful place,” I managed to stammer; “who could conceive of such a remarkable ranch buried here in the heart of the wilderness?” “It’s a ring-tailed snorter, hamstring me if it hain’t,” said Big Pete in an attempt to be enthusiastic. The man’s face glowed with pleasure. “You are the first white men to see it. I think I have achieved something here in the wilds, thanks a great deal to Pluto and his strain.” “Eh, what?” exclaimed Big Pete in alarm. “To—to—whom,” I gasped, for to have the man actually confess an alliance with Satan rather startled me also.