Presently the guide came in, having unhitched the mule and turned his pony loose to graze, as the ranchman had directed. He had but little to say while disposing of his share of the homely supper that was speedily served up on the large dry-goods box, but left the ranchman and Oscar to do the talking. The little he did say was addressed to his employer, who learned that he had attained to high rank during the last half-hour. Although Oscar did not know it, he had made two firm friends by the course he had pursued. An experienced plainsman has not the slightest respect for a “gentleman sportsman,” which is the title that hunters from the States generally assume for themselves; and that was the reason why Big Thompson had been so morose and taciturn ever since leaving the fort. It would have been bad enough, the guide thought, to spend the winter in the mountains in company with one of his own kind—a man upon whom he could depend in any emergency, and who could relate stories of adventure around the camp-fire as thrilling as any he could tell himself; but the thought of passing long months in the society of a tenderfoot, and a stripling, besides, was most distasteful to him. He had consented to act as Oscar’s guide simply because he knew the colonel wished him to do so, and because he had been made aware of the fact that the boy had money to pay him for his services; but he would much rather have remained near the fort, and passed the time in idleness. Now he seemed to have different opinions. A boy who could look into the muzzle of a double-barrel with as little trepidation as Oscar had exhibited, and who could hold to his purpose in spite of difficulties and disappointments that would have disheartened almost anybody, must have something in him, even if he was a tenderfoot. Not being accustomed to such things, the guide did not know how to acknowledge his mistake directly, but he could indirectly; and he did it by dubbing Oscar “professor,” by which dignified title he ever afterward addressed him. That was Big Thompson’s way of showing his friendship; but the ranchman, although he very soon fell into the way of calling Oscar by the same title, showed his appreciation of the boy’s pluck and independence in a much more substantial manner. CHAPTER XXI. THE RANCHMAN SAYS SOMETHING. “Now, professor,” said the ranchman, as he rose from his box and filled his pipe for his after-supper smoke, “you look as though a wink of sleep would do you good. Whenever you get ready to turn in, bring your blankets from the wagon and take possession of that empty bunk. It belongs to my herdsman, who has gone to the hills with the stock.” Oscar was glad to comply at once with the invitation. He had found that riding in a wagon behind a lazy mule, which had to be urged all the time in order to keep him in motion, was almost as hard work as riding on horseback, and he was tired and sleepy.