"Hey! Come back here, Terry," he called. And Terry Miller came back.
"That crack on the head's set him to talkin' good English an' turned him into a white lad, sure," quoth Freegift. "Did you hear him? Ain't that wonderful, though? His name's Jack Pursley, if you please; an' he answers to Stub, jest the same—an' if that wasn't a smart guess by John Sparks I'll eat my hat when I get one."
"I'll be darned," Terry wheezed, blinking and rubbing his nose. "Jack Pursley, are you? Then where's your dad?"
"I don't know. We were finding gold in the mountains, and the Indians stole me and hit me on the head—and I don't remember everything after that."
"Sho'," said Terry. "How long ago, say?"
"What year is it now, please?"
"We've jest turned into 1807."
"I guess that was three years ago, then."
"And whereabouts in the mountains?"
"Near the head of the Platte River."
"For gosh' sake!" Freegift blurted. "We all jest come from there'bouts. But you didn't say nothin', an' we didn't see no gold."
"I didn't remember."
"Well, we won't be goin' back, though; not for
