The Black Wolf Pack

re was responsible. It was a malicious thing for him to do. He meant it to be mean, too,-wanted to hurt me,-

Strange what a tiny thing such as a crack in a porcelain jacket around an old

e roadster, and on my way out mother-I mean Mrs. Crawford-gave me an armful of books to return to the library and a list of errands she wanted me to do

e where some of my scouts (I was the assistant scoutmaster of Troop 6, of Marlborough) were putting up decorations fo

new wrist watch and discovered

fice," I said to myself, for I knew that he left the offi

at is how the trouble started. I got part way around on the hill when that cylinder began missing a lot and next thing I knew the motor stalled and there was I with my car crosswise on the hill, blocking traffic-

ight up at the head of the line with a truck load of cases from the box factory and the look on his face was about as ugly as a mud turtle's. Then, to make matters worse, my starter wouldn't work at the critical moment, and

f all-no, he didn't make it to me; he just yel

ok out of an orphan asylum. He's a kid that old Crawford took up with because he was too mean t' have t' Lo

k with those cold gray eyes of his and looking as white as marble. No one said a word. It seemed as if the whole street became hushed and silent. I got the car around to the curb

e and the way he stared straight ahead of him without saying a word that he was feeling very unhappy about it t

possible that Alexander Crawford, this fine, big, broad-shouldered, kindly man beside me was not my real father? Was it a fact that that noble, generous, happy woman whom I called mamma was not my mother at all? Each of those

out, still silent, but he did smile wis

I felt sorry-sorry for him and sorry for myself, and as I put the car in the garage, I had a hard time tr

had to stop and pull myself together before I started downstairs to the dining room

look in her eyes that dad had told her of the whole occurrence. And that only added to my unh

and none of us tried to make conversation. It was a painful sort of a meal and I wanted to have it ov

the eyes for the first time sinc

" said dad, and I knew by the firmness and evenness of h

" I gulped helplessly and for the life

it to make it hurt," said dad and I could see mother w

" I cried, for the whole thi

a certainty," said mother s

ink there is a way you can find out, at least as much as

drew out a battered and dented red tin box and a bundle of papers. These he brought into the dining room a

one of our own we do not know. Anyway, we wanted one so badly that we

er n

we could adopt and call our own. Not a week later you appeared on the scene. Dr. Raymond told us that a wagon drawn by a raw-boned horse, and loaded with household

ad bought in Pennsylvania. Somewhere at a crossroad near Derby, Connecticut, they had found the baby and this box and bundle o

were too poor and too old to adopt the child so they had gone miles out of their

he brought you here, and you were such a chubby, bright, interesting little fellow that mother and I fell in love with you immediately and

ppier. Dad and mother did have a clai

nt on father, "that mother and I examined the box

age-yellowed envelope a

he F

e following b

e Fin

care he should have. Will you, the finder, adopt him, care for him, and bring him up

ld M

fa

s-or was Mullen

hen you became our son we kept your first na

ome of my father, Don

here are other papers of interest and after you have read them I will tell you all we have done to locate your real father and afterwards

you will see that it comes into his hands at the proper time

Mul

kin bag of unmistakable Indian design, beautifully decorated with bead work and highly colored porcupine quills cunningly worked i

my

who is out in the Rockies. He gave it to me to pay my expenses out there to join him. I am leaving it for you.

ing

Fat

takable clink of gold coins

I could feel the heartaches that the writing of that note must have caused him. I had not the courage to break the seal

on D

found the

r B

ied to take care of you as she would have cared for you but I am afraid I have lost heart, and my courage, and I am afraid my faith has slipped from me. I fear that I am a broken-spirited failure. The passing of your mother ha

by the time you are old enough to read and understand this message you wil

out in Piute Pass in the Rockies grubbing for gold. I am going out to join him for I know the on

oney I have in the world. I am not going to use it. I will work my way west and l

sires to know who you really are, I wi

of age and Patrick Mullen, the gunsmith of Maiden Lane, New York, is the youngest. We were born in Byron Bridge, Ireland, and we three came to this country after our parents died. You come of an honest, worthwhi

-bye

ing

Fat

hat my voice broke toward the end and I

e thoughts and mental pictures of that broken man parting w

ke the

inted with the whole sit

eems heartless and cruel. I cannot understand it; yet I wish I could see my poor father. I wonder if he is still alive. Certainly

g from a nervous breakdown and consequently more or less irresponsible; I think he acted wonderfully well under the circumstances. In order to help him I began a search and for ten years I have had detectives and private individuals following up every possib

k Mullen died just before I began my search for your father, but in digging around for facts about him, I learned that he had made a limited number of very fine guns, on each of which he had stamped his full name, 'Patrick Mullen.' Other guns of an inferior quality that he made bore the

. That gun has always struck me as being a valuable clue in our search, because it is the only rifle ever made by the old gunsmith and I have a feeling that that missing 'Patrick Mullen' may have been given to your father by the brother, and that may account for the fact th

s famous brother had made for him. Why he should wish for a flint-lock rifle was an unanswerable question, but someone wanted that sort of a gun or it would not have been made, and my fath

cookie that that gun does belong to my father and if we can f

search, and my collection of flint-locks is the best in the land, Don. But so far nothing but failures seem to have rewarded my search-no, I'm wrong, there is one man out west-out in the little jerk-water town of Grave Stone, who insists that there is a wild man living in a lonely, almost inaccessible valley in the mountains, who shoots a gun which looks like the one for which I am searching. For a number of years this man of mystery, it seems, has been appearing and reappearing, according to Big Pete Darlinkel,

ently with a letter which he open

r. Cra

uinten one i in the valley look'n for elk and look'n up with tother i for Big horn on the mountain, when i staged the old duffer snoop'en along in one of the parks an' he had the s

edients

Pe

out that crude letter

rness and there live the life of a recluse, and from my father's last letter it was evident that he had had a nervous breakdown from anxiety and brooding over the loss of my mother, to whom he evidently was devotedly attached. It might, therefore, be possible that this

m you and his truck-driving friends of the mystery surrounding your real parentage, I guess it is best you know all there is to be known about the situation. The rest I'll leave to you. In fact, it would please me a great deal if you would run down this last vague clue to see if your father really is stil