fluttered in the wind, by the long, unkempt hair that hid the face and
eyes, and by the grotesquely misplaced bonnet, the old man recognized
one of his old trespassers--an Indian squaw.
"Clear out 'er that! Come, make tracks, will ye?" the old man screamed;
but here the wind stopped his voice, and drove him against a
hazel-bush.
"Me heap sick," answered the squaw, shivering through her muddy shawl.
"I'll make ye a heap sicker if ye don't vamose the ranch," continued
Fairley, advancing.
"Me wantee Wangee girl. Wangee girl give me heap grub," said the squaw,
without moving.
"You bet your life," groaned the old man to himself. Nevertheless an
idea struck him. "Ye ain't brought no presents, hev ye?" he asked
cautiously. "Ye ain't got no pooty things for poor Wangee girl?" he
continued insinuatingly.
"Me got heap _cache_ nuts and berries," said the squaw.
"Oh, in course! in course! That's just it," screamed Fairley; "you've
got 'em _cached_ only two mile from yer, and you'll go and get 'em for
a half dollar, cash down."
"Me bring Wangee girl to _cache_," replied the Indian, pointing to the
wood. "Honest Injin."
Another bright idea struck Mr. Fairley; but it required some
elaboration. Hurrying the squaw with him through the pelting rain, he
reached the shelter of the corral. Vainly the shivering aborigine drew
her tightly bandaged papoose closer to her square, flat breast, and
looked longingly toward the cabin; the old man backed her against the
palisade. Here he cautiously imparted his dark intentions to employ her
to keep watch and ward over the ranch, and especially over its young
mistress--"clear out all the tramps 'ceptin' yourself, and I'll keep ye
in grub and rum." Many and deliberate repetitions of this offer in
various forms at last seemed to affect the squaw; she nodded violently,
and echoed the last word "rum." "Now," she added. The old man
hesitated; she was in possession of his secret; he groaned, and,
promising an immediate installment of liquor, led her to the cabin.
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