The door was so securely fastened against the impact of the storm that
some moments elapsed before the bar was drawn, and the old man had
become impatient and profane. When it was partly opened by Flip he
hastily slipped in, dragging the squaw after him, and cast one single
suspicious glance around the rude apartment which served as a
sitting-room. Flip had apparently been writing. A small inkstand was
still on the board table, but her paper had evidently been concealed
before she allowed them to enter. The squaw instantly squatted before
the adobe hearth, warmed her bundled baby, and left the ceremony of
introduction to her companion. Flip regarded the two with calm
preoccupation and indifference. The only thing that touched her
interest was the old squaw's draggled skirt and limp neckerchief. They
were Flip's own, long since abandoned and cast off in the Gin and
Ginger Woods. "Secrets again," whined Fairley, still eying Flip
furtively. "Secrets again, in course--in course--jiss so. Secrets that
must be kep from the ole man. Dark doin's by one's own flesh and blood.
Go on! go on! Don't mind me." Flip did not reply. She had even lost the
interest in her old dress. Perhaps it had only touched some note in
unison with her revery.
"Can't ye get the poor critter some whiskey?" he queried, fretfully.
"Ye used to be peart enuff before." As Flip turned to the corner to
lift the demijohn, Fairley took occasion to kick the squaw with his
foot, and indicate by extravagant pantomime that the bargain was not to
be alluded to before the girl. Flip poured out some whiskey in a tin
cup, and, approaching the squaw, handed it to her. "It's like ez not,"
continued Fairley to his daughter, but looking at the squaw, "that
she'll be huntin' the woods off and on, and kinder looking after the
last pit near the _Madronos_; ye'll give her grub and licker ez she
likes. Well, d'ye hear, Flip? Are ye moonin' agin with yer secrets?
What's gone with ye?"
If the child were dreaming, it was a delicious dream. Her magnetic eyes
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