became, by the aid of a silk handkerchief and a bluejay's feather, a
fascinating "pork pie."
Whatever cause of annoyance to Low still lingered in Teresa's dress,
it was soon forgotten in a palpable evidence of Teresa's value as a
botanical assistant. It appeared that during the afternoon she had not
only duplicated his specimens, but had discoverd one or two rare
plants as yet unclassified in the flora of the Carquinez Woods. He was
delighted, and in turn, over the campfire, yielded up some details of
his present life and some of his earlier recollections.
"You don't remember anything of your father?" she asked. "Did he ever
try to seek you out?"
"No! Why should he?" replied the imperturbable Low; "he was not a
Cherokee."
"No, he was a beast," responded Teresa promptly. "And your mother--do
you remember her?"
"No, I think she died."
"You THINK she died? Don't you know?"
"No!"
"Then you're another!" said Teresa. Notwithstanding this frankness, they
shook hands for the night: Teresa nestling like a rabbit in a hollow by
the side of the campfire; Low with his feet towards it, Indian-wise,
and his head and shoulders pillowed on his haversack, only half
distinguishable in the darkness beyond.
With such trivial details three uneventful days slipped by. Their
retreat was undisturbed, nor could Low detect, by the least evidence
to his acute perceptive faculties, that any intruding feet had since
crossed the belt of shade. The echoes of passing events at Indian Spring
had recorded the escape of Teresa as occurring at a remote and purely
imaginative distance, and her probable direction the county of Yolo.
"Can you remember," he one day asked her, "what time it was when you cut
the riata and got away?"
Teresa pressed her hands upon her eyes and temples.
"About three, I reckon."
"And you were here at seven; you could have covered some ground in four
hours?"
"Perhaps--I don't know," she said, her voice taking up its old quality
again. "Don't ask me--I ran all the way."
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