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The storm drove Fairley from his couch early. The falling of a large tree across the trail, and the sudden overflow of a small stream beside it, hastened his steps. But he was doomed to encounter what was to him a more disagreeable object–a human figure. By the bedraggled drapery that flapped and 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.

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?”