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,