Once or twice during the day, on coming from within, to get a breath of pure air, he had caught a glimpse of Anita as she flitted about the cabin engaged at her household duties, and the yearning expression that unconsciously stole into his dark eyes, spoke of a passion within his heart, that, though it might be slumbering, was not extinct—­was there all the same, in all its strength and ardor.  Had he been granted the privilege of meeting her, he might have displaced the barrier that rose between them; but now, nothing remained for him but to toil away until Redburn should see fit to send him away, back into the world from which he came.

Would he want to go, when that time came?  Hardly, he thought, as he sat there and gazed into the quiet vale below him, so beautiful even in darkness.  There was no reason why he should go back again adrift upon the bustling world.

He had no relatives—­no claims that pointed him to go thither; he was as free and unfettered as the wildest mountain eagle.  He had no one to say where he should and where he should not go; he liked one place equally as well as another, providing there was plenty of provender and work within easy range; he had never thought of settling down, until now, when he had come to the Flower Pocket valley, and caught a glimpse of Anita—­Anita whom he had not seen for years; on whom he had brought censure, reproach and—­

A step among the rocks close at hand startled him from a reverie into which he had fallen, and caused him to spill the tobacco from his pipe.

A slight trim figure stood a few yards away, and he perceived that two extended hands clasped objects, whose glistening surface suggested that they were “sixes” or “sevens.”

“Silence!” came in a clear, authoritative voice.  “One word more than I ask you, and I’ll blow your brains out.  Now, what’s your name?”

“Justin McKenzie’s my name.  Fearless Frank generally answers me the purpose of a nom de plume,” was the reply.

“Very good,” and the stranger drew near enough for the Scarlet Boy to perceive that he was clad in buck-skin; well armed; wore a Spanish sombrero, and hair long, down over the square shoulders.  “I’m Calamity Jane.”

If McKenzie uttered an ejaculation of surprise, it was not to be wondered at, for he had heard many stories, in Deadwood, concerning the “dare-devil gal dressed up in men’s toggery.”

“Calamity Jane?” he echoed, picking up his pipe.  “Where in the world did you come from, and how did you get here, and what do you want, and—­”

“One at a time, please.  I came from Deadwood with Road-Agent Dick’s party—­unknown to them, understand you.  That answers two questions.  The third is, I want to be around when there’s any fun going on; and it’s lucky I’m here now.  I guess Dick has just got layed out by two fellows in the valley below here, and they’ve slid off with him over among the foot-hills yonder.  I want you to stub along after me, and lend the voices of your sixes, if need be.  I’m going to set him at liberty!”