rough 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
F