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Page 67
"Then ye reckon dad's dead?"
"We fear it."
"Then wot's a-goin' to become o' me?" she said simply.
They glanced again at each other. "Have you no friends in
California?" said the elder man.
"Nary one."
"What was your father going to do?"
"Dunno. I reckon HE didn't either."
"You may stay here for the present," said the elder man meditatively.
"Can you milk?"
The girl nodded. "And I suppose you know something about looking
after stock?" he continued.
The girl remembered that her father thought she didn't, but this
was no time for criticism, and she again nodded.
"Come with me," said the older man, rising. "I suppose," he added,
glancing at her ragged frock, "everything you have is in the
wagon."
She nodded, adding with the same cold naivete, "It ain't much!"
They walked on, the girl following; at times straying furtively on
either side, as if meditating an escape in the woods,--which indeed
had once or twice been vaguely in her thoughts,--but chiefly to
avoid further questioning and not to hear what the men said to each
other. For they were evidently speaking of her, and she could not
help hearing the younger repeat her words, "Wot's agoin' to become
o' me?" with considerable amusement, and the addition: "She'll take
care of herself, you bet! I call that remark o' hers the richest
thing out."
"And I call the state of things that provoked it--monstrous!" said
the elder man grimly. "You don't know the lives of these people."
Presently they came to an open clearing in the forest, yet so
incomplete that many of the felled trees, partly lopped of their
boughs, still lay where they had fallen. There was a cabin or
dwelling of unplaned, unpainted boards; very simple in structure,
yet made in a workmanlike fashion, quite unlike the usual log cabin
she had seen. This made her think that the elder man was a
"towny," and not a frontiersman like the other.
As they approached the cabin the elder man stopped, and turning to
her, said:--
"Do you know Indians?"
The girl started, and then recovering herself with a quick laugh:
"G'lang!--there ain't any Injins here!"
"Not the kind YOU mean; these are very peaceful. There's a squaw
here whom you will"--he stopped, hesitated as he looked critically
at the girl, and then corrected himself--"who will help you."
He pushed open the cabin door and showed an interior, equally
simple but well joined and fitted,--a marvel of neatness and finish
to the frontier girl's eye. There were shelves and cupboards and
other conveniences, yet with no ostentation of refinement to
frighten her rustic sensibilities.
Then he pushed open another door leading into a shed and called
"Waya." A stout, undersized Indian woman, fitted with a coarse
cotton gown, but cleaner and more presentable than the girl's one
frock, appeared in the doorway. "This is Waya, who attends to the
cooking and cleaning," he said; "and by the way, what is your
name?"
"Libby Jones."
He took a small memorandum book and a "stub" of pencil from his
pocket. "Elizabeth Jones," he said, writing it down. The girl
interposed a long red hand.
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