When he was within thirty feet of the bushes they shook, and the boy halted, throwing his rifle forward, the butt halfway to his shoulders. Then, from the shelter of the bushes out stepped a girl.
She was apparently several years younger than the boy, slight, straight, fair of hair, with clear blue eyes which, however, seemed a little puffy and reddened. Her face, too, was streaked as with tears, and one sheer stocking was torn so that the flesh peeped through. She held her arms straight by her sides, her fists gripped tight. Plainly she was frightened, but though her mouth quivered a little she looked the boy straight in the face.
If it had been a grizzly he would have been less surprised. The girl was a stranger and, moreover, her dress of neat brown linen, her shoes, and even the sheer, torn stockings, showed that she did not belong in that neighborhood.
"Hallo!" he said. She gave a little, gasping sigh of relief.
"Why," she said, "you're just a white boy." She spoke with a faint little lisp, which was really enticing. But her words did not please the boy who privately considered himself a good deal of a man.
"What did you think I was?" he asked in as gruff a voice as he could attain.
"I thought you were an In-di-an," she said, pronouncing the word in syllables; "a growed-up—I mean a grown-up-In-di-an."
Having known Indians all his life the boy found her words unflattering. "What made you think that?" he queried.
"Because you looked so black and bloody," she told him frankly.
The boy was disgusted. What business had this girl to call him black? "What's a kid like you doing away out here?" he demanded severely. And he added wickedly: "Don't you know these woods are full of grizzlies and cougars and wolves? It's a wonder you weren't eaten alive."