“I am glad you have come, father, for I was getting lonely. You—”
She paused suddenly, for her eyes just then rested upon the face of Rafe Norris, who was gazing at her with a look of undisguised admiration. What did he see? A fair young creature in the flush of early womanhood, with a face and form which might have driven a painter mad. She was slightly framed, but every line was in perfect symmetry, and her face was perfection itself. A touch of peach-bloom in either cheek, ripe-red lips and lustrous brown eyes; short, ambrosial locks, clinging about a neck which rivaled in whiteness the snows of the mountain, and a look of perfect innocence beautifying all.
Why did Rafe Norris gaze at her as if he had seen a vision from the grave?
“Don’t be skeered, little ’un,” said Old Pegs. “This yer is Rafe Norris, a gentleman thet run from some cussid Blackfeet and got away. I brung him here fur the night, and expect you to treat him well. This is my darter, Rafe—I kain’t mister any one, ye know—and she’s the best and pootiest gal in the kentry.”
Rafe Norris bowed low, and uttered a well-framed compliment, which the girl received coldly.
“It is somewhat strange, Mr. Norris, that you should be alone here,” she said.
“I was separated from my party,” he answered, blandly, “and the Indians set upon me before I was aware. I would accept the danger gladly for the honor of this introduction.”
“Draw it kinder mild, Rafe—kinder mild,” said Old Pegs. “We raally can’t stand too many nice speeches, out hyar.”
“That speech came from my heart,” replied Rafe. “I hope that the lady will not consider it an unmeaning compliment.”
“That’ll do,” said Old Pegs, dryly. “Now, Myrtle, gal, will you git us suthing to eat? Ez fur me, I’m pesky hungry. I could eat a hull antelope to my own cheek this hyar blessid minnit. What hav you got fur us?”