“Bruin! Bruin!” cried a clear, sweet voice. “Come here, sir!”
Down dropped the bear upon all fours, and waddled away in the direction of the voice, while Rafe stopped and looked at Old Pegs in amazement.
“That is your treasure, eh?” he demanded. “I thought you were too old a man to care for a woman.”
“I’m a nice figger fur a lady’s man, ain’t I?” replied the hunter, scornfully. “I orter hit you, but I guess I won’t. Here we ar’.”
The path led out of the narrow ravine through a thicket, and they entered a small, sheltered valley, containing hardly an acre of bottom-land, a sort of oasis scooped out by the hand of nature from the bosom of the eternal hills. There was no sign of human habitation anywhere, but their ears were saluted by a burst of song and the tinkle of a guitar. The voice of the singer was so wonderfully pure, rich and sweet that Rafe stopped in utter amazement and looked at Old Pegs.
“What does this mean, old man?” he cried; “that is not the voice of an Indian woman.”
“Ska’cely; oh, no—I reckon not. And see yer, feller—thet gal is under my pertection, and the man thet lays a finger on her, or insults her by look or word, may git out the papers fur his funeral—and I’ll see thet they hev a corpse. D’ye understand?”
“Why should I try to harm her?” said Rafe. “Hush! let us hear her song.”
It was a song of chivalry—a song of the old days—that seemed to speak the clash of spears and the rattle of steel armor. The voice rung out full and clear, not a note was slurred or hurried, and the two stood spell-bound until she had finished, when Old Pegs called out: “Myrtle!”
The sound of the guitar was hushed; there came the rush of flying feet, and the singer appeared and flung her arms about the neck of the old man and kissed him.