“There are the Black Woods,” said the little girl, as she indicated a thick mass of trees near the head of the valley. “My home is in there.”
By the dying light Frank made out that she was very pretty, with dark hair and eyes. She had a sweet voice.
“Felicia,” he thought, as they made their way toward the woods. “The name seems to fit her. It seems strange to find such a child here.”
Merry was restraining the impatience that beset him, for now he felt that he was near the end of his long search. He had no doubt that the Good Stranger spoken of by the child was his father, who had died there in that wild but beautiful spot—died as he had lived, strangely.
There was a mystery to be unfolded, and Frank was determined to clear it up, if possible.
“Up there,” said Felicia, with a gesture, “is the place where my mama and the Good Stranger are buried.”
Frank was near the grave of his father, he believed. It was too late to visit it then; besides, Merry felt that it was his duty to take the child home without delay. Felicia had explained that her father was away at the time when the men came upon her and carried her away, having left some hours before, saying he would return ere nightfall, and warning her to stay close to her cabin home.
As they approached the Black Woods they could discern the dark opening where the trail entered. There the track was plain beneath their feet. But when they were yet a little distance from the woods a stern voice cried from the darkness of the shadows:
“Halt, dere!”
Bart stopped, his hand flying to the butt of his revolver. His rifle, swinging from the saddle of his mustang, had been lost when the escaping ruffian rode madly away on the beast.