Attracted by the noise of the dog, a couple of ragged children rushed out of the cabin, stared, and then bolted in again like scared rabbits. A woman came to the door, stared also, and stepped outside.
“I’m going up to get acquainted,” said Alice, and she went boldly toward the house.
Her brother followed at a little distance, loitering intentionally to give Alice time to break the ice. The hound came bounding up, wagging his tail and sniffing at the gun Carl carried, and the boy paused to make friends with him. He was patting the brute’s head when a man came around the corner of the house.
He was blinking, and looked as if he had been taking a nap in the sun. Big and strong-framed he was, black-haired, and black-bearded, and his face was almost as dark as an Indian’s. He was roughly clad in a flannel shirt, duffel trousers and moccasins, and he looked surprised, half-hostile, and half-shy.
“Hello, good-morning!” said Carl. “Bon jour!” he added, guessing at the man’s probable nationality; and then, at a second glance, he gasped with surprise. “Why, you—you’re the—”
But the dark-faced squatter, limping heavily on one leg, had turned and dashed out of sight around the house again.
Carl stared after him for a moment and then called to his sister.
“Come, Alice. We must go back.”
Something in his voice startled the girl. She glanced sharply at him and bade her new acquaintance farewell and they started back together across the clearing.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered.