The girl nodded, her sweet face serious as she said: “I will ride over and see what it is. A moan like that always means that some creature needs help.”
“You must not go alone,” Dan told her. “I will ride over there with you.”
Meg turned to the others. “Please wait here,” she said. “If it is a hurt animal, so many of us would frighten it.”
In silence the group waited, watching the two who rode toward the yawning pit. When they were near the place, Meg dismounted and Dan did likewise. Together they approached the door of the isolated cabin. Dan swung his gun from his shoulder and held it in readiness if harm were to threaten them. Meg glanced at the door, then turning, motioned the lad to put up his gun. Wondering what the girl had seen, the boy hastened to her side.
Meg entered the old cabin and Dan, standing at the door, saw on the rotting floor the twisted form of the old Ute Indian.
His wrinkled, leathery face showed how cruelly he was suffering, but when he saw Meg, who at once knelt at his side, his expression changed to one of eagerness, almost of gladness. He tried to reach out his shriveled arm, but groaned instead.
Dan stepped inside and looked down pityingly. Meg, glancing up with tears in her wonderful eyes, said, “Poor old Ute. He has had another stroke, and this one is his last.” They both knew that the old Indian was making a great effort to speak, and the lad bent to whisper, “Perhaps he is trying to tell you something.”
“Oh, if he only would! If he only could.” Meg was rubbing the poor limp hand that was crusted with dirt in her own. Then, close to his ear, she asked clearly: “Could you tell me about my father?”
Again there was a lightening of the eyes that were beginning to dim. “Fadder he die—hid box——. Dig, dig, no find box. You find box, then you know——” The old Ute could say no more, for another contortion had seized him and it was the last.
Meg was trembling so that Dan had to assist her to rise. The others, having been eager to know what had happened, had approached the cabin and dismounted. Jane saw that, for the first time in their acquaintance, the mountain girl was nearly overcome with emotion, and going to her, she slipped an arm about her, saying sincerely, “Meg, dear, what is it? Can we help you?” But almost at once Meg regained at least outward composure. “It is the old Ute Indian who has died,” she told them. “How thankful I am that we came this way, for he has told me about my father. Perhaps I shall know more, but that much is enough.”