CHAPTER VII
RED FEATHER
One bright warm afternoon in October two years later, Brick Willock sat smoking his pipe before the open door of his dugout, taking advantage of the mountain-shadow that had just reached that spot. In repose, he always sat, when in the cove, with his face toward the natural roadway leading over the flat hill-island into the farther reach of the horseshoe. It was thus he hoped to prevent surprise from inimical horsemen, and it was thus that, on this particular afternoon, he detected a shadow creeping over the reddish-brown stone passage before its producing cause rode suddenly against the background of the blue sky.
At first glimpse of that shadow of a feathered head, Willock flung himself down the dirt steps leading to the open door; now, lying flat, he directed the barrel of his gun over the edge of the level ground, covering an approaching horseman. As only one Indian came into view, and as this Indian was armed in a manner as astounding as it was irresistible, Willock rose to his height of six-foot-three, lowered his weapon, and advanced to meet him.
When he was near, the Indian—the same chief from whom Willock had fled on the day of his intended housewarming—this Indian sprang lightly to the ground, and lifted from the horse that defense which he had borne in front of him on penetrating the cove; it was the child for whose sake Willock had separated himself from his kind.
At first, Willock thought he was dreaming one of those dreams that had solaced his half-waking hours, for he had often imagined how it would be if that child were in the mountains to bear him company. But however doubtful he might he regarding her, he took no chances about the Indian, but kept his alert gaze fixed on him to forestall any design of treachery.
The Indian made a sign to the little girl to remain with the horse; then he glided forward, holding somewhat ostentatiously, a filled pipe in his extended hand. He had evidently come to knit his soul to that of his white brother while the smoke from their pipes mingled on the quiet air, forming a frail and uncertain monument to the spirit of peace.
"Was it you that left a pipe and tobacco on my stove two years ago?" Willock asked abruptly.
"Yes. You got it? We will smoke." He seated himself gravely on the ground.