“Thank goodness we’ve been spared Jeanette, at least,” grumbled Jane. “There!” she continued, with a final pat to her fluffy brown locks. “I’m ready for dinner. I’m going down to the veranda. See you later.”
Running lightly down the stairs, Jane passed out to the veranda.
“Where’s everybody?” was her question as she spied Frances comfortably ensconced in the big porch swing.
“Why ask for ‘everybody’ when I am here?” counter-questioned Frances blandly.
Jane elevated her nose, then giggled. Advancing upon the swing with intent to seat herself beside Frances, her eyes lighted upon a strange figure just leaving the road and about to cross the lawn.
“Oh!” she ejaculated in a half-frightened tone, and turning, fled into the house.
Frances’ first inclination was to do likewise. Then she laughed. Slipping from the swing, she walked sedately forward to greet the newcomer, who had now reached the steps. Having been brought up on a ranch, she was quite accustomed to the sight of Indians. She immediately recognized the caller as an unusually fine specimen. At least six feet tall, with dark, piercing eyes and high cheek bones, his long black hair hanging in two braids over his shoulders, he looked every inch a warrior. Unlike the majority of Indians she had seen, his attire differed from theirs in that he still clung to the fringed deerskin leggings. These, together with his long black braids and a rifle slung across one shoulder, gave him the picturesqueness of the red man of earlier days.
“How do you do?” greeted Frances affably. “I am sure you must be Blue Wolf!”
“How do,” grunted the caller, surveying Frances stolidly. “Me Blue Wolf.”
“Come up on the veranda and sit down,” she invited. “Miss Drexal has been expecting you. Excuse me while I find her. She will be so pleased to see you.”