“Thank!” commented Blue Wolf unemotionally. Though he accepted the invitation onto the veranda, he remained standing, the picture of stoical indifference.
Stifling the chuckle that bubbled to her lips, Frances disappeared into the house in search of Miss Drexal. She bumped squarely against her in the hall, for Jane had already fled to the living room with the dire news that a “regular Indian war chief was coming straight for the house!”
“It’s Blue Wolf!” gasped Frances.
“I thought as much.” Miss Drexal smilingly stepped to the door and onto the veranda. “Why, how do you do, Blue Wolf?”
The Guardian’s voice had a friendly note as she offered her hand to her caller.
A swift gleam of pleasure shot into the Indian’s piercing eyes. “How do,” he returned. Setting his rifle carefully against the porch rail, he gravely shook hands. “You well?”
“Very well, indeed, thank you. I have been looking for you since Friday. You are just in time for dinner.”
Blue Wolf’s stern features relaxed into the shadow of a grin at this hospitable news.
“Hungry,” he admitted. “Come far. From Vermillon Lake. Next week, you ready, go there? Know good place camp. Find man in Tower who rent tents. After dinner we talk about?”
“We surely will. Now come into the kitchen, and Martha will take care of you. It’s very nice to see you again. Have you been hunting? I see you have your rifle.”