“Monsieur, you do me a great honor, but I can not listen. What you ask is impossible, quite impossible. But, Monsieur—”
Her eyes had fallen upon a thicket behind him where something had stirred. She thought at first that it was an animal of some sort; but she saw now quite distinctly a man’s shabby felt hat that rose slowly until the bearded face of its wearer was disclosed.
“Monsieur!” cried Shirley in a low tone; “look behind you and be careful what you say or do. Leave the man to me.”
Chauvenet turned and faced a scowling mountaineer who held a rifle and drew it to his shoulder as Chauvenet threw out his arms, dropped them to his thighs and laughed carelessly.
“What is it, my dear fellow—my watch—my purse—my horse?” he said in English.
“He wants none of those things,” said Shirley, urging her horse a few steps toward the man. “The mountain people are not robbers. What can we do for you?” she asked pleasantly.
“You cain’t do nothin’ for me,” drawled the man. “Go on away, Miss. I want to see this little fella’. I got a little business with him.”
“He is a foreigner—he knows little of our language. You will do best to let me stay,” said Shirley.
She had not the remotest idea of what the man wanted, but she had known the mountain folk from childhood and well understood that familiarity with their ways and tact were necessary in dealing with them.
“Miss, I have seen you befo’, and I reckon we ain’t got no cause for trouble with you; but this little fella’ ain’t no business up hy’eh. Them hotel people has their own places to ride and drive, and it’s all right for you, Miss; but what’s yo’ frien’ ridin’ the hills for at night? He’s lookin’ for some un’, and I reckon as how that some un’ air me!”