Walking toward the council lodge on the river were her father and White Slayer, while a large body of the principal braves were gathered there to meet them.
“All this means mischief,” was her conclusion. “I know my father has set the Indians up to this work of devilment, for he has sworn not to spare a paleface who enters these hills. But they shall not be caught asleep. That man of the red hand saved my life, and I will save his. I must act soon, for the work of death will not be long delayed.”
Thus muttering to herself, the girl retraced her way through the cave, and, entering the cabin, took her rifle and equipments from the rack over her cot.
“Valleolo, tell my father I will be back before sunset,” she said to the Indian woman who aided her in the housework.
“There is danger in the forest and the valley,” the squaw warned. “Let the Pearl of the Hills hear the words of Valleolo and remain at the wigwam.”
“There is no danger I fear to meet, Valleolo. I will be back at sunset.”
So saying, Pearl threw her rifle across her shoulder and rapidly descended the mountainside toward the bottom of the gorge which divided the hill. Hardly had she gone half a mile down the gorge, pondering in her own mind how she was to make her news known to the whites, and not compromise her father and lead him into danger, when she was startled by a shadow falling across her path.
Glancing up quickly, she brought her rifle to a ready, for before her stood the form of a man. Not an Indian warrior was he, nor Red Hand, nor her father, but one she had never before seen.
He was a young man, scarcely more than twenty-five years of age, and yet with something in his face that made him appear at least thirty, for dissipation and a cruel life of crime had set their seal there.
His form was slight, but elegant, and showed to advantage in closely fitting trousers and jacket of navy blue flannel, decorated with brass buttons, and with a band of gold lace encircling each sleeve.