He began to scan the ground between the house and the tree. The color rose in his face as he did so, for he saw that the man had been at the door and close by the windows; also he saw the hole under the house, which looked as if something had lately passed through it.
“Have you a dog?” he asked, returning to the house.
“No,” she said. “Uncle never kept a dog, though often I’ve though he ought to have one, and a good, savage one, too, living out here alone so much. But no one ever really troubled him. Several months ago a drunken man came along the trail, and at another time an Indian tried to get into the house to steal something; but that’s all.”
“That was enough!”
She was bustling about the kitchen, and soon she had the breakfast ready, and they sat down to it.
“You’re expecting some one, too?” she said. “Pawnee Bill, and who was the other?”
“Nick Nomad.”
“Oh, yes; such an odd name I couldn’t remember it. And you say he is an odd character?”
“But with a heart of gold. Old Nick Nomad is as true and good a friend as I ever could wish to have.”
“And all three of you are here looking for Blackfeet Indians and road agents?”