“And tomorrow,” Greta whispered eagerly, “tomorrow at dawn we will go up the ridge.”
“Why so soon?”
Greta told of hearing that faint thread of music.
“We shall see,” said Florence, and began preparation for the night.
Their tent was small, only seven feet square. It had a floor of canvas. Once inside with the flap buttoned tight, they were as securely housed as the caterpillar in his chrysalis.
Greta was not slow in creeping down among the blankets. She went to sleep at once.
As for Florence, she drew on her heavy sweater, thrust her feet under the blankets, propped the rifle against the tent wall and, folding her arms across her knees, sat at half watch the night through.
The sun had not cleared the tree tops when the Conservation boat appeared. It had a small black power boat in tow.
“We waited for him all night, that head hunter,” Mell explained. “Didn’t show up. Hoofed it back into the hills, I guess. The boat was stolen. We’re taking it back.
“No good, his hiding in the forest,” he concluded. “We’ll get him, you’ll see. Tell every ship captain to watch for him.”