“Thank you—I am sure it will be a treat,” he answered as he slid from the saddle.
“Er—I—I had hoped to meet Miss Fletcher here also,” he added, as he hesitatingly glanced about.
“Oh, yes, she is here—that is, she will be here presently. She just now went down to the road after some more thorn-apples for our chains. We are going to play Indian,” she laughed.
“Even the dogs thought Miss Bess was a really squaw when they saw her all wrapped in a blanket,” put in “Peter Pan” as she came inquisitively forward to see their visitor.
Slowly the explanation of the squaw by the road-side forced itself into his brain. For a moment he held his breath wondering if he had made a fool of himself. Perhaps she did not recognize him, but if she did he would easily convince her it was a joke—that he had known it was she all the while.
What could be keeping Bess so long? Why did she not return to camp with the gathered thorn-apples? Each moment a glance went up the trail, hoping that she would soon be coming. No one saw the silent pseudo squaw as she crept softly on her hands and knees in the shadow of the logs and the close covering of the brush. No one saw her now as she lay flat on the ground securely concealed by the thick leaves and the tall grasses, watching the occupants of the camp with glowing eyes. No one? Yes, one alert pair of ears had heard a twig snap; one keen nose had sniffed the air, and now a pair of appealing eyes were looking into hers.
“Charge Gladdy!” she said to the dog with a wriggling tail, as emphatically as she could in a whisper. Then she flung her arm about him holding him close lest he betray her concealment. Would the visitor never go? Should she be compelled finally to come forth and rejoin the others at the camp? If she could only convince herself that the Agent had recognized her in the road and had not really thought she was a squaw she would not now hesitate in meeting him. But somehow a feeling of uncertainty crept into her heart and for the moment made her fairly hate him. The approach of horses along the highway caused her to sit upright and listen. Gladstone, too, heard the sound and before he could be checked, began a vigorous barking. She could hear the horses coming through the tangled brush, and in a moment more she stood face to face with James Fletcher and Henry West.
“Great guns! Bess; you are a regular Pocahontas! How’s that for a ‘peachy’ squaw?” he said to West, as he nearly tumbled from his saddle and gave his sister a vigorous hug. Henry West had also dismounted and caught his horse’s bridle over his arm. In his glance was a look of questioning approval which caused Bess to ask:
“I am wondering, Henry, if you like me this way?”
“If all squaws looked as well, a man wouldn’t mind being an Indian,” he said significantly, walking by her side.