But he was doomed to encounter what was to him a more disagreeable
object--a human figure. By the bedraggled drapery that flapped and
fluttered in the wind, by the long, unkempt hair that hid the face and
eyes, and by the grotesquely misplaced bonnet, the old man recognized
one of his old trespassers--an Indian squaw.
"Clear out 'er that! Come, make tracks, will ye?" the old man screamed;
but here the wind stopped his voice, and drove him against a
hazel-bush.
"Me heap sick," answered the squaw, shivering through her muddy shawl.
"I'll make ye a heap sicker if ye don't vamose the ranch," continued
Fairley, advancing.
"Me wantee Wangee girl. Wangee girl give me heap grub," said the squaw,
without moving.
"You bet your life," groaned the old man to himself. Nevertheless an
idea struck him. "Ye ain't brought no presents, hev ye?" he asked
cautiously. "Ye ain't got no pooty things for poor Wangee girl?" he
continued insinuatingly.
"Me got heap _cache_ nuts and berries," said the squaw.
"Oh, in course! in course! That's just it," screamed Fairley; "you've
got 'em _cached_ only two mile from yer, and you'll go and get 'em for
a half dollar, cash down.
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