It was a gruff voice, and yet there was something feminine about
it. CHARLEY had never feared to meet a woman yet, and he did not now
shrink from the encounter. However his training had made him cautious.
It might be a trap of the bloodthirsty Indians--those Children of
Nature who were known to indulge in any cruel subterfuge to secure the
white men as their prey.

"Are you ready?" was repeated in the same gruff voice, but now the
tone was one of entreaty. The speaker seemed to be imploring for a
reply.

CHARLEY hesitated no longer. He put down the bowie-knife, and still
holding the revolver, opened the door.

He started back! Yes, it was a woman who confronted him. But such a
woman! Her face was weather-beaten and sunburnt. Her hair was grey,
and there were pieces of sea-weed in the shapeless mass that once may
have been called a bonnet. She was wearing a heavy serge dress that
was dripping with the sea. On her huge feet were old boots sodden with
sand and wet. She might have been of any age, from fifty upwards.

She gazed at CHARLEY with an uncanny smile, and extended her arms
towards him. Then she spoke in the same gruff tone,

"Come to your MARTHA!"

And CHARLEY knew he had met a chum!

* * * * *