the mountain, his face turned toward Brick's place of observation.
He began climbing upward, the red feather in his hair gleaming
against the green of the cedars. Brick had but to remain where he
was, to reach forth his hand presently and seize the warrior--but
in that case, those on the plain would come swarming up the ascent
for vengeance.

Brick darted from his post, swept like a dipping swallow across the
ravine, and snatching up the rope-ladder from its nook under the
boulder, scurried down into the granite chamber. Having removed the
ladder, he crept to the extremity of the excavation, and with his
back against the wall and his gun held in readiness, awaited the
coming of the chief. After the lapse of many minutes he grew
reassured; the Indian, thinking the dugout his only home, had passed
the crevice without the slightest suspicion.

However, lest in thrusting forth his head, he call attention to his
home in the rock, he kept in retreat the rest of that day, nor did
he venture forth that night. After all, the housewarming did not
take place. The stove remained cold, the tobacco and pipe upon it
were undisturbed, and the evening meal consisted notably of plums.



CHAPTER VII
RED FEATHER


One bright warm afternoon in October two years later, Brick Willock
sat smoking his pipe before the open door of his dugout, taking