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."

"Me bring Wangee girl to cache," replied the Indian, pointing to the
wood. "Honest Injin."