Part 34

“Dunno. I reckon HE didn't either.”

“You may stay here for the present,” said the elder man meditatively. “Can you milk?”

The girl nodded. “And I suppose you know something about looking after stock?” he continued.

The girl remembered that her father thought she didn't, but this was no time for criticism, and she again nodded.

“Come with me,” said the older man, rising. “I suppose,” he added, glancing at her ragged frock, “everything you have is in the wagon.”

She nodded, adding with the same cold naivete, “It ain't much!”

They walked on, the girl following; at times straying furtively on either side, as if meditating an escape in the woods,--which indeed had once or twice been vaguely in her thoughts,--but chiefly to avoid further questioning and not to hear what the men said to each other. For they were evidently speaking of her, and she could not help hearing the younger repeat her words, “Wot's agoin' to become o' me?” with considerable amusement, and the addition: “She'll take care of herself, you bet! I call that remark o' hers the richest thing out.”

“And I call the state of things that provoked it--monstrous!” said the elder man grimly. “You don't know the lives of these people.”

Presently they came to an open clearing in the forest, yet so incomplete that many of the felled trees, partly lopped of their boughs, still lay where they had fallen. There was a cabin or dwelling of unplaned, unpainted boards; very simple in structure, yet made in a workmanlike fashion, quite unlike the usual log cabin she had seen. This made her think that the elder man was a “towny,” and not a frontiersman like the other.

As they approached the cabin the elder man stopped, and turning to her, said:--

“Do you know Indians?”

The girl started, and then recovering herself with a quick laugh: “G'lang!--there ain't any Injins here!”

“Not the kind YOU mean; these are very peaceful. There's a squaw here whom you will”--he stopped, hesitated as he looked critically at the girl, and then corrected himself--“who will help you.”

He pushed open the cabin door and showed an interior, equally simple but well joined and fitted,--a marvel of neatness and finish to the frontier girl's eye. There were shelves and cupboards and other conveniences, yet with no ostentation of refinement to frighten her rustic sensibilities.

Then he pushed open another door leading into a shed and called “Waya.” A stout, undersized Indian woman, fitted with a coarse cotton gown, but cleaner and more presentable than the girl's one frock, appeared in the doorway. “This is Waya, who attends to the cooking and cleaning,” he said; “and by the way, what is your name?”

“Libby Jones.”

He took a small memorandum book and a “stub” of pencil from his pocket. “Elizabeth Jones,” he said, writing it down. The girl interposed a long red hand.

“No,” she interrupted sharply, “not Elizabeth, but Libby, short for Lib'rty.”

“Liberty?”

“Yes.”

“Liberty Jones, then. Well, Waya, this is Miss Jones, who will look after the cows and calves--and the dairy.” Then glancing at her torn dress, he added: “You'll find some clean things in there, until I can send up something from San Jose. Waya will show you.”

Without further speech he turned away with the other man. When they were some distance from the cabin, the younger remarked:--

“More like a boy than a girl, ain't she?”

“So much the better for her work,” returned the elder grimly.

“I reckon! I was only thinkin' she didn't han'some much either as a boy or girl, eh, doctor?” he pursued.

“Well! as THAT won't make much difference to the cows, calves, or the dairy, it needn't trouble US,” returned the doctor dryly. But here a sudden outburst of laughter from the cabin made them both turn in that direction. They were in time to see Liberty Jones dancing out of the cabin door in a large cotton pinafore, evidently belonging to the squaw, who was following her with half-laughing, half-frightened expostulations. The two men stopped and gazed at the spectacle.

“Don't seem to be takin' the old man's death very pow'fully,” said the younger, with a laugh.

“Quite as much as he deserved, I daresay,” said the doctor curtly. “If the accident had happened to HER, he would have whined and whimpered to us for the sake of getting something, but have been as much relieved, you may be certain. SHE'S too young and too natural to be a hypocrite yet.”