“Then ye reckon dad’s dead?”

“We fear it.”

“Then wot’s a-goin’ to become o’ me?” she said simply.

They glanced again at each other.  “Have you no friends in California?” said the elder man.

“Nary one.”

“What was your father going to do?”

“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?”