Of course,as soon as his eyes could penetrate the semi-gloom sufficiently to distinguish small objects,he saw the proof;but even before that,the air seemed tingling with some strange personality.He stood like a statue,gazing fixedly.His alert eyes,always on guard,had assured him that the cove was deserted--there was no use to look behind him.Whoever had been there must have scaled the mountain,and had either crossed to the plain on the north,or was hiding behind the rocks.What held his eyes to the stove was a heap of tobacco,and a clay pipe beside it.Among the stores removed from the wagon,tobacco had been found in generous quantity,but during the month now elapsed,bad been sadly reduced.Willock,however,was not pleased to find the new supply;on the contrary his emotions were confused and alarmed.Had the tobacco been ten times as much,it could not have solaced him for the knowledge that the dugout had been visited.
After a few minutes of immobility,he entered,placed the meat on a box,and departed softly,closing the door behind him.Casting apprehensive glances along the mountainside,he stole toward it,and made his way up the gully,completely hidden by the straggling line of trees and underbrush,till he stood on the summit.He approached each ridge with extreme caution,as if about to storm the barricade of an enemy;thus he traveled over the range without coming on the traces of his mysterious visitor.Not pausing at the crevice,he went on to the outer northern ridge of the range,and lying flat among some high rocks,looked down.
He counted seventeen men near the spot from which he had removed the wagon.Fifteen were on horseback and two riderless horses explained the presence of the two on foot.All of them had drawn up in a circle about the heap of stones that covered the woman's burial-place.Of the seventeen,sixteen were Indians,painted and adorned for the war-path.The remaining man,he who stood at the heap of stones beside the chief,was a white man,and at the first glance,Willock recognized him;he was the dead woman's husband,Henry Gledware.
Brick's mind was perplexed with vain questionings:Was it Gledware who had visited his dugout,or the Indians?Did the pipe and tobacco indicate a peace-offering?What was the relationship between Gledware and these Indians?Was he their prisoner,and were they about to burn him upon the heap of stones?He did not seem alarmed.Had he made friends with the chief by promising to conduct him to the deserted wagon?If so,what would they think in regard to the wagon's disappearance?Had the dugout persuaded them that there was no other retreat in the mountains?
While Brick watched in agitated suspense,several Indians leaped to the ground at a signal from the chief and advanced toward the white man.The chief turned his back upon the company,and started toward 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.
