Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. The owner of this dress had a broad weather-beaten face, small twinkling eyes, and a bushy, grizzled beard. She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain. He could quite understand the daughter of Mr. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. The change in her face was not a pleasant one. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she.
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