He tied it securely to the horn of the saddle, and was holding the stirrup for her to mount, when she reached out her hand, saying, “Thank you ever so much for this rich treat. I’ll not forget it. Now may I ask for one thing more?” “Certainly; what is it?” “Your name.” “Oh, Fred--Fred Benton.” “Well, Mr. Fred, I don’t like you one bit”; her tone was mischievous. “Why not?” “You broke your promise with me. Why didn’t you come to our dance?” “Oh--well--I! really, Miss Morgan--I--” “There now, no excuses, you didn’t want to come.” “Please let me explain.” “Go on then.” “Well, I was out hunting, you remember, and in my scouting up through the foothills, I ran on to an old mountaineer. I got so interested listening to his stories, that, before I realized it, it was sundown and when I reached home it was so late I was ashamed to go to the dance; but really I wanted to go.” “Not very much, I’m afraid.” “Now, please don’t. We are to be good friends, aren’t we?” “I hope so, but you’d better not treat my invitations so lightly after this. There’s another dance to be given soon. Will you come?” “Yes, I promise--” “Don’t promise, just come,” she said lightly, then--“Say, tell me more about the old mountaineer. What does he look like?” “He is tall and straight, with long hair and beard and the kindest of eyes and voice--you would like him I know. He lives in the cosiest little cabin in a pretty dell; you ought to see it.” “I’m interested; take me there--oh!--pardon me--I--” “No pardon needed. I’ll be delighted to do it.” “When can we go?” “Any time you say. Do you like to shoot?” “I’ve never tried it. Will you teach me how?” “It’s fun to teach you. Say, I’ll tell you.” “What?” “Let’s go on a chicken hunt and visit the old mountaineer together?” “Fine! I’ll do it; but I must be going now or Uncle will worry about me. Good-by.” “Good-by,” he responded, as she turned Eagle’s head toward the trail. The little horse leaped up the bank at her touch. With a wave of her hand she disappeared among the willows. The boys at the ranch missed their usual trout supper that night and they joked Fred about failing to do his duty. He took their flings good-naturedly; but he never let out a word to tell what became of the best string of fish he ever caught. CHAPTER VI ANKANAMP It was a gloomy night. The sun had gone down in a bank of black clouds. The lightning was playing above the western hills, and the thunder was beginning to grumble. The lightning flashed more sharply; a wind swept across the valley; the rain began to patter, then to pour; the lightning leaped flash upon flash out of the inky sky, while closely following every stroke came the cracking, booming thunder. The storm was on in all its fury, driving through the swaying trees and drenching the group of silent wigwams that stood ghost-like within the edge of an aspen grove at the foot of the eastern mountains.