Midway of the even, broad expanse between shack and gap stood an A-tent, very new, very white, and very generous in dimension. Like a giant mushroom, it had cropped forth during the night. About it stretched the untouched prairie, all purpling over with morning-glories.
The tent opened toward the river, and was flanked on one side by a pile of short pickets, their tops dipped the colour of the canvas, their bases nicely sharpened for the plotting out of ground. Near by, thrown flat, was a wide board sign, which read, in staring blue letters:
"AL BRADEN, REAL ESTATE."
It was well on toward noon before the tent showed life. Then there emerged from it a bulky man of middle age, who dusted at his high boots as he came, stretched, drawing his long coat snug, and settled an elaborate vest. He completed his costume by donning a black hat that was of wool, and floppy. Then, thumbs tucked in armholes, he strolled away toward the Lancasters'.
The section-boss and his daughters were lined up on the warm side of the lean-to, shading their faces from the sun. When the comer was so near that they could see he wasstrange to them, Lancaster gave a peremptory wag of the head, and the two girls disappeared around a corner. Their father stayed on watch, his jaws working nervously with the ever-present chew.
The burly man advanced upon the lean-to. "Mornin', mornin'," was his greeting. He made several swinging bows at Lancaster, and took him in shrewdly from eyes that were round and close-set.
The section-boss grunted.
"Lovelyday," observed the other, with a bland smile. He changed his tack a little, as if he were going by.
Lancaster hobbled along with him. "Y-a-a-s," he drawled. "Right good. Some cool."
The stranger agreed by another series of swinging bows. "You got a nice place here—nice place," he continued affably. He loosened one thumb with a jerk.
"Nice 'nough."
The man halted in front of the shack and looked it over. "You're a Southern gentleman," said he, "by your talk."
"Ah am." Lancaster spoke with unfriendly rising inflection.
"Well, well." A hand was extended—a fat hand, where sparkled a diamond. "Say, now, this is lovely, lovely. I'm a Southerner myself, sir. Put it there!"
The section-boss hesitated. So far, Dakota had offered him no compatriot. He could scarce believe that one stood before him now. A second, then he gave a pleased grin. "Howdy," he said. "Hope y' goin' t' settle hereabout."
They shook heartily.
"Settle due east of you, sir," was the answer. "My name's Braden—AlBraden. I'm from Sioux Falls."
"Won't y' come in?"
"Tickled t' death!"
They entered the shack, Lancaster leading. Dallas and Marylyn glanced up in surprise from the fireplace, and arose hastily.
"M' gals," said the section-boss, motioning their visitor to a bench.
Braden took it, with more swinging bows, and a sweep of his floppy headgear. "Glad t' meet you," he smiled, "Miss-a-a-a-Miss——"
"Lancaster's they name," prompted the section-boss, all good nature.
"—Lancaster. Glad t' meet you both."
Dallas nodded, and drew her sister away to the wagon-seat in the corner.
"Jes' fr'm th' Falls, Ah think y' said," began their father, hunting his tobacco plug along the mantel.
"Yep."
"Um. Any—any news fr'm down thet way 'bout this part o' th' country?"
Braden fell to admiring his ring. "No, sir, no. Didn't hear nothin' particular."
The section-boss fidgeted. "S'pose y' know they's some talk 'bout a railroad comin' this way," he said carelessly.
"Don't go much on that talk. Ten years, twenty years—maybe. Too early yet."
Lancaster's face lengthened. He blinked in dismay.
"My idea," went on Braden, "is cows. Goin' t' be a lotof money in 'em, sure as you're alive. Hear Clark's made a good thing of his'n."
"Cows!" said Lancaster, in disgust. "Cows don' help a country; don' raise th' price o' lan'."
"Cows or no cows, your place here's worth a nice little sum," protested the other, condescendingly; "hunderd, anyway."
Lancaster stared. "Hunderd!" he cried. "You got th' grass staggers.Fivehunderd."
Braden pursed his lips, his thumbs in his armholes again. "Three hunderd and fifty, say," he compromised. "I'dbe willin' t' give youthat."
A moment since, the section-boss had been downcast. Now, he guffawed. "Would y'?" he asked; "would y'?" There was a sage gleam in his eye.
"I would."
Lancaster sucked his teeth importantly. "Y' couldn' hev it a cent short o' seven hunderd an' fifty," he declared.
"You'll never get it, sir,never. Five hunderd's a spankin' figger."
"Bah!"
"Telling you what's what. There's thousands of acres around here just as good as your'n any day in the week. But you got this end of the ford. That makes a little difference."
"Makes 'bout fifteen hunderd dollars' diff'rence."
It was Braden's turn to laugh. "My friend, you'll hist to two thousand pretty soon," he warned; and arose. "Better take five hunderd and fifty when it's offered." He flung out his hands as if he were feeding hens.
Lancaster got up with him, righteously angry. "Say,youain't no South'ner," he cried. "Jes' a slick Yank. Ah c'n see through you like winda-pane!"
Braden laughed again, tapping the shoulder of the section-boss. "You ain't wise," he confided. "Farmin' out here with cows around means fences. But hang on if you want to. It's your land." He ended this with a jovial slap, and made for the door. From it, he could see the girls. He gave them a magnificent bow. "Mornin', mornin'," he said, and walked out.
Lancaster went back to the hearth, fairly weak with delight. Dallas and Marylyn joined him. "W'at d' y' think!" gurgled their father. "Say, he ain't got th' sense he ought 'a' been born with!"
"Don't like him," Dallas declared.
"Pig eyes," suggested Marylyn.
At that the section-boss calmed. "Wal," he said, "he's as good anyhow as slop-over soldiers."
Meanwhile, Braden was on his way to The Trooper's Delight, his face glum, his step quick, his arms cutting the air like propellers. When he lumbered into it, he creaked up to the plank bar and helped himself to a finger of whisky. Then he propped himself on an elbow and stood scowling into the rear of the room.
From the gaming-table sounded the raillery of a dozen men. Matthews was there, heels up, hat tipped back, a cigar set between his little teeth.
"What y' givin' us," cried one of his companions. "You're drunk, Nick—plumb drunk."
Braden listened, turning away. An advertisement of brandy hung from a shelf on the far side of the bar. Hetoyed with his goblet, his eyes fixed on the gaudy, fly-specked picture.
"Iain'tdrunk," Matthews declared. "Ineverbeen drunk. My stomick ain't big 'nough to hold thereequissitamount."
There was more laughter. The interpreter, well pleased with himself, surveyed his audience, pointing the cigar, now up, now down, so that its glowing end threatened to burn his shirt collar, or, tilting skyward, all but singed what there was of a tow eyebrow.
"And that ain't the best part of the story," he went on. "As I was sayin', not a darned pound of ice was left in Boston. Well, what d' y' think my old man does? He rents the fastest coast-steamer he can find. Then, he goes 'way up north in the Atlantic and lays-to with his weather eye open. Day or two, long comes a' iceberg big as a house. And by——, he hitches to it, and Boston gits ice!"
And now, like a ponderous bobcat descending upon its prey, Braden stole soft-footed across the room. "Nick!" he said. His jaws came together with the click of a steel trap.
Matthews lowered his heels. "Jumpin' buffalo!" he cried in amazement. "Al Braden! Where'dyoucome from?" He took the other's hand, at the same time pulling him slowly toward the door. Away from the crowd, they brought up.
"Well,you'rea nice one!" was Braden's answer. "You're aniceone! Lettin' that Bend slip through your fingers!"
All the interpreter's cocksureness was gone. He threwthe cigar into the sand-box under the stove, and looked on the verge of following it.
"Say,youtalk of fleecin'," taunted Braden. "Why, you been skinned clean's a whistle! And by a' old fool duffer from Texas!"
"I was at Dodge when he come," snarled Matthews, finding his voice.
"What you go streakin' off to Dodge for, after the tip I give?"
"Well, no one here was talkin' railroad. So I, well, I——"
Braden addressed the ceiling, his fat hands outspread. "No one here was talkin' railroad, no one here was talkin' railroad?" he mimicked.
"—So I didn't put much stock in your letter."
"You didn't, eh?" Braden searched a coat-pocket, found a newspaper clipping and thrust it under Matthews' nose. "Well, read that."
"Read it yourself," said Matthews. "You know blamed well——"
Braden interrupted him by beginning. He lowered his voice, and intoned, giving the interpreter a glance designed to wilt him with the words that called for stress:
"'The proposed line will open up a country of richgrassesandgroundand of unexcelledhunting. The Indians, while still troublesome beyond theMissouri, are rapidly being brought to see the advisability of remaining on thereservations, and little more annoyance on theirpartmay beapprehended. Fort Brannon, he declares, is in the hands of several hundred bravefightingmen and may be looked upon as a place of certainrefugein case of anoutbreak. The soldiers areproving to be such a menace to those Indians who will not agree to reservationlife, that whole bands of the more savage redskins are leaving for theBad Landsand theroughercountry fartherwest. No Indian war-parties have been seen east of the big river forsome time. Already there is an increasinginterestinlandalong thesurvey. And it is believed that when the lasttiesof thenew line are laidthere will befew unclaimed quarter-sectionsbetween theBig Siouxand theMissouri.'
"'The proposed line will open up a country of richgrassesandgroundand of unexcelledhunting. The Indians, while still troublesome beyond theMissouri, are rapidly being brought to see the advisability of remaining on thereservations, and little more annoyance on theirpartmay beapprehended. Fort Brannon, he declares, is in the hands of several hundred bravefightingmen and may be looked upon as a place of certainrefugein case of anoutbreak. The soldiers areproving to be such a menace to those Indians who will not agree to reservationlife, that whole bands of the more savage redskins are leaving for theBad Landsand theroughercountry fartherwest. No Indian war-parties have been seen east of the big river forsome time. Already there is an increasinginterestinlandalong thesurvey. And it is believed that when the lasttiesof thenew line are laidthere will befew unclaimed quarter-sectionsbetween theBig Siouxand theMissouri.'
"There!" Braden wound up. "And gradin' begun already at the Mississippi."
"The h—l you say!"
"Believe me now, won't you? Didn't they have a bankquitwith champagney? All the State big-bugs, headsurveyor, and so on?"
"Too bad!"
"That's what I say. And I'll say more. Of course, we was to go pardners on this thing. So far, so good. But here you ain't did your half. And you can't kick if I deal from now on with old man Lancaster."
Matthews understood. "By——, I done my best," he cried. "Y' can't come any of that onme, Braden."
"Keep on your shirt, Nick, keep on your shirt. I looked into this thing at Bismarck, and, under the law, you ain't got one right. Lancaster owns that Bend. And if I pay him out of my own money, why ain't it square?"
The interpreter hung his head.
"Of course," Braden went on, "I'd rather divvy. I can see he's one of them greedy old ducks that's hard to talk money with. Maybe you can think up how to get the land back."
Matthews leaned close. "I had a scheme,"—he nodded south in the direction of Medicine Mountain—"but the reds can't come. I had t' go slow. There's women in th' fambly. Nat'lly, all the men up and down the Muddy want t' see Lancaster stay. There's been a dude fr'm Bismarck here, off and on—tony cuss, sleeps between sheets, nice about his paws as a cat. He's been ready t' tattle or roll a gun."
Braden sniffed. "What trick's he played?"
Matthews evaded the question. "I seen one of the Clark outfit," he continued, "and tried t' git him t' bother old limpy. Says I, 'They's stealin' your slow-elk down there.' Wasn't any use. 'Thunderation!' says the cow-punch. 'You mean that bull? He was a yearlin' when he come to 'em. That's maverick age.'"
Braden sneered. "Such a kid!" he murmured. "Why didn't you lay low, and not go butting down their door? Why didn't you lose the old man and snub up one of the girls—marry her? Big one's a rip-snortin' beauty; pert, by jingo! as a prairie-dog."
"She'd send me a-flyin'," urged Matthews. "But th' little one——"
"Sure! You're a good-looker—handsome. If you'd fix yourself up some."
"If I could git rid of the old man! If I could! Aw! come t' think, what I got that lout of a brother for?Easy—with Indians to lay it on. Blaze the way for 'Babe'—he's a saphead—but he knows enough to follow a spotted line."
"Go careful."
"I'll try t' scare 'em off."
"Huh! folks that ain't afraid to come this far in a schooner, Indians or no Indians, ain't likely to stampede at one white."
"You don't know how I mean."
"Go ahead. No use our brayin' like starved jackasses.Dosomethin'. You was a fool to ever let 'em winter."
Matthews clenched his fists. "Well," he said, "they won't winteragain!"
David Bond was on his knees in the bed of his wagon, beneath the high board cross. Before him he held an open Bible. But he was not reading. His head was uncovered. His beard was lifted. His eyes closed in prayer. Beside him knelt Squaw Charley, with hands pressed together, as if reverent; with shoulders bent lower than their wont; with shifting, downward look. North of the barracks, on the road that led from the steamer-landing, the two had met in the early hours to say good-by.
Swift on the first hint of coming trouble, the evangelist had made ready for his long journey to the west. Shadrach was shod, his master fitting the plates to the shaggy hoofs. The runners were taken from the green box and replaced by the red wheels. Canned food, salted meat, hardtack, and forage were boxed or sacked at the sutler's. The harness was greased. A new nail was driven home through the base of the sagging cross.
During these preparations, the post joined in an effort to damp the aged preacher's hopes and to check his going. He was needed at Brannon, they said, so that the regiment could be rid of Matthews. His belief that he could talk peace terms to the hostiles was ludicrous. As for the Jamieson women, they were dead, or they would have been returned long since to save the four condemned fromhanging. And his own life was to be uselessly endangered. Already, out upon the prairie, Indian scouts were keeping watch. He might be able, though alone and unarmed, to pass them and reach the coulées beyond. But he would only fall into the murderous clutches of the savages swarming there.
David Bond smiled when they argued. His faith was as firm as the bluffs that ramparted the fort, and his old heart was unafraid. With him, against the rest, ranged two men—Robert Fraser and young Jamieson. They believed, as he did, that, knowing the tongue, and having friends among the Sioux, he would be in no peril; that, by now, the captive mother and daughter were on American ground again, and would be given over to his care more readily than to another's; that the arrival of troops before the enemy's camp would be fraught with risk for the defenceless two; and that an attempt to take them by force would be their death-signal.
Colonel Cummings was harrowed by Jamieson's months of anguish and illness, and angered by the indifference and dawdling of the captors in the face of his demand and threat. His heart was set upon punishment, now, not treaty. He felt that he was being played with. And he longed to find the red Sioux and thrash them soundly. A word about the evangelist's trip put him out of patience. He regarded it as futile and rash. Yet he did not forbid it—he dared not. For there was Jamieson's old-young face and whitening head; and a hidden spark of hope that would not die.
He owed it to his conscience and position, however, to discourage David Bond. "There will be sharp fighting this summer," he told him. "A hundred good men like youcouldn't stop it. The cause lies too deep, and it is too well founded. In the matter of the women, you will also fail. They did not come as the price of four chiefs. Will they come because you ask for them politely? They won't. And you will be slaughtered."
"Then I shall die in a noble cause," answered the preacher, simply. "The Indians know me. I am their friend. I have spent my life with them, taught them, advised, converted. What is all my labour worth, Colonel, if I cannot go among them in times of distress?"
"Worth this," said the colonel, "that you should know when to use your common sense. I tell you, you will meet with treachery. Friend, or no friend, this year the Indians are hunting scalps."
"I put my trust in God," murmured David Bond.
"Don't put your trust in redskins," retorted Cummings, crossly. Whereupon he tramped away.
"Waste of breath—nothing else," he declared to his wife. "I'm clean put out with the old fellow. He's daft on going. Now, why doesn't he stay here, instead of sticking his throat to the knife? There's plenty to do. But, no. Off he must rush on a wild-goose chase. Well, he'll have one, mark that! He's either ripe for an insane asylum or he's a religious adventurer—and I'm hanged if I know which!"
It was the bluster that covers an aching wound; that is a vent for outraged helplessness. And David Bond understood.
When he asked leave to address the stockade, the commanding officer willingly consented. The attitude of the hostages on that occasion startled and disturbed the wholepost. For the evangelist might as well have harangued the cottonwood grove across the river. He asked the braves for messages to their brothers. By way of reply, they got up, one after the other, from where he had found them, grouped in the sun before the council-tent, and strolled insolently to their lodges. Soon he was discoursing to empty space, and to a line of squaws who threw him malignant glances and jeered at him. He left, surprised, saddened, but unshaken.
Impudence, bold hatred, and defiance—these were following the smoke from Medicine Mountain. They formed a cue that pointed to one fact: The prisoners were disappointed. They had been expecting, not peace and reservation life, but freedom and battle.
David Bond felt a double need for his quick departure and his services among the gathering war-bands. He hastened his few remaining tasks and set the day for the start. Now, the day was come. His farewells had been said at the shack and at headquarters. Breakfast over and Shadrach put to the shafts, he would take his way up the river. But first there must be laid upon Squaw Charley a final and a solemn charge.
The prayer finished, he put out a hand and touched the Indian. Then he opened his tear-blurred eyes and looked at him, his face softening and working. The Squaw did not budge. His palms were still pressed tight. He blinked at the wagon-bed.
"Charles," said the evangelist, earnestly, "you and I love the little family over yonder. They have been good and kind. I want you to watch over them while I am gone, and be faithful to them. The father is crippled and weak,and he has no friends. Charles, you must be a friend to him, and to the girls. No matter what happens, do not fail them. There will be another guarding. Guard with him. Something may call him away; someone may kill him. Take his place. If danger comes, tell of it at the Fort. Do you promise, Charles? do you promise?" He leaned forward, entreating.
The outcast moved from side to side uneasily.
"Promise, promise," said David Bond. "You must give up anything for them, even your life. Remember that—even your life. I have told you often, and you have not forgot: 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"
Again the Indian moved uneasily.
"'For his friends,'" repeated the evangelist. "Ah! they have been your friends!" He put his fingers beneath The Squaw's chin and lifted it. The two looked long into each other's eyes. Then they arose and parted.
Later, when the last buckle of Shadrach's harness was fixed, David Bond climbed to the seat and took up the reins. A score of troopers about the head of the white horse stepped aside and formed a little lane. Here and there, a man reached up. Here and there, too, were awkward attempts at wit. "Hope y' 've made yer will, parson," called one. "Look out them locks o' yourn don't go t' trick out some big buck," admonished a second. "Good-by," cried a third, saluting with great formality; "tell ol' St. Peter he'll git a bunch of us some time this summer."
To all, the evangelist returned his blessing.
The interpreter shoved forward through the growing crowd and made a show of friendliness. "Gran'pa," he said,"you're pritty game, all right. Most old war-hosses like you'd be stayin' home and enjoyin' their pension."
David Bond threw up his head resentfully. "Pension," he said, and shot a searching look into Matthews' face. "I am not a man who sells his principles for money. What I give to my country, I give free."
The crowd cheered him, swinging their caps.
Then there was a hush. A shrunken figure was hurrying up, stretching out thin hands to detain him. No one scoffed now. But one stout trooper put an arm about Jamieson to steady him while he talked.
"Mr. Bond, the Colonel thinks I oughtn't to go with you. He wants me to wait for the ambulance. But he's fooling—he's fooling. He means me to stay behind, and I know it. So I've come to say that I look to you to find mother and Alice. Tell them to hurry. For I can't stand this—long." The grey head dropped to the trooper's shoulder.
"Jamieson," said the evangelist, "if God spares my life I shall meet your mother and sister. I shall cheer them and help them. I believe I shall save them. If they are given to me, I shall come straight back. Do not go with the command. Stay behind, Jamieson. I'll bring them to you."
"I'll stay, then. I believe——"
The preacher smiled down, and to every side. Then he clucked to Shadrach. The tugs straightened. The wagon rolled slowly out of the post.
The sunlight shone upon the green box and the red wheels, and upon the staunch old driver, who never once looked back. Above him, emblem of the sublime Martyr, sagged the high board cross.
Under the cottonwoods that shadowed the landing-place, the clematis trailed its tufts of fluffy grey; a cluster of wind-flowers nodded, winking their showy blue eyes; birds whisked about to fetch straws and scraps for their building; and the grass, bright green, but stubby, wore a changing spatterwork of sun and leaf.
Marylyn let drop her bonnet and the cow-horn that hung by a thong to her wrist. Then, with folded hands, she looked up and around her, sniffing the warm air in delight. The Texas home had never offered such a lovely retreat. There, the aridmesahad grown thorny mesquite, scraggled cypress, or stunted live-oak for a shade; sand had whirled ceaselessly before a high, hot wind; no flowers had bloomed but the pale toadflax and the prickly-pear; and beside the salt lakes of that almost waterless waste had nested only the vulture.
But this! It was like the blossom-strewn plain that burst upon them as, desert-wearied, they travelled into Central Texas; like the glimpses of April woodland in the Upper and Lower Cross Timbers. It made generous return for the long, merciless winter; more—in one glance, in one breath, it swept away a whole winter of hateful memories!
She caught up bonnet and horn and chose a seat close to the river. Before her was a gap in the knottedgrapevine heaps that clung along the brink of the bank; through it, veiled only by some tendrils that swung wishfully across, lay a wedge-like vista of muddy water, bottom-land, bluff, and sky. The mid-morning sun glinted upon the treacherous current, upon the wet grass of the bottom-land, upon the green-brown bluff and the Gatling at its top, upon the far, curving azure of the sky. Against the dazzle, her blue eyes winked harder than the breeze-tossed anemones; stretching out upon her back, she rested them in the shifting canopy of foliage.
A startled kingbird flashed past her, coming from a tree by the cut. She got up, and saw a man in uniform standing near. He was a young man, with a flushed face and wildly rumpled hair. In one hand he held a tasselled hat; in the other, a rifle. He leaned forward from behind a bull-berry bush, and his look was guiltily eager and admiring.
As startled as the kingbird, she grasped the cow-horn and lifted it to her lips.
But she did not blow a warning. The uniform retreated in cowardly haste, the tasselled hat lowered, and the eyes beseeched.
A moment. Then, the man smiled and shook his hat at her roguishly. "A-ah!" he said—in the tone of one who has made a discovery—"I didn't know before that a fairy lives in this grove!"
Marylyn glanced over a shoulder. "Does there?" she questioned, half whispering.
He took a forward step. "There does," he answered solemnly. "It's Goldenhair, as well as I can make out. But where on earth are the bears?"
Instantly, she had her bonnet. "My! my!" she said. "Bears!Indians is bad enough." She peered into the long heaps of tangled grapevine.
"Oh, now!" he exclaimed self-accusingly. He whipped a knee with the hat. "Now, I've gone and scared you! Say, honest! There isn't a bear in a hundred miles—I'd stake my stupid head on it."
"But Golden——" she began.
"Goldenhair?" He smiled again, by way of entreaty. "Why, Goldenhair is—you."
She clapped on her bonnet in a little flurry, pulling it down to hide the last yellow wisp.
Misunderstanding the action, he began to plead. "Oh, don't go;pleasedon't go! I've wanted to meet you for months and months. I've heard so much about you—Lounsbury's told me."
She gave him a quick look from under the bonnet's rim. "Mr. Lounsbury," she repeated, and stiffened her lips.
"Yes."
"He don't know much about me, I reckon. He ain't been to see us for 'months and months.'" She began to dig at the ground with the toe of a shoe.
"Well—well——" he floundered, "he's been awful rushed, lately—needed at Clark's—there now. I promised to—to tend to his business here for him. But he told me about you, just the same, and about your sister, too. Say, but she is a brick!"
She gave him another look, slightly resentful, but inquiring. "What's a 'brick'?" she demanded.
"It's a person that's all grit," he answered earnestly.
"That's Dallas," she agreed.
He passaged in cavalry fashion until he was between her and the shack. Then he assumed a front that was cautiously humble. "Lounsbury's had the best of it," he complained. "He's known you right from the start. And this is the first chance I've ever had to know you."
She stopped toeing. "But I don't know you," she returned. "Mr. Lounsbury's never told me——"
"Well, I'll tell you: I'm Robert Fraser, from the Fort. That's really all there is to say about me. You see, I've only been in one fight—that was last fall—and I've never even killed an Indian."
She pulled nervously at her bonnet-strings. "You're a soldier," she said. "And pa—pa'd be mad as a hornet if he knew I'd spoke to you."
Fraser took another step forward. "Pa won't know," he declared.
"Promise you won't tell?" she asked, blushing consciously.
He cast about him as if to find a proper token for his vow. "I promise," he answered, hat on heart; "I promise by the Great Horn Spoon!"
"You're the first I—I ever talked to," she faltered.
"That's good!"
"No, it's bad. Because I promised pa once that I wouldn't ever have anything to do with a soldier. And now I'm breaking my word."
"But he's dead wrong——"
"That's what Dallas says."
"Does she? Bless her heart! Then, why don't you both desert and come over to the enemy?"
"Pa says youareenemy."
"We were," he corrected soberly. "But the war is over now."
"Maybe it is," she said, wistful, "but pa is still a-fighting."
"And Goldenhair's drafted when she'd rather have peace. Too bad!" He motioned her to the seat by the gap.
"I can't, I mustn't," she said, and moved a little toward the shack.
"Then I'll go," he said firmly. "I didn't mean to drive you out of here." He also moved—toward the landing-place.
At that, she assented, fearful of hurting his feelings. But she could think of nothing to say, and pulled thoughtfully at the grass.
He studied the farther bluff-top and its warding gun.
"Peace," he repeated after a time. "It's a thing we're not likely to have this summer. And you folks must let us watch out for you, no matter how much you dislike us. The Indians are out and getting ready. They say there isn't a young brave left on any of the reservations up this way. They're all hunting—and we know what that means. They're collecting and arming for battle. Our troops go to find them at daybreak. See!" He bent forward, pointing.
Below the stockade, on a level stretch showing yellow with mustard, where grain had been unshipped the year before, stood long, grey-tented rows.
"They've moved out of barracks and gone into temporary camp."
"That land man back there's moved and gone, too." She waited. Then, "Are—are you going?"
He shook his head. "I'm scheduled to stay. It was a disappointment; but I expected it. I've an idea B Troop won't be idle though."
Her brow knit. "Indians?" she asked.
"Your being on this side of the river assures you folks safety," he hastened to say. "And they shan't get to you while B Troop's in post."
"All the same, I wish pa'd let Dallas take us away."
"If Indians show up, you'll all come to the Fort. And I'd like that."
"No. Pa wouldn't let us. He'd die first."
"And so maybe I shan't see you again—unless you come here some day. Do you think that you can?" He bent to see her face. The bonnet framed it quaintly.
"It's—it's a nice place," she asserted.
He held out his hand to her. "I shall come," he said gently. "But now I've got to go."
She gave him her hand. He got to his feet still holding it, and helped her to rise.
"Good-by," she said bashfully, drawing away.
He freed her hand. "You don't know how glad I am that we've met," he said, "you don't know. It's been pretty lonesome for me since I came out. And you are a taste of—of the old life. You're like one of those prairie-flowers that have escaped from the gardens back home. You sweeten the Western air, Miss Marylyn."
She hung the cow-horn to her wrist and turned away. Overhead the heart-shaped leaves were trembling to the rush of the river. Her heart trembled with them, and hervoice. "We ain't Eastern," she said, wistful again. "I was born down yonder in the mesquite, I——" She paused, glancing back at him.
He stood as she had seen him first. His face was flushed, his uncovered hair was rumpled. In one hand he held his rifle, in the other his tasselled hat. And his eyes were eager, admiring. "No, you're not Eastern," he said; "you were born down in the mesquite. But remember this, Miss Marylyn—it's the deepest woods that grow the sweetest violets."
She went on, out of the grove. He lingered to watch her. Beyond the coulée road, she caught sight of some dandelions and, gathering her apron into a generous pouch, started to pick a mess. Her bonnet fell off. She tied it by a string to her braid. Then, flitting here and there, as she spied new clusters, she began an old Texas bunk-house song:
"We saw the Indians coming,We heard them give a yell.My feelings at that momentNo mortal tongue could tell."
"We saw the Indians coming,We heard them give a yell.My feelings at that momentNo mortal tongue could tell."
Her step was light. Her cheek was pink. Her eyes were happy. The corners of her mouth were turned upward smilingly. About her warbled the blackbirds. She mingled her tune with theirs.
Piercing its shrill way through the heavy mist that hung above the Missouri, came a strange, new trumpet-call from Brannon. The opening notes, reiterated and smooth-flowing, were unlike the first sprightly lilt of reveille. As Dallas stilled the squeaking of the well-pulley to listen, they fell upon her ear disquietly.
The summons ended. From behind, her father's voice called to her querulously. "Seem t' be changin' they mornin' toot over thar," he said. "Ah wonder ef it means anythin' particular."
"I think the soldiers are going," she answered.
"Th' hull passel?" he demanded; then, with a grunt, "Wal, good riddance o' bad rubbish."
Later on, as Dallas circled the shack with the plow, turning up a wide strip as a protection against fires, she found that the reason she had given for the trumpet's varying was the true one. The sun, dispersing the fog, had unshrouded the river and unveiled the barracks and the bluffs. When she saw that, of the canvas row below the stockade not a tent remained, and the campground lay deserted. While from it, heading northward through the post to the faint music of the band, moved an imposing column of cavalry. Arms and equipment flashed gallantly in the sun. Horses curveted. Handkerchiefs flutteredgood-bys from the galleries of the Line. Up Clothes-Pin Row, the wives and babies of troopers waited in little groups. At the quarters of the scouts sounded the melancholy beat of a tom-tom. Accompanying it, and contrasting with it weirdly, was a plaintive cadence—the monotonous lament of Indian women.
The column wound on its way, at its rear the heavy-rolling, white-covered wagon-train. The band had ceased to play. The groups that had been waving farewells sorrowfully dispersed. The tom-tom was still, and no wail of squaws was borne across the river. Then, Dallas again started up Ben and Betty.
And now a sudden fit of depression came over her. The dew sparkled on the grass, the air was soft, the breeze caressing, the sun was warm on her shoulders. Yet with all the brightness on every hand, a sense of uneasiness would not be shaken off.
She found herself reining often to look toward Clark's. Midway of the eastern ridge was a long, buff blotch—the crossing of the coulée road. Would a horse and rider pass across that spot to-day? Probably not. A wave of loneliness and of undeserved injury swept her, welling the tears to her eyes.
She was halted close to the corn-land when cheery singing reached her. Marylyn had left the shack and was going riverward, dawdling with studied slowness.
"We saw the Indians coming,We heard them give a yell,My feelings at that momentNo mortal tongue could tell.We heard the bugle sounding,The Captain gave command—'To arms! to arms! my comrades,And by your ponies stand!'We fought there full nine hoursBefore the strife was o'er.Such sight of dead and woundedI ne'er had seen before—Five hundred noble RangersAs ever saw the WestWere buried by their comrades,May peaceful be their rest!"
"We saw the Indians coming,We heard them give a yell,My feelings at that momentNo mortal tongue could tell.
We heard the bugle sounding,The Captain gave command—'To arms! to arms! my comrades,And by your ponies stand!'
We fought there full nine hoursBefore the strife was o'er.Such sight of dead and woundedI ne'er had seen before—
Five hundred noble RangersAs ever saw the WestWere buried by their comrades,May peaceful be their rest!"
Dallas shivered. The song suggested a cruel end for the gay troopers who had just gone forth. "Marylyn!" she called.
The younger paused to look back.
"Be careful, honey. Keep in sight."
Marylyn nodded, threw a kiss, and strolled on.
All day, Dallas tried to work away her troublesome thoughts. When she had known that an Indian was signalling from Medicine Mountain, she had felt no fear. Why was she growing fearful now? For it was fear—not any mere nervousness, or sadness over the marching of the troops. It was even more: There was a haunting feeling that something was going to happen! There was a terrible certainty weighing upon her—a certainty of coming harm!
Toward night, she began to watch about her—southward, to the shanty of the Norwegian; eastward, to wherethe tent of the Sioux Falls man had been; west, where the setting sun touched the sentinel guns on the bluffs; along the coulée, where the darkness always crept first.
She found herself examining the tops of distant rises. Medicine Mountain showed a dark speck at its summit,—had she ever noticed that before? Other peaks looked unfamiliar—were they the lookouts of savage spies? And north, far beyond the "little bend" was the smoke of a camp-fire. In fancy, she saw the one who had lighted it—a warrior with vindictive, painted face, who peered at the squat shack on the bend as he fanned and smothered the flame.
Night was at hand. The plover were wailing; the sad-voiced pewits called; one by one, the frogs began a lonesome chant. A light had sprung up in the shack. She glanced that way. And the window eyes of the log-house seemed to leer at her.
A warm supper, Marylyn's bright face, her father's placid retorts—all these did not suffice to drive away her forebodings. What was there in the coming night?
All her instinct spoke for caution. The lantern was shaken out before the table was cleared. Her father and sister early sought their beds. She only lay down in her clothes. The hours passed in a strange suspense. She listened to her father's deep breathing, to the mules, when they wandered into their stalls, to the snap of Simon's long brush as he whipped at the mosquitoes. Her eyes kept searching the black corners of the room, and the pale squares of the windows. Her ears were alert for every sound.
She fell to thinking of Squaw Charley. He had notcome for his supper, or brought them the daily basket. Was he growing indifferent—to them?
It was when she could no longer keep awake that her thoughts assumed even a terrible shape. She dreamed, and in her dream a head came through the dirt floor close to her bed. It was covered by a war-bonnet of feathers. Beside it, thrust up by lissome fingers—fingers white and strangely familiar—was a tomahawk.
Soon, she made out a face—Matthews'. She squirmed, striving to summon her father. A flame flickered up in the fireplace. The face changed from white to red, and Charley danced before her. She squirmed again; the face faded——
She found herself sitting bolt upright. Her hands were clenched defensively, her teeth were shut so tight that her jaws ached. She was staring, wide-eyed, at the door.
The shack was no longer in darkness. Morning was come, and its light made everything clear. She sprang up and lifted the latch, then fell back, her stiffened lips framing a cry.
Before the shack, driven deep into the nearest bit of unpacked ground, was a sapling, new-cut and stripped clean of the bark. From its top, flying pennon-like in the wind, was a scarlet square. And at one corner of this, dangling to and fro in horrid suggestiveness, swung a shrivelled patch that held a lock of hair.