"Well, Captain?" It was partly a greeting full of relief, partly an eager inquiry, as Colonel Cummings came hurrying out of his library to meet Oliver in the entry.
The latter straightened a little, but hesitated deprecatingly before taking the colonel's hand. "I've nothing to report but failure, sir," he said.
The stinging wind that had blown the command home into barracks, and scourged the humped shoulders of the men and the thin flanks of their mounts, had cut the flesh over the captain's high cheek-bones until it was red and raw. The lower part of his face was hidden under a growth that matched his drooping moustache. On his forehead and about his eyes, the skin was a dark sallow, marked by a lattice of deep lines—lines of worry and weariness.
"Nothing to report but failure," he repeated, and let the orderly pull off his stiffened overcoat.
"The troop?" asked Colonel Cummings, anxiously.
"All safe." The other hung his cap on a nail, his belt upon his overcoat.
"Thank Heaven! That storm—I was afraid. Where did it catch you?"
"On the Knife. We put up with some half-breeds. It was hard on the horses, but a rest for the men."
The colonel led the way into the library.
On his entrance, a figure in the dusk behind the stove sprang up with a questioning cry. It was young Jamieson.
"Easy, easy, for God's sake!" begged the captain. He put out one arm as if to ward off a blow.
Jamieson brought up. He saw the look of defeat in Oliver's bloodshot eyes, and his voice quaked, his body shuddered in mortal terror of what he was to hear.
"It's bad news, but not as bad as it might be," began the captain. Colonel Cummings offered him a chair. He dropped into it. "It is said that your mother and sister are alive, and will be delivered up to us in the spring, provided there are no executions here. But—I didn't see them, and I don't know where they are."
Jamieson coughed down a heart-broken protest, and, as if stunned, tottered weakly toward the stove.
Colonel Cummings knotted his hands together. "Where's Matthews?" he asked.
He was answered by the slamming of the outside door, and by a voice in the entry; a moment later, there was a sharp tattoo on the library door. The colonel opened it and answered the interpreter's salute.
With Matthews seated on the army cot, and the commanding officer pacing to and fro, Captain Oliver made his report. He stood at the window, his arms folded, his eyes following his superior.
"We located the camp easily," he said. "The directions given by the hostages were exact. But that is about the only thing that did come easily. The rest was all procrastination.
"At noon, on the tenth day out, we saw, ahead of us on a ridge, a single Indian. I selected four men to make a swift detour, thinking that perhaps they would discover a hunting-party just over the crest. But the slope beyond was unoccupied, and there were only the marks of one pair of moccasins. I concluded that the solitary brave was scouting, and I was right.
"A few miles farther, we sighted a half-dozen Indians. They were watching us from a hill. I called a halt. Then I took two men and Mr. Matthews and made forward. We carried a truce flag. They let us come within talking distance. They knew, I am sure, why we were there. But they asked no questions—just told us that the command was expected to advance no farther than a grove that lay a little ahead, to our right. I assented to that, and said I wished a conference with their head-chief. They promised me an answer later on, and at once withdrew to a rise a mile behind. There they stayed until, after a careful reconnoitre, we entered the grove.
"Late that afternoon, Mr. Matthews and I again rode forward to speak to a trio of warriors. One of them, a big, bony fellow in a splendid bonnet, asked what we wanted. The interpreter told him. The Indian said that the head-chief was very sick, and that he could not leave his lodge. He told us we might accompany them to the village, which lay a few miles farther up. Of course I rejected the proposal.
"Well, I saw there was no use to haggle in that fashion. I ordered the interpreter to go into particulars. He proceeded to state your terms."
At this point in the narrative, Colonel Cummings stoodstill. Captain Oliver advanced toward him a step, and met his eyes in a curious, helpless way.
"It was queer," he continued, "but what Mr. Matthews told them didn't seem to scare them any."
"Oh, it didn't!" cried the colonel, angrily, and once more began to pace.
"No, they grinned at him, and chattered together. Then they rode away. When dark came on, fearing treachery, we left the grove for a sheltered place farther down. Our scouts then set out for the Indian village, going across the river, and far around to the right. On their return, they said that the Sioux camp numbered several hundred wigwams. While just above was a village of Dog Soldiers.
"The night passed quietly. In the morning, a single brave came riding toward us. He stopped beyond rifle-reach. I sent the interpreter out. He returned to say that the chief promised him fair treatment if he would come alone. I took it that the camp was anxious for a little entertainment, and that one white was to furnish it. I didn't consider this second proposal a minute—it was worse than foolish, I thought. But"—he looked toward the cot—"Mr. Matthews didn't agree with me. He went. It was a magnificent bit of courage, sir."
The colonel wheeled. "By Jupiter!" he exclaimed. "You did that?"
Matthews smiled and crossed his legs awkwardly. "Oh, it wa'n't nothin'," he said, forbearing to glance up. "I savvy Injuns, you know. I—I was willin' to take the chances."
Colonel Cummings looked down. After a moment, andwithout changing the position of his body, he turned his face slowly in Oliver's direction. The eyes of the two officers met, and flashed messages of doubt.
When the commanding officer looked at the interpreter again, it was on his lips to say, "But you were afraid to enter the stockade with me." He checked himself, however, and, instead, reached for Matthews' hand. "Itwasa magnificent bit of courage," he agreed. "Tell us what happened."
Matthews fingered the blanket on the cot. "I seen the chief," he said, "and told him what you told me to tell him. When I got it all out, he says to me, 'The white women ain't here; they're with the Wyomin' band, and the Wyomin' band's up in Canada. Now,' he says, 'the band'll come south in the spring. So tell Colonel Cummin's, if he don't do no hangin', I'll send the white women home then.'"
A low groan came from behind the stove. Young Jamieson came out, his features distorted with grief and shining with tears. "Think of it! think of it! Not till spring! Are they well? How are they treating them?"
"Oh,—so-so," said Matthews, significantly.
Young Jamieson understood. He went back to his seat, sobbing with the hysterical weakness of a sick man. "He's bungled the business, Colonel," he said bitterly. "Oh, God! If you had only letmego!"
"Yes, yes, my dear boy," answered the other, soothingly. "But please remember that you couldn't have talked with them. The conference would have been carried on through Mr. Matthews just the same."
There was a silence, broken only by Jamieson's weeping.
"Is that—all?" asked Colonel Cummings, at last, addressing himself to the interpreter.
"Yes, sir."
Shortly afterward, when he was gone, the two officers left the library for the reception-room, and discussed the expedition in low tones.
"I have a feeling, Colonel, that our interpreter wasn't fair in this thing," was Captain Oliver's first confidence. They were standing at a front window, watching Matthews cross the parade-ground to the barber-shop.
"The same thought occurred to me."
"And yet—it doesn't seem possible——"
"Oh, if Bond had only come sooner!"
"Bond! He here?"
"Yes—just half a day too late."
While they were talking, Matthews was losing his tow beard and moustache and a good length of hair. This over, and his supper eaten, he reappeared at headquarters, and went with Colonel Cummings to the stockade.
Much to his chagrin, he found the evangelist there, ready to be present at the interview with the hostages. But the Indians understood his predicament, and accepted the speech he made for the little it was worth. It was a speech that, repeated by David Bond, set Colonel Cummings' last suspicion at rest.
Lounsbury arrived at Fort Brannon the next day, appearing in time for breakfast. His early advent, which he explained away nonchalantly, was the cause of some good-natured teasing.
"Say, Lounsbury," observed one officer, "I thought you were keeping a store."
"Get out!" he retorted. "I'm down here to see that you fellows do something for the good money Uncle Sam pays you."
"Why, don't you know?" said Major Appleton. "John's here to sell the sutler some sandy sugar."
"That's right!" agreed the storekeeper. "And I'm going to put up a plant to make brown sugar out of the Muddy."
Lounsbury could afford to laugh with them, not being the only butt of the jokers. Fraser suffered, too. For a tattling private, who had spent the night at Shanty Town, let it out to a corporal, who told it to a sergeant, who told it to a cub of a second-lieutenant, who told it to every officer in post (with the single exception of the "K. O.") that Fraser—the good, the discreet, the unimpeachable—had played poker with Matthews at The Trooper's Delight from taps to "revelly," and lost his last dollar!
The tale had leaked by the hour of Lounsbury's arrival. When the storekeeper heard it, together with the embellishments it carried by reason of its having so often changed hands, he first gave Fraser a grip to show his gratitude, and then sat back and enjoyed the fun. Fraser, sorely tried by the taunts of his brother-officers, repaid Lounsbury with glances of wounded reproof.
"Blame it all! old man," he cried, when he could get a quiet word with the other, "why didn't you help me out? You're a nice one! Letting these chaps think I'm a sport! When you know——"
But Lounsbury only laughed the harder. And was among the first to dub the lieutenant "a sad devil."
The storekeeper did have business with the sutler, though not the kind suggested by the major. For, after being closeted with that worthy a half-hour, Squaw Charley was despatched to the Lancasters' with a basket, and a note which read:
"Mr. Evan Lancaster, Dear Sir—Owing to the fact that a lot of B troop's surplus rations in the way of beans, butter, bacon, flour, salt, pepper, dried apples, prunes, rice, vinegar, molasses, etc., etc., are piling up on my hands, I wish to dispose of same in some way at once and at any sacrifice. Would it be possible for you to relieve me of some of these goods and pay me back next summer out of your garden? Also hope you can find room for a table, benches, and extra lumber on same terms. If you can do this, you will greatly oblige,"Yours very truly,"James Madison Blakely,"Sutler, Fort Brannon, Dakota Terr."P. S. Enclosed find samples which please keep if satisfactory. J. M. B."
"Mr. Evan Lancaster, Dear Sir—Owing to the fact that a lot of B troop's surplus rations in the way of beans, butter, bacon, flour, salt, pepper, dried apples, prunes, rice, vinegar, molasses, etc., etc., are piling up on my hands, I wish to dispose of same in some way at once and at any sacrifice. Would it be possible for you to relieve me of some of these goods and pay me back next summer out of your garden? Also hope you can find room for a table, benches, and extra lumber on same terms. If you can do this, you will greatly oblige,
"Yours very truly,"James Madison Blakely,"Sutler, Fort Brannon, Dakota Terr.
"P. S. Enclosed find samples which please keep if satisfactory. J. M. B."
When Squaw Charley returned from the shack, he bore an empty basket, and the following reply:
"Dear Sir—Thank you. We would like to do what you said if you will please chalk it down. We will pay next summer, and maybe before. I will keep count too."Dallas Lancaster."
"Dear Sir—Thank you. We would like to do what you said if you will please chalk it down. We will pay next summer, and maybe before. I will keep count too.
"Dallas Lancaster."
It was Lounsbury who took possession of the note. He smiled over it, and put it carefully away in his innermost pocket.
And now there remained one other thing to do. Hedropped into the billiard-room and commenced playing, occasionally going to a window that commanded the river. When, after a game or two, he saw a man approaching from Shanty Town, he put up his cue, sauntered opportunely out, and met the interpreter.
"Well, Matthews," was his greeting.
"Well?"
"I just wanted to be sure that you know Lancaster's got that tenth point I spoke about cinched."
"Yes?"
"And that what I said before you went away still goes. You hear?"
"I ain't deef," said Matthews, non-committal.
"That's all." And Lounsbury went back to his billiards.
The interpreter continued on to the stockade, where he was more fortunate in the delivery of the true message he had brought.
"The white women were not at the winter camp," he said, "so they could not be sent. But your brothers promise to come to save you. Watch for signals from Medicine Mountain."
That year, in the northland, winter encroached greedily upon spring. The latter end of March, the weather did not moderate. Instead, the wide valley became a channel for winds that were weighted with numbing sleet. Then, April returned angrily, bringing cold rains and blows to check all vegetation.
But April half gone, a tardy thaw set in. The icy covering of the river split into whirling blocks, the snow grew soft and bally, the crust rotted and picked up. Soon the tempering sun drove the drifts from south exposures. When a freshet coursed down the coulée, and the low spots on the prairie filled until they were broad ponds, around which the migrating wild-fowl alighted with joyous cries. Now eaves dripped musically; slushy wagon ruts ran like miniature Missouris, and were travelled by horny frogs; prairie-cocks made each dawning weirdly noisy, and far and near, where showed the welcome green, blue-eyed anemones sprang bravely and tossed their fuzzy heads in the sharp air.
Throughout this season, the shack had but one visitor—The Squaw. He brought fuel, and once a week a basket of supplies from "B Troop." Occasionally, he came swinging a brant by the neck, or carrying a saddle offresh venison. But though his manner was as friendly as ever, and he seemed no less grateful and devoted, he was always strangely worried and distraught. The evangelist called by once or twice, when storms or the rushing icepack in the river did not prevent his crossing. As for Lounsbury, he traversed the bend often on his way to Brannon and, if he saw a face at a window, waved his hand in pleasant greeting. But he kept to the road.
Since the morning of the aurora, the little family had ceased to speak of him. That silence was neither demanded by the section-boss nor agreed upon by the three. On Lancaster's part, it grew out of the sneaking consciousness of the ingratitude he did not regret; on the part of Marylyn, it arose from two causes: a sense of girlish shame at having confessed her attachment, and a fear that her father would discover it. With Dallas, consideration for the feelings of her sister made her shrink from mentioning Lounsbury. Yet there was another reason, and one no less delicate—she, as well, had a secret to guard.
But in the mind of the elder girl, the thought of Marylyn's happiness was the uppermost. There were dread moments when it seemed to her as if that happiness were to be shattered.
During all the past weeks, Marylyn had carefully harboured her fancies about Lounsbury. Certain of the calico-covered books on the mantel had no little part in this. Their stories of undying affection—of bold men, lorn maidens, and the cruel villains who gloried in severing them—helped her to fit her little circle into proper rôles. She loved, and must crush out her passion. Lounsbury, whom she loved, had been sent away by her father. Andshe lived up to the play consistently. She saw the storekeeper anguished over his banishment; saw depths of meaning in the good-natured salutes he gave the shack. With herself, she accepted loneliness as a sign of deeper suffering. She was tortured by self-pity, by the doubt she had flung at Dallas, by the firm belief that her heart was hopelessly fettered. Gazing into a piece of looking-glass that served her for a mirror, she marked with sorrowful pride her transparent skin and lustreless eye. She sighed as she watched from the windows. Patiently, she listened for footsteps, her face half turned to the door.
And yet what she took so tragically was nothing but failing health. What was not a fact the night of her admission to Dallas, was almost come to pass. The few days of great cold and hunger in February, coupled with long confinement in the dirt-floored house, were having their effect. She was on the verge of illness.
Lancaster, whenever he noticed her dejection, was inclined to pooh-pooh it. "She looks as ef she'd jes' been slapped," he declared, "an' is expectin' another lammin' any minnit. Ef she'd cry, she'd shore weep lemon-juice." Again, he reckoned that she had picked up "some notion." Jealous and suspicious as he was, however, he got no nearer to the truth.
But Dallas—she was misled far more than either Marylyn or their father. She fought away from the idea that her sister might be breaking physically, and tenderly as a mother yearned over her. Anxious-eyed, she noted the pallor of the childlike face, the melancholy expression that had come to be habitual. She fretted over the spareness of the younger girl, who ate only when she wasurged. If, sated with sleep, Marylyn moved in the night, Dallas aroused on the instant and hovered beside her.
At last, thoroughly alarmed, the elder girl determined to follow out the idea that had occurred to her in mid-winter. What did it matter how hard and hateful the duty would be? What did her own hidden feelings matter? She would appeal to Lounsbury in her sister's behalf.
But time passed without bringing her the opportunity, and it was borne in upon her finally that Lounsbury meant to remain away, perhaps until he was bidden to come. Undaunted, she made plans to waylay him on the coulée road. Resting the Sharps across her arm, she set out, morning or afternoon, on a long jaunt.
But Lounsbury was not met. On one such ramble, however, an incident occurred that was far-reaching, if not fatal, in its results. She was going, homeward slowly, when she saw, approaching, an ambulance from Brannon, drawn by a four-mule team. She started timidly aside; then paused. The vehicle was filled with ladies. A half-dozen, who were talking and laughing merrily, occupied the lengthwise seats of the carriage. One sat beside the driver. Dallas put herself in their path, and waited.
How often she had watched these same ladies canter out of post on their horseback rides, officers attending them; or seen them make a rollicking walking-party to the bluff-top. And she had pictured how, some day, they would be ferried to the bend. They could not have heard how her father talked. If they had they would not blame her. If they passed her, they would smile and bow—maybe stop to speak!
She was all aglow, now. The ambulance rolled near.It was closed on its sides, and the women within could not see her. The woman on the seat—pretty, slender, daintily clad—did. Dallas leaned forward eagerly, face flushed, eyes shining.
The woman also leaned forward, and looked Dallas up and down, searchingly, coldly. Her lips were set in a sneer. Her eyes frowned. Then, the ambulance bowled smartly along, the driver catching at a leader with his whip.
"Who's that, Mrs. Cummings?" The women in the rear of the vehicle were peering out.
Mrs. Cummings answered over her shoulder. "Why, it's The Plow-Woman."
There were "Ohs" and "Ahs"—and laughter.
The girl by the roadside heard. Slighted, rebuffed, wounded to the quick, she stumbled homeward, her sight blinded by tears.
She did not wait for Lounsbury again. Once she thought of writing him, of summoning him through a note given Squaw Charley. But recalling her father's treatment of the storekeeper, she questioned if the latter would heed her message. She felt herself isolated. But no hint of her bitterness was allowed to reach Marylyn. The younger girl knew only bright words, and unceasing, unselfish care.
For one thing Dallas was deeply thankful: Matthews did not trouble the shack. David Bond had told her that when the troops left for the summer campaign, the interpreter would ride with them, the evangelist being retained at the fort to fill the other's place. The latter declared that, by the pilot's report, Lounsbury's namemade Matthews "lay back his ears," but that he no longer stormed about losing the claim.
And now came the warm days—days in swift, sweet contrast to those just gone. Sun and shower banded the sky with triple arcs of promise. The robins arrived, a plump and saucy crew. Bent-bill curlews stalked about, uttering wild and mellow calls. The dwellers of the ground threw up fresh dirt around their burrows. The marsh violets opened pale lilac cups. And the very logs of the shack put forth ambitious sprigs, so that, from the front, the grotesque head displayed a bristle of green whisker. The prairie was awake—blood and soil and sap.
Ben and Betty showed their high spirits with comical sporting. The mules frolicked together, pitching hind quarters, rearing to box and nipping at Simon. Fully as gay was he, though his shaggy flanks were gaunt. He played at goring them, or frisked in ungainly circles. Occasionally, however, he gave signs of ill-humour, lowered his broad horns threateningly, even at Dallas, pawed up the new grown grass, and charged to and fro on the bend, his voice lifted in hoarse challenge.
On the little family, the light, the warmth, and added duties wrought a good effect. Lancaster's grumbling lessened, and he helped to plant some boxes with cabbage and tomato seed that the "sutler" supplied. Marylyn, coaxed out for an hour or two daily, rewarded Dallas with smiles. Her appetite grew (rather to her chagrin). And when she held the looking-glass before her, she saw a faint colour in her cheeks.
To Dallas, the spring brought renewed courage—and a vague longing. With the first mild evenings, she took toventuring out, wrapped in her long cloak, for a lonely walk. In her love of the gloaming, she was like a wild thing. From birth, the twilights of themesahad proved irresistible. When she was a child they soothed her little troubles; in womanhood, if sorrow pressed heavily, they brought her strength. The half light, the soft air, and the lack of sound were balm to her spirit.
Nightly she strayed up the coulée, eastward, south, or toward the river; until, early in May, a second incident occurred and interrupted her rambles. She had walked as far as the swale that was part way to the Missouri. There she was startled into a sudden halt. From a point ahead of her and to the left, sounded a gun shot.
She sank down cautiously, and stayed close to the ground, her fingers steadying her, her breath suspended. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured by clouds. The cottonwoods were a black, shapeless mass. She watched them.
No answering shot rang out. But, after a long wait, a reply came from the grove. It was a laugh, loud and taunting.
She stayed crouched, and presently saw a small black object leave the big blackness of the trees and advance. Frightened, she arose and retraced her steps, glancing behind her as she went. At the shack, having found the latch-string, she backed into the room.
Her father and sister were asleep. Next morning, on a plea of not wishing to alarm them, she refrained from telling of the shot. It may have been a hunter, she reasoned, or a drunken trooper, or one of the Shanty Town gang. But the laugh—it rang in her ears.
Several twilights passed, then she ventured out again. A lip of moon was dropping down an unclouded sky; the stars hung low and white. And when she neared the swale, she saw, a good distance before her, that small black object separate itself from the grove again and move forward.
She stopped. She was not frightened now. She knew who it was. And when she saw his arms come up, and caught the glint of metal, she called out to him: "Don't!don't! It's me!"
There was a muttered exclamation, and the arms fell. "Miss Dallas," he cried, and sprang forward.
"I—I was sure it was you," she admitted tremulously. "And you've been guarding here all the time!"
Lounsbury was panting. "Suppose I'd fired?" he said. "I had a mind to. Crimini!"
"You'd 'a' missed, likely."
"Maybe not. You see, I thought, well—that Matthews or that precious brother of his, they might get to bothering you folks. Anyway, ain't it dangerous for you to be out here late like this?"
"It is for you. You get shot at—keeping guard on us."
He thumped the swale impatiently with the butt of his gun.
"Oh, itwasyou," she persisted, gravely enough; "that is why I came to-night."
"Ah! You mean that I can help you, Miss Dallas. Tell me—tell me, what can I do?"
"Don't let Matthews kill you."
Lounsbury laid down his gun. When he straightened,he stepped to her side. "Me?" he said. "Well, I'm a match for him. You ain't. But what else?"
She moved aside, averting her face.
"There is something, Miss Dallas?"
"Y-e-e-s."
He saw she was disconcerted, and strove to put her at ease. "Do you know," he said, "you're so tall in that coat, you almost look like a 'heap big chief.'"
She did not hear him. She was not listening. The wished-for opportunity was come. She was trying desperately to rally a speech. "You—you ain't been 'round of late," she began at last. "I hope——" But she could not finish,
"No," he said slowly. He rammed his hands into his trouser pockets. "I haven't been around lately. But—I didn't think you'd notice it." He darted a glance at her.
"Was it dad?" she asked. "Did you think——"
"Yes, it was your father. I thought he went out of his way to be—well, kinda short, you know. I was only trying t' be decent."
"Dad's funny," she said reflectively. "Whenever we get to a chuck-hole, where all of us ought to pull t'gether, he goes slack on the tugs. He's like Ben that way. So I have t' go up to him, stroke his mane, fix his curb, and let some cool air under his collar. After while, he gives ahaw-hee-hawand goes on."
Lounsbury did not laugh. "He balked when it came to me," he said soberly. "And it hurt. Afterward—I kinda got it into my head that none of you wanted me."
She looked straight at him. "But one did—one did," she whispered, choking.
He pulled his hands free of his pockets. "One—one," he said huskily. "Who?"
And now everything was clear to her. She knew just what to say. She had no feelings of self; the duty was not hateful, nor embarrassing. "Who?" she repeated. "Don't you know, Mr. Lounsbury? Why, Marylyn."
"Marylyn," he echoed as if in a puzzle; "Marylyn. You're joking!"
She caught a shade of reproach in that, and misunderstood it. "I reckon you won't like her so well now," she said.
"Like her so well? I don't know what you mean."
"She—she likes you," stammered Dallas.
Still he was puzzled. "Isupposedshe didn't hate me."
"But now you know."
There was no mistaking her. Utterly dumfounded, he could not trust an immediate answer. "I see, I see," he said finally.
"And you'll like her just the same?"
He drew a deep breath. His eyes were on her face, trying to read it in the dimness. Then, "I am not a cub boy, Miss Dallas."
"You won't stay away," she persisted. "You'll come."
"If I'm judging right, I mustn't. I'm—I'm sorry."
"Sorry!—just sorry."
He strode back and forth a few times. "Why—why, Miss Dallas, you must understand that a man can't—when a girl——Well, it'd be low for me to talk about it, that's all—out and outlow."
Something stirred her powerfully then—something shecombated, and concealed from him by a touch of apparent anger. "There's nothing low about it," she said. "A man ought to be proud. Oh," as he was about to reply, "you don't know how she's felt. She's been sick over it, white and sad, and at night she'd cry."
He winced.
"And you're just sorry!"
"When did you find this out?"
"That day you drove Matthews away. She told me."
He walked about again. "I can't see why she does," he mused pathetically. "I can't remember doing anything."
"But you've been so good to us—even after the way dad acted—guarded out here, and sent that land-office man down from Bismarck——"
He made a protesting gesture. "Pshaw!"
"Oh, yes, you did. And why?Why?—if you don't care——"
A long silence followed. During it she watched him, her very attitude imploring, while he continued to pace.
All at once he stopped determinedly. "There's a reason," he said, "why I can't do what you ask: Come to see Marylyn, and—and all that."
"Dad? Ah, he's got to think like me."
"No; not your father."
"Maybe"—the bitterness of Mrs. Cummings' slight impelled it—"maybe you don't think she's good enough."
"Dallas! No! No!" He put out a hand to her.
She retreated.
"There's a reason." He let his arm fall. "And it is fair and square. I'm proud of it, too, and you must hear it." His tone was significant, tender.
No hint of his meaning suggested itself to her. "Then I want to know it," she said.
"I didn't intend to tell you," he began, "at least for a while. When I was at the shack last I made up my mind it wouldn't do any good. I said to myself, 'You keep quiet.' But"—he plucked off his hat and sent it whirling to the gun—"I guess you'll have to know now. Dallas, the reason—is you."
"Me?" The question was a cry.
Lounsbury waited, standing very still before her. Then reaching out again, he touched her hand. "You," he said quietly.
Again she retreated.
"Please don't go," he begged. "I want to tell you more. And I want you to say you believe me. Youmustbelieve me."
There was another long silence. Presently he went back and picked up his hat and gun. "I know just where it puts you," he said. "But, just the same, I love you."
He was certain now that he had earned her displeasure. When he spoke again, it was as one who accepts a sad finality. "I love you, and I want you. I hoped you might think a little of me some day. For I believe I could make you happy. So it was disappointing to find out that you hadn't thought of me that way; that you were figuring on seeing me take Marylyn.
"I never had much idea of marrying. But when I saw you that first time, when you came in through the door, you remember—why, then, I began to think. Couldn't help it." He put on his hat and lifted the gun to his shoulder. "I even wrote mother about you," he said.
He was unprepared for the answer she gave him, for it was an answer. Without speaking, she buried her face in the curve of her arm, and, as if seized with an ague, began to tremble.
"Dallas," he whispered tenderly. "Oh, my dear girl! I'm so glad! soglad! You will—you do?"
But he found himself pleading into space.
Medicine Mountain was a volcano. Out of its rocky summit and into the quiet air of the May morning was rising a straight, blue column of smoke.
A flag wigwagged from the southern lookout station to herald the phenomenon, and in a moment the post was agog. Keen-sighted scouts hurried to points of vantage, where they studied the mounting plume. Far-reaching glasses were trained amid lively surmise from the galleries fronting the parade. While at barracks, blocking the windows and thronging the porch, the eager troopers gossiped and craned.
But in the stockade interest reached its highest pitch. Braves, squaws, and children were strung along the upper end of the enclosure, breathlessly watching the vapour-thread. Each swarthy face had dropped the mask of listlessness; each figure was rooted. Not an eye forsook a straight line to the belching mountain-top.
For full three minutes, the distant fire sent up a steady pillar. Then, fort and stockade saw that pillar suddenly wobble, as if caught in the vagaries of a fitful breeze—saw it wobble, thicken, break, and disappear; when the butte again stood, a jagged tooth, against the sky.Above it, innocently white, floated a hand's breadth of cloud.
And now the trumpet rang. Obeying it, two detachments mounted. One spurred away down-river, keeping close in the lee of the bluffs. The other boarded the ferry and was landed at the cut north of Shanty Town, from where it made toward the Norwegian's. Behind, an envious, but feverishly happy, garrison set about putting an extra polish on its arms. The grass was too short for a war-pony. Active duty had not been expected within the month. Yet the time of dreary waiting was up at last. For here, within striking distance, were the hostile reds!
The warriors in the stockade knew better. Like so many whipped dogs, they were scattered to cover, there to hide their bitter chagrin. No war-party was come to harry Brannon, to lure the troopers into battle, to free the captive village. A lone Indian—the looked-for messenger—had fanned that signal-fire on the mountain. And, by a wave of his blanket, he had told them evil news!
To Colonel Cummings, the seeming early boldness of the enemy gave an inkling of what might be expected later on—in the summer—when there would be good grazing, and a smaller force at the post. Already he feared for the safety of the settlers living within sight of the garrison flag. The detachment landed at the cut was ordered to warn two of them. The third was Evan Lancaster. To him the commanding officer sent David Bond.
But it was Dallas whom the evangelist sought. He found her at work upon the plowed strip, cross-dragging it in preparation for the planting of the corn. As she drove up and down, she walked hatless in the sun. Herhair was down, and hung forward in two braids. She wore the snug jersey that had been her mother's. Her skirt was tucked up, back and front, to be out of the way. It disclosed no red flannel petticoat, however.
Not far away was Simon, a starling riding him to gobble the greenheads as they bit. The bull was revolving sulkily on his picket-rope, and shedding his long winter coat upon the new grass. In deference to his inborn dislike, Dallas was wearing an underskirt of blue.
Though the evangelist had never seen her trudging behind the mules, he had often spoken of it pityingly. Yet, as he came toward her now, he felt only an unbounded pride—in her unselfishness, and in her brave efforts to wrest a living from the soil.
"A splendid Ruth," he murmured, advancing, "a splendid Ruth, toiling in the fields!"
Seeing him, she gave a swift, troubled glance at the shack. Then, avoiding his eyes, and without speaking, she pulled up Ben and Betty and held out a hand.
When he took it, the pride of a moment before changed to compassion. He remembered that he must tell her what would alarm. For in her face he saw the traces of many a sleepless night, and of a sapping worry.
"Daughter, you are ill!" he declared, and kept a tight hold on her fingers.
"No, there ain't anything the matter with me. Only"—still avoiding his eyes, she turned to survey the harrowed land—"only, I'm some put out. This sod——"
"Never mind the sod," he said gravely. "I want to ask—did you see the mountain?" He loosed her fingers, and pointed an arm to the south.
She laughed, following his pointing. "Yes, I did. Looks as if claimsaregetting scarce, don't it? When a nester has to file up there!"
Midway between shack and butte was an ox-team that had been travelling to and fro across a quarter-section since dawn. The team was now at a stand, and their driver was slouching against his plow. Beyond him were several galloping dots.
"And you saw the cavalry?" said David Bond.
She assented.
"One word will tell you what it means, Dallas. It's Indians!"
She showed no sign of disquiet. Presently, when she had thought over the announcement, she turned round to him, frankly meeting his gaze for the first time. "That's funny," she said. "Why, last year, all the way up from Texas, there wasn't an Indian bothered us!"
"Last summer, before you came, the soldiers at Brannon did not dare go more than a mile outside the lines to hunt. It will be the same this summer. There is that stockade full of prisoners, and four of them are condemned to be hanged. Before long the Indians will be circling the post."
She looked away at the ox-team. They were being taken from the plow and put to a wagon.
Then, again, she turned squarely. "What about Shanty Town?" she said with meaning.
He understood. "Shanty Town goes when the troops go. But"—hesitatingly—"Matthews does not. He will stay at Brannon to act as interpreter."
"He will!" she said, and coloured.
He coloured, too, feeling himself reproved. But from under the wide, battered felt that had supplanted the nubia, his eyes shone with no resentment, only fatherly tenderness.
"You wonder why I do not remain," he began, "so that Matthews could be sent away. I shall tell you."
She let the reins fall to the drag. "That isn't it," she answered quickly. "We have no right to ask you to do anything after the way dad treated you. But the Colonel sent you over to tell us to look out. Didn't he? And he keeps a man over there—pays him to stay—and that man is a sight worse than an Indian!"
"I could have that man dismissed," he said slowly. "Please let me tell you why I don't. In the first place, the Indians are beginning to act badly—very badly. They are invading Crow territory, and stealing from peaceful bands. They are molesting whites wherever they can find them, and murdering. So we can judge that there will be hard fighting. For the troops will seek to pay them up.
"Oh, Dallas, how I pray to see trouble stop! I am going to the Indians. I know their leaders—have known them for ten years or more. I shall ask them to consider the good of their squaws and children and property, and ask them to accept reservation life. If they won't, I shall beg a few of them to come in with me and at least talk treaty.
"That is the first reason for my going. The second is the Jamiesons. If I find those poor women, and tell their captors that the four chiefs here are in danger, I know mother and daughter will be handed over to me——"
"You're right! You can save them!"
"God bless you for saying that! It won't be pleasant with Matthews here——"
"But you must go. Never mind about Matthews."
"I cannot go without being satisfied that you and Marylyn will be safe. The Colonel said——"
"The Colonel," she interrupted. Then, half resentfully, "Did the women folk send any word?"
He was mildly surprised. "N-n-no," he answered, "they didn't, but——"
She laughed, and picked up the reins.
"Well, dad'll never leave this quarter," she said decisively, "ifthat'swhat the Colonel wants."
The evangelist shook his head. "'Thou dwellest in the midst of a rebellious house,'" he quoted sadly. "Now, if you come to the Fort to live——"
"Matthews could move into the shack."
"Hardly that, with the backing you have. The boys at the post would never see Matthews take your home. Believe me, as long as you and your father care to live here, you can. Public opinion over there"—he pointed to Brannon—"is strong in your favour. And there is Lounsbury, too. Why, that man is helpless."
She averted her face.
"So you will lose nothing by coming to the Fort," he persisted, "while you may save a great deal—your lives!"
"Dad will never go to the Fort. He hates 'em like poison."
"Yes—yes—he's foolish and stiffnecked. For such is punishment meted out. See!" The ox-team was travelling toward them, prodded by the driver.
They stood in silence for a while.
"Then, go to Bismarck," urged David Bond, finally. "Stay there until the autumn."
"Live on what?" she asked.
From a hind pocket he slowly brought forth a narrow buckskin pouch, tied with a thong. He opened it, and emptied a handful of coins upon a palm. "This is only a little," he said apologetically. "But it will help. And—you must think first of your safety."
"I can't take it," she said, her voice all gentleness. "Even if I did—what about next winter? I must stay and raise things. Don't you see?"
"At Bismarck you would have a double market, Dallas. There is Fort Lincoln, and the town."
"I'd—I'd have to plow new ground," she went on. "And—we'd have to build again, and dig another well——"
"There are men in Bismarck who——"
Suddenly she lowered her voice and stepped nearer. "That's just the reason dad wouldn't go there," she said. "We'd be close to town. We'd have to meet folks. Here, he keeps away from the Fort, and you, and Mr. Lounsbury—everyone but Charley."
"Oh—oh—oh," breathed the evangelist, helplessly.
"Now, you know. It's no use. I don't complain. But, he's fastened to the Bend with a diamond hitch!"
"Now, I know!" David Bond exclaimed.
A halloo sounded from the shack. Facing that way they saw the section-boss. He was standing just outside the door, balanced on one crutch. The other he was thrusting angrily at the ground.
"You see!" said Dallas. "You see! And he can't help it. Poor dad!"
The evangelist groaned and held out a hand. "Dear girl," he said, "it is good-by. God keep you all, and God help me! I see truly that you are tied; that I can do no good. The Colonel will surely take care that you are protected. Lounsbury and Charles will watch. I must go with that comforting knowledge. My love to Marylyn—Good-by."
She steadied her voice to answer. "I watch," she said. "I don't sleep well, so it's easy. If they heard a gun at Brannon——"
He raised his hand to bless her. Then, without speaking again, walked slowly away. She unhooked the tugs and headed the mules for home.
"Wal," called her father, sarcastically, as she approached, "what's thet ol' sniffler want? Is day aft' t'morrow th' en' o' th' world?"
She ignored his questions, and told him of the warning.
Instantly, his anger rose. Planting himself before her, he shook a finger close to her face. "So th' Kunnel's tryin' t' skeer us, is he?" he demanded. "Tryin' t' git us t' come in an' leave th' Ben'. Wal!—ain't we right under his nose? Kain't he watch out fer us? W'at's he here fer? W'at's he paid fer?"
Then, riding in on the tide of his wrath, came dark suspicion. "An' w'at's he so crazy t' git us away fer?" he queried. "Yah! yah! Ah'd like t' know—Ah do know! He's got thet low-down card-sharp of a Matthews fer his interpreter. He knows thet card-sharp wants this lan'.Thet'shis game!An' he kain't fool me!"
"Maybe, maybe," said Dallas, leaving him to stand beside Marylyn. "But, of course, dad, we mustn't forget that he's warned the other folks on this side, too."
Her father glared at her. "You takin' his part,ain'ty'?" he said. "M-m-m! how's thet? Areyouso all-fired anxious t' git t' Brannon?"
"No, dad, I'll never go to Brannon. Never! never! If I did, you, my father, oughtn't t' misunderstand it."
He quailed before her vehemence, and hobbled shamefacedly toward the door. "O' course, if th' Injuns come——" he began.
"They won't." She drew Marylyn to her. "And if they do, a shot'll bring help."
He was in the doorway, now. "W'y," he cried, "here's thet fool Norwegian goin' t' th' landin'. Wal, he is pritty shy on sand!"
"We'll be killed if the Indians come, Dallas." It was Marylyn, whispering up fearfully to her sister.
"We'll be careful, honey. Keep away from the coulée after this. Walk toward Brannon, always."
Dallas spent the afternoon out of doors, where everything spoke of peace. Not even a hand's breadth of cloud floated upon the sky. The air was warm, and fragrant with the new growth. Magpies chattered by. The bobolinks sent up their hearty song.
When she left off work, she saw the settler from the "little bend" drive by with his wife and children. Going home, she found her father cleaning and caressing the Sharps. But in her ability to sense danger, as in her love of the gloaming, Dallas was like a wild thing. And she felt not the slightest disquiet.