Bismarck nearing at last! Since dawn, Lounsbury's head had been poked from a window of the forward car. Now, he followed it with a wedge of shoulder, and muttered a fervent "Thank God!" His face was blackened by the breath of the engine, his hair was roughed by the tugging wind. So that he bore not a trace of the past month's careful grooming. Outside of Chicago, he had shed his Eastern garb for blue flannel shirt, dark breeches, and tall boots. Again he was a frontiersman.
A brakeman entered to call out the final stop. Cramped bulks, here and there, slowly unwound their sleepy lengths and gazed around. A slim recruit in a front seat, who was outward-bound to fight Indians, wakened with a protesting oath. Other occupants of the car grudgingly put away their card packs, but cheerfully clapped on their hats. A long, hot journey was done.
But Lounsbury, when he drew in his head and shoulder, delayed his preparations to alight. He reached down to a boot-leg and fished out a letter, one paragraph of which he carefully re-read.
"As I say, if you look for that rascal, you'll find the right man. He was here, for Charley saw him. 'Who was it?' I asked the Indian. What do you think he did—he crossed his fingers on his nose!"
Lounsbury took a deep breath. "It's likely," he said aloud. "It don't take courage to kill a cripple."
The wheels were yet turning when Lounsbury swung off. His looped belt had been buckled on, and once more his revolver hung handily upon his thigh. As he tossed his satchel to the ticket-agent, he gave the ".45" a swift look over. Then, with the expression that the Clark outfit respected showing through the grime of the train, he started on a tour of saloons.
In a square-fronted groggery, his hunt ended. An assortment of adventurers packed the place—mule-skinners, soldiers, gamblers, settlers. Among them was a sprinkle of women. He pushed his way through the crowd until he reached the bar. There, officiating in pink shirt-sleeves, was the "Babe."
A moment Lounsbury faced him in silence, his cheeks puffing and his chest swelling in an effort at self-control. Then, dropping his hand to the ".45," he gave a jerk of the head. "Come out," he ordered.
The "Babe's" squint eyes made separate inspections of the room. He was in the act of pouring from a bottle to a glass. Now, as he held them before him, they tinkled together.
His customer backed away to the door, where it was cooler. The women cluttered at the farther bar-end. The other loungers rotated to a position behind Lounsbury, and waited, all a-grin.
He came loafing out, the sweat standing in huge beads upon his nose. Lounsbury advanced to him, playing a tattoo along the bar with his left hand.
"'Babe,'" he said quietly, "the train goes back Chicago-way in the morning."
The other blinked and gulped. "W'y, w'y——" he began.
"You take it," continued Lounsbury. "Your family's getting darned unpopular here."
The "Babe's" diverging orbs popped from his face and again played from side to side.
"Y-e-e-s," drawled Lounsbury. He ripped open the other's vest. Two pistols were displayed, snuggling head to head. He plucked them out and kicked them across the room. "The morning train," he repeated. "So long."
"Babe" gave a weak nod. Lounsbury walked out. "Howdy, boys, howdy," he said pleasantly as he went. The admiring crowd returned his salute, and rotated back to the bar.
He wasted no further time, but hurried to his store, a saddle-roofed building farther along the street. Before it paced a Fort Lincoln officer. Lounsbury stopped him for news.
"You ought to be chuck full of it," returned the officer, pumping the storekeeper's arm; "just in from New York."
"The redskins?"
"Daytime sortie on us yesterday."
"Pretty sassy. How about Brannon?"
"Nothing since old Lancaster——"
"I heard that—Fraser wrote me." Lounsbury gritted his teeth.
"And our poor Custer?"
"Ah, poor Custer! The East's talking about nothing else."
"Awful! awful!" The officer turned away to hide the twitching of his face.
"Going to Lincoln now?" asked Lounsbury.
"Not right away."
"Then, I'm off."
"For Lincoln?"
"No, for Brannon."
"Brannon!Alone? Lounsbury! Why, the Indians——"
"I'm going, just the same." He hailed a neighbour to bargain for a cayuse of reputed wind and speed. In another half-hour he was ready.
He rode as light as possible. Behind the cantle, rolled in a poncho, he tied some hardtack, jerked beef, and brandy. His revolver was reinforced by a Henry, which he carried in a holster under his leg. For the ".45," he took fifty rounds. A second fifty, designed for the rifle, occupied the loops of his belt. Thus armed and provisioned, he jogged out of town.
Good fortune made the journey almost uneventful. He saw but one Indian, who loped into sight from a wooded bottom, and turned tail when Lounsbury levelled his gun. Twice only did he come upon signs of savages. Toward the middle of the first night, he passed a pile of glowing embers, where food had been cooked and eaten; and fifty miles lower down, the next afternoon, as he dismounted at a rivulet, the cayuse shied from an antelope kid that had dragged itself to the water for a last drink. There was an arrow through its neck, and the little body was still limber.
Just before dawn, the second morning, he turned with the river, crossed the coulée, and reined upon the yellowingbend. To his left, a black dot, stood the shack. Three smaller dots were near it—Simon and the mule team. South, on the opposite bank, were the low, whitewashed buildings of Fort Brannon. He bared his dust-powdered head in thanksgiving.
The cayuse was warm and dripping. He rode to Shanty Town, loosened the cinch, and led the animal up and down before the deserted huts. When it stopped blowing and reached for grass, he picketed it on a lariat north of The Trooper's Delight. Then he descended to the landing. The light was growing. Already he had been seen from the post. On his hallooing, a small boat shoved off toward him, dancing its way against the current. Old Michael was not in it, only his citizen helpers. Fearing their tittle-tattle, Lounsbury curbed his impatience to ask about the shack. Landed, he made for the "Bach" quarters on the Line.
Fraser was not up. To his "Come in," Lounsbury entered. They shook hands without a word, and the storekeeper sat down on the edge of the bed.
After a while, the lieutenant reached out to put a hand on the other's knee.
"Lounsbury," he said, "I feel like a criminal. But I never dreamed anything would go wrong if I kept track of Matthews."
"Why, we both thought that, Fraser. You're not to blame any more than I am."
"Oh, if I'd only——"
"But we can't spend any time kicking ourselves. After this there mustn't be a loophole. Besides watching Matthews, we must——"
"Matthews isn't here."
"What!"
"Kicked out. We don't know where he is." Rapidly, Fraser related the story of Simon's gallantry.
There was another piece of news of lesser importance: An Indian girl named Brown Mink was seriously ill. Her wigwam had been moved to the western curve of the stockade, where the ground was clear, and been changed from tepee-shape to the form of a walled wickie-up. Mrs. Cummings, touched with pity, had sent her a comfortable bed, while Captain Oliver, touched no less, and pleased by the good-humour of his prisoners, had ordered that, during the daily search of the enclosure, the tent of the sick girl be left entirely undisturbed.
The young officer omitted to tell of his share in the interpreter's departure, and was distracted over an accident that had befallen him. On visiting his wild pets the previous evening, he had found that a box containing reptiles had been broken open, somehow, and that all his rattlesnakes were gone!
With the first call for the trumpeters, Lounsbury routed the sutler in a quest for breakfast. Then, once more he sought the river. There was no waiting for men to row him. He found the small boat, headed for the beach below Shanty Town, mounted the cayuse, and climbed the steep road to the prairie. Before him, on a green stretch between river and shack, he saw Dallas.
She was cutting grass in that same swale across which, a month before, had been tracked the deep-planted, laboured footprints. As she mowed, she moved forward slowly, the bent snathe describing a regular half-circle,the long, curved blade clearing a fragrant path. Her hat was off, and lay at a distance behind her, where it floated, boat-like, on some blue-stem tops. Still farther behind was Simon, cropping industriously, and keeping a furtive watch upon his mistress out of the corner of one fiery brown eye.
Lounsbury spurred his horse to a run. She saw him coming, but not knowing him, kept her scythe on the swing. When he had covered the greater part of the way, however, she stopped work, retreated to her hat, and put it on. Then, from beside it, she picked up the Sharps.
He saw that, and his jaw squared. The blood darkened his face, too, as if the sight shamed him. He spurred faster, reined so sharply that the horse slid upon its fetlocks, and swung off.
"Dallas!" he cried. It was not a greeting, but a plea.
The moment was one long dreamed of, yearned for. A woman less genuine might have met it without a show of feeling. She—outspoken and simple—could not. Her eyes swam. Dropping the gun, she clasped his hand greedily.
"I knew you'd get back quick as you could," she said, choking.
For a long moment they stood thus, hand-in-hand, looking at each other. She saw that he was changed. The glint of merriment was gone from his eyes. His forehead bore new lines. His mouth had lost its boyishness. With her, the past four weeks had also left their mark. The old look of high purpose was on her face. But she was older and graver, and wore the new expression that Oliver had seen.
She spoke first. "Your mother?" she faltered inquiringly, and withdrew a step.
"My mother—is gone," he said slowly. Then, after a pause, "I came right after that; didn't stop to settle things. I can go back to the States later. But if I'd been here sooner—it mightn't 'a' happened——"
She checked him gently. "Now, you got enough to worry you without us. We wouldn't go to the Fort or Bismarck. And that was the whole trouble." To excuse her father, and to take the blame herself, she told him of the refusal of David Bond's money, and of Mrs. Cummings' slight.
"You see," she explained earnestly, by way of putting the best possible colour to the latter episode, "you see, they think over there that we're trash. So they're bound to let us alone. It ain't that they haven't good manners——"
It was Lounsbury's turn to interrupt. He was tramping about. "Manners!" he said violently; "manners! what's manners to do with it? There's a lot that's good manners—and cursed bad heart!"
She took up the scythe, brought a whetstone from the depths of a pocket and ran it down the blade thoughtfully.
"I'm going to look into this whole business from first to last," he went on more quietly. "I'll spend the next few days investigating. You got my letter?"
"We went to Clark's for you, and got it there." She added that she had feared Braden, and spoke of his slack courtesy.
"Oh, well," he said, partly in apology for the real-estateagent, "if a man out here don't take off his hat to a girl, that means nothing."
"It wasn't the hat," she answered, and described Braden's further conduct.
Lounsbury blazed up again. "I'll see about that, too," he declared. "He must be another sample of imported manners."
They heard the cheery grinding of a coffee-mill. As if struck by a thought, she looked toward the shack.
"It's about time for me to go in," she said, a little flurried. Then, "Won't—won't you come, too, and take a snack with us? Marylyn'd like to see you."
"Marylyn!" He had read her meaning. "Why, Dallas, you don't meant to say that you—that she still——"
"Yes," very low.
"Well,"—Lounsbury was determined now,—"there's got to be some kind of an understanding. I told you how I felt, and you ran away from me. You shan't do it this time. I'll go to the house, and I'll tell Marylyn just how things are. Iwill."
"Oh, my baby sister!" she murmured.
Instantly, he was all gentleness. "No—no, I won't tell her," he said. "But I'm sick and tired of being tied this way, hand and foot. It was your father first. And nowthisagain—Dallas!"
She could not answer him.
"I won't tell her. I'll wait till—till you do. But, you see that I can't go to the house. And I suppose I oughtn't to stay here any longer, for her to see. But I'm coming back here to-night—at taps."
She shook her head. "Marylyn would be alone," she said hastily. "So—so I can't."
"You will, I know you will. She'll be asleep."
"No—no——"
"At taps, Dallas." He touched the hand that held the scythe upright. She thought all at once how worn he was, and white. Another moment, he had mounted and was cantering off.
Left alone, she dreaded going into breakfast, expecting a hurt silence, or passionate protests, perhaps tears. And she tried to find it in her heart to blame Lounsbury for not accompanying her.
But Marylyn welcomed her with a question or two, exclaimed sorrowfully at the news of Lounsbury's mother, and, when the elder girl explained that the storekeeper had been too busy to come to the shack, returned a faint smile.
"The brave baby!" thought Dallas.
But Marylyn was puzzling over Lounsbury's true reason for staying away—now when their father was not there to object. He had told Dallas he was busy. That, however, was only a pretext. Finally she concluded that Fraser, in spite of his promise, had made a confidant of the storekeeper, and that the latter had seen the hopelessness of his affection for her.
"I'm glad," she said to herself. "Now, I won't have to tell him."
Lounsbury pursued a feverish investigation that day, and found no one who cared to quibble with him. From the captain, never jealous of his dignity, to the roly-polysutler, there was a very outrush of facts. As they came, he received them with pitchfork sharpness, examined them and tossed them aside, which led a wag to remark that the storekeeper was kin to Simon. Yet, when "retreat" sounded, he admitted himself hedged in by indisputable testimony. Lancaster's death was beyond easy solving. If Matthews were guilty, he was not the principal, only an accessory, to the crime. Nevertheless, could the storekeeper have come face to face with the interpreter that day, scores would have been settled.
To Dallas, laying the blue-stem of the swale, the hours of the morning went slowly. Yet how warm and golden they seemed! how tuneful the birds! how cottony-white the clouds that flecked the sky! how pleasant the long, hushing sound of the scythe! And all the while, she thrilled with expectancy, and the minutes hung upon each other, as if loath to pass.
The very keenness of her joy brought a swift revulsion. At dinner, with Marylyn sitting across from her, she began to see more clearly. She realised she had been dreaming; that for her there was only self-denial. She ate nothing, but drank her dipper thirstily, as if to wash away a parch in her throat. Back in the swale again, the scythe was swung less steadily, but with more strength, so that its sharp tip often hacked up the ground. She pulled her hat over her eyes, forbore glancing toward the fort—and fought. A thousand times she vowed she would not meet Lounsbury that night. To give herself a better whip-hand, she called up pictures of Marylyn—Marylyn, the baby, all dimples and lisping demands for "Dals!" Marylyn, the child, slender, yellow-haired, pale; Marylyn, enteringwomanhood, still dependent, and, in her frailty, her pensiveness, more dear than ever before.
Then, with the sun beating upon her, with her temples streaming and throbbing under the heat and the strain, Dallas' spirit began to flag. Had she not always borne a hard load? suffered discomforts? There were the women of the post—they knew little toil or privation. The brunt of her mother's loss, her father's taking, had fallen upon her. Was she always to have only sorrow? Now, when happiness came her way—a happiness that another might not have—must she be denied it? Disheartened, dizzy, she left the swale for the shade of the nearest trees.
It was the hottest part of the day, and the life of the prairie seemed at a standstill. No breeze stirred the high cottonwoods; the corn blades were quiet; the birds, song-less; the frogs, hid. Resting on the fading green, looking out upon the silent reaches, she grew calm. Then she remembered her sister's confession. Again, in fancy, she was leaning down in the light of a winter fire, looking into a tear-stained face. She felt humiliation for her own weakness, and for thoughts disloyal to Marylyn.
"When I see him again, I'll make him promise to come and visit her," she said. "Oh, he must! hemust!" At last, renewed in spirit, she returned bravely to her work.
But the afternoon was not without its tormenting thoughts. And she, who feared no physical danger, quailed before a temptation that was overwhelming.
When the shack pointed a stubby finger toward the east, and the mules, with Simon in tag, came trailing home from their grazing, Marylyn called her. Near the door, there wafted out the good smell of corn-pone and roasting fowl.She drew up the well-bucket, hand over hand, and washed in its generous leak.
Within, the night wind was changing and sweetening the air. As the younger girl bustled about, the elder put on a fresher dress, and smoothed and plaited her hair. Again, that strange elation! She was almost glad.
"Supper!" sang out Marylyn.
Dallas started consciously. She was standing at a window, holding before her the broken bit of looking-glass.
The thrashers were singing to the moon. Out of the gaping coulée came their chorus, loud, rich, and artfully melodised. It mingled, as it were, with the scent that the wind fanned from the sumach blossoms, yellowish-green. Moon, music, perfume—and lovers were to meet.
The trysting-place lay in billows of frosty white, like the satin dress of a bride. Lounsbury measured it impatiently, with anxious eyes turned to the shack. At the last trumpet-strain from the fort, Dallas approached it on swift foot, her shadow flitting before.
When he saw her—a slender figure—he leaped forward, eager, grateful. She saw him, and halted, raising defensive hands.
"Dallas! Dallas!" He stretched out his arms to her.
"No, no—no, no."
As well try to stem the Missouri. He caught her close and held her. He pressed his cheek tenderly to hers. She yielded, murmuring to him. Thus—for a space that was matchlessly sweet. When, without releasing her, he lifted his head, and lifted hers by a smoothing caress of her hair. Then he searched her face long and hungrily.
"Oh, Dallas, youdocare," he said finally, and his voice was deep with joy.
She did not deny—only, "Just makes things worse," she whispered miserably.
Gently he let her go. "But I love you," he answered.
Her eyes were grave. They seemed to blame him.
"I love you," he repeated.
She was too just to forget her own lack of strength. Her eyes clouded with sadness, and brimmed. "I hate myself for coming," she said fiercely.
"We love each other. That isn't a crime," he declared.
"For you, it isn't. But it is for me. Because—it'll hurt Marylyn. Oh, you don't understand—I can't take her happiness. I can't! I can't!"
"It's not your fault that I love you, Dallas."
"What happens nextis."
He shook his head—smiling.
She raised her chin, as if striving to master herself. "I knew all day that I'd come," she said steadily. "I'd 'a' come if I—died for it!"
"Ah, my dearest!" He put his hands upon her shoulders, drawing her near again.
She stepped back determinedly. "Let me tell you," she begged. "Please, I knew I'd come. So I made up my mind I'd do what was white—ask you to visit Marylyn, and talk to her. If you would, if youonlywould, why, at last, you couldn't help liking her!"
Again he smiled at her, shaking his head. "I loveyou, not Marylyn."
"You're a good man," she said. "You wouldn't like to see me do anything that wasn't right square. You wouldn't—think much of me if I did. I'll do wrong if—if I take you from her."
"I wouldn't have you do anything wrong," he declared stoutly. "You never could. But, dear, Marylyn is a child yet. She's too young to know her own mind. And we're taking her more seriously than she takes herself."
"You don't know how sick and down in the mouth she's been. Just before father—went, she got a little better. After that, for a while, she was bad again. But I could see it wasn't all about father. There's something else. She's changed so—never talks much, just sits and looks and looks——" She turned away.
"I'm—I'm all she's got," she went on. "All her life I've tended her, just as if I was her mother. I fed her and dressed her. When she hurt herself, she came to me. Now, she's hurt worse than she's ever been, and she's come to me about it. I'm bound to help her."
"I happened to be the first man she got to know this side of Texas. She'd forget me in a week if she met someone else. If she don't meet someone else, I'm afraid she'll have to be hurt."
Dallas straightened proudly. "I'll never hurt her," she said.
"Nor I, if I can help it. She needn't know about us, just yet."
"I won't lie to her, either."
"Not lie, dear. But you won't refuse to come out here——"
"I do! I do! I'll never come again."
"Ah, Dallas, why should we deny ourselves that much? Why keep apart? I've lost the last dear one I had. You've lost your father, you're alone with your little sister. Come to me."
"You'd take me away?" she asked. "You'd have me give up the claim? To forget what happened?"
"God help me—no! I ask you to share your life with me, your work, your revenge, everything."
"Not yet——"
"I can't bear to see you and Marylyn staying here alone. And I can't stay near enough to protect you as I ought. Matthews is sly. If I meet him, I'll kill him, as I would a wolf. Then, he'll be out of the way. But—suppose he gets ahead of me? does you harm? Your staying here seems all the more terrible to me since I've been East. The idea of your having just Charley to guard, of your plowing and planting and cutting hay——"
She laughed. "Outside work is fine," she said. "Better than cooking over a hot stove or breaking your back over a tub. Men have the best half of things—the air and the sky and the horses. I don't complain. I like my work. Let it make me like a man."
"It couldn't. I don't mean that. You're the womanliest woman I've ever known."
"I don't want you to ever think different."
"Never will. And I don't ask you to chain yourself up in a house. There's a big future in the cow business. We'd take my share of the Clark herd—you'd ride with me—we'd be partners."
"Wait—wait." Temptation was dragging sorely at her heart. She glanced homeward. Behind her, the tall grass was running with the wind. She longed to run with it. Yet——
"I'll wait and wait," he said; "long as you ask, if it's years."
She retreated a few steps. "I must go now. Don't think I don't know what you've done for us—the sutler, and all that. I'll remember it. But I got to go—good-by."
"Good-night, not good-by," he answered. "Can't I come this far and help you to-morrow with the hay?"
"No, no."
"Let me send a couple of men, then."
"I'll do it alone. I'd rather. It's all in but this little bit."
"But please go slow. Don't wear yourself out, Dallas."
"If my work was all!" she said sorrowfully.
"If you would come here, now and then, to me, dear——"
"I'll never come again. This once, I couldn't help it. Oh, I tried and tried! But next time I can. I'll think of Marylyn. Why, I'd give my life to make her happy!"
"But your love—that goes where it pleases."
"You won't come to see her?"
"It wouldn't help. But I'll be here every night."
She retreated again. He did not attempt to follow.
"Good-night," she said.
"Good-night, good-night."
The moon was drifting up the eastern sky, and, as she went, her shadow pursued her. He watched until it blended with the shadow of the shack. Then, walked far to the left, and laid out a beat that half circled the squat building.
"There's just one man I got to look out for," he said aloud. "It'd be different if I had to worry about Indians."
That moment, across the river, in the lodge of Standing Buffalo, the young chieftain was bending over anuncovered box, holding in one hand the shaft of an arrow, on the end of which was a piece of freshly killed dog; in the other hand he held a willow wand, sharpened. Beneath him, crawling and coiling and singing, were Lieutenant Fraser's rattlers.
The Indian kept the shaft to one side while he diligently prodded the reptiles with the willow. When he had enraged them so that they began to strike blindly at each other and at themselves, he lowered the shaft and let them drive their fangs into the meat. And when they were spent with their anger and springing, he covered the box and held up the flesh, which had turned from red to green, and was dripping dark with venom. Then, into it, he began thrusting the points of a quiver of arrows.
A smudge was burning at the centre of the stockade. In its lee, to be safe from the swarms of pestering mosquitoes, sat the hostage braves. Their pipe-smoke blended with the smoke of the fire. Their loud gibberish was broken only when shrieks of laughter followed a sally of wit. Their black eyes sparkled. Their white teeth flashed.
Before them were their sons, now romping with the favoured dogs of the pack; now gathering to watch a wrestling-match between a chosen couple; again, lining the way while several raced down the enclosure.
The squaws and girls were also outside the lodges, the July night being hot. They cackled together to the windward side of the lordly males, and did not approach except to throw more wet sticks upon the smoulder.
The outcast watched the jollity from his dark corner, and marvelled at it. For were there not two tragedies threatening, either of which should, properly, lay hard upon the hearts of the village?
One was the nearing execution of the four condemned. Two sleeps ago, on the arrival of a runner from the absent cavalry, a wood-wagon had hauled several loads of lumber to the site of the pony corral. From that lumber—it was said openly, and he had told it in sign-language to the braves, was to be built—a scaffold!
The other tragedy hovered in the illness of Brown Mink. Since her lodge had been placed against the upper curve of the pen, there had been much singing, conjuring, dancing and beating of drums. But to no purpose. Daily, she wasted. She was dying!
He was not allowed to see her, to tend her fire or clean her kettle. When, on her removal, he had dared to stop at her tent-flap with a string of pike, Afraid-of-a-Fawn swooped down upon him, her long tushes clicking and frothing, snatched the wall-eyes from his hold and belaboured him with them. He had not gone back. But, in secret, he grieved over Brown Mink's suffering. And often he petitioned in her behalf, and lifted his worshipping vine toward the Milky Way.
In his sorrow, his shoulders were bent lower than ever, his ebon eyes were more doglike. Yet, he still dreamed of reinstatement, for he saw (though he could not understand it) that the warriors were again counting on escape!
They were unkempt no longer, but wore their hair neatly braided and well-greased. They ate sparingly, and only twice a day. They almost forswore water. And by covert exercise they trained away their flesh. Standing Buffalo and his haughty comrades did not waddle now under a weight of fat. As on the day of their capture, they were lank and stately.
Rejoicing in their hopes, he, too, had not been without preparation. A rusty knife found in a rubbish heap by the river had been polished by thrusting it repeatedly into the dirt. In spare moments, he made himself a sinew-backed bow, and practised many hours with it. He spent no time in the lean-to—his guard there had ceased. Thenecessity for food did not take him to the shack—his arrows brought down game which he cooked. At any time, with a sharp stick, he could root up his fill of wild turnips. He knew where ripe berries loaded the bushes, and where the plums reddened in the thickets. And how could he chance staying out of the stockade after midnight, when any dawn might find his brothers free?
Thoughts of Brown Mink alone took his mind from his dream. He yearned to see her again, to mark how far disease had ravaged, to show her that though all others were indifferent, he was not. And he had determined to tell her farewell—to tell her that he would win back his lost rank. For this, he would even break his vow of silence!
The end that he might gain her side hinged upon two things: His reaching her wickie-up unseen, and the absence of the crone. These he hoped for now, as he peered from his corner.
Despite the smudge he could see whatever went on in the stockade, for the sky was clear, and the stars hung low. Before long his patience was rewarded by a gradual quieting about the grouped wigwams. As the smoke thinned for lack of fuel, the mosquitoes drove the braves, to their beds. The squaws dispersed to attend them. The children, tired with play, straggled after. The lengthening night brought a welcome coolness with it. So a sentry soon roared a command from the board walk. Then the only hostage that was left arose slowly, stretched himself, and disappeared.
The dwindling pack were the last to lie down. Some wolves were challenging saucily from the coulée mouth. The dogs answered them in long-drawn wails. Finally thewolves took off up the river, and the dogs scratched about to find a moist spot and nestled down. There was silence now, except when a cur, dreaming of the chase, yapped in his troubled sleep.
Squaw Charley crawled from under the roof and along the high wall, being careful to mark the whereabouts of the brave that was always on the watch. Above him paced the sentries. But these did not see him because he kept in the shadow. Foot by foot he went, making toward Brown Mink's tent.
At last he was so near to it that, reaching out an arm, he could touch the base of a supporting pole. He drew back then, and squatted, his eyes on the entrance. Thus, upwards of an hour went by. The time passed quickly, for it was good to be near the beloved!
Crouched within the shelter of skins was another who waited—the hag. She was looking down the stockade through a narrow slit. When she judged that the sentries were growing less vigilant, she stood up. The outcast heard the crack of her old joints. A moment, and she stepped out stealthily and scanned the rim of the pen. Against the sky, the figure of each sentry was plainly outlined. None was near. Softly, she padded for the lodge of Standing Buffalo.
The pariah leaped up now, and took a swift step. But as his fingers closed upon the edge of the tent-flap, a whispered summons made him pause and glance around. There was a whispered reply, followed by steps as swift as his own. He sank, rolling himself into a ball. He was not a second too quick. Afraid-of-a-Fawn returned, with the chief at her heel.
Again the outcast waited, and jealously. Those within also waited, for a sentry was passing just above. Presently he was gone, and Charley leaned forward and put his ear against the tent, when he heard the scratch of a match.
It did not light, and there was a teasing laugh. The outcast sat up like a startled gopher, one hand to his breast, one out before him. Again, a scratch. A tiny flame flickered. Too amazed for fear, Charley put his eye to the slit.
Both hands came up to drive back a cry. At the rear of the wickie-up, the skins were pulled aside to reveal the stockade wall. Of this two logs showed—hollowed out so completely at the base that they were mere shells!
Before these logs, all kneeling, were the hag, Standing Buffalo and Brown Mink. The chief held the match; the old woman, a knife; the girl was empty-handed. But she was not ill—not wasted—not dying! She was full-figured. Her face was round. Her cheeks and lips were as bright as the dab of paint at the part in her hair—as crimson with health as a gorgeous cactus-flower!
The match went out. Squaw Charley dropped back to the wall's shadow. His heart was pounding madly with a twofold joy: The hacked logs assured freedom for his brothers, for himself, fighting and rank. And she was still to be won!
"The work is over," said a man's voice.
"And when comes the call of a dove?" asked a maid's.
"Perhaps when the moon dies."
"Who can tell?" It was the growl of the crone. "The Double-Tongue has run to hole like a fox."
Once more there was silence. A sentry, as he neared, washumming an unconscious warning. When he was gone again, there was more talk. But it was low-toned, and Charley could not hear. He did not wait longer. Slipping away a rod, he dropped on all fours.
When Standing Buffalo emerged and looked to see if he might safely return, he observed that in the enclosure nothing moved but a dog, which was going toward the shingle roof. So, composedly drawing his sheet of cow's hide about him, he strode to his lodge.
Until daybreak, two Indians did not join the others in their rest. The one sat harking for the call of a mourning-dove. The other sat cross-legged beside the smudge; and as a splinter new and then revived the fire, he wafted prayers of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit on its upward-rising smoke.
The wide valley was brown, with green splots and tracings for slough and stream. The distant ranges were grey. The sky showed the misty blue of the dog-days. Far off to the north and west, black streaks edged the horizon, where smoke rolled up from prairie-fires.
Brannon was quiet to the point of lethargy. Guard was mounted, and daily dress-parade held ceremoniously. The trumpet blew its unvarying round of commands. There was no hunting, and no field duty beyond the scouting of the eastern shore. The hoarse salute of an upward-plying steamer roused the garrison to life one morning. But the interruption lasted barely half an hour. Then the steamer, her pilot-house screened by sheet iron, and her decks aswarm with infantry, rounded a bend in the river and went coughing away out of sight. Once again, interest centred at the site of the pony corral, where a platform was slowly building.
Life at the shack was even less eventful. For Dallas, it was a season of idleness. The pumpkins and the melons were swelling; the tasselled corn wanted weeks before it would ripen; the field and garden were free of weeds. With no work to do, alone except for her sister, the elder girl had ample time to worry.
Marylyn saw that she was dispirited, and increased in tenderness toward her, following her about with eyes that entreated, yet were not sad. At breakfast she spitted the choicest cuts for Dallas. In the noon heat, she was at her elbow with a dipper of ginger-beer. And supper coaxed the elder girl's failing appetite by offerings of tasty stew, white flour dumplings and pone. As for herself, Marylyn needed neither urging nor tidbits. She ate heartily. Her sleep was a rest for both body and mind. Every afternoon she strolled across the bend to the cottonwoods. The butterflies fared beside her. Overhead, between sun and earth, hung legions of grasshoppers, like a haze. Underfoot, bluebell and sunflower nodded. And the grove was a place for dreams!
And Dallas—was a wild thing that cannot tell of its wound.
She uttered no complaint, even to Simon. The outburst that followed Lounsbury's return was her first and last. She questioned now if her suffering justified a lament. In this, she resembled her mother. A woman, coming to the section-house one torrid day, remarked wonderingly that Mrs. Lancaster gave "nary a whimper." The latter looked up with a smile. "I don't think I'm sick enough," she said. "Other people, worse off, have a right to groan." Dallas, certain that Marylyn's heartache was the keener, would not be behindhand in restraint. And her sister's happiness, forethought, and desire to please, all drove the thrust of penitence to the hilt, and turned the knife in that secret wound.
She found no solace in Marylyn's friends of the calico covers. Her thoughts were too tempestuous for that. Theywere like milling cattle. Around and around they tore, mingling and warring, but stilling in the end to follow the only course—self-denial. Once so rebellious, she was growing meek at last—meek and full of contrition. She was coming to dwell more too, on the lessons that the evangelist had taught her: She was coming to think of leaning where David Bond had leaned—she, who had always been a prop.
There was the old terror that had stalked beside her down to her mother's death. She had fought her way with it, and the conflict had given her strength. There was the jealousy that had smirched her sister-love. She had fought it, too, and bitterly, scorning it because she knew it for a hateful inheritance. Now was come a third misery, and the worst. She saw herself as a traitor. This was not mere reproach. It was the torture of a stricken conscience.
Her face grew thin, her hand unsteady, her eyes wore a hunted look. At night, hers were the scalding tears that dampened the pillow.
And so the days went by. Whatever pangs of remorse, whatever longing she endured, she remained faithful to the resolution that she would not give way to temptation again. But every night brought the lonely watcher to the swale.