"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."
She was spent. She had no hope of being spared from death. Yet she was strangely calm and unafraid.
"Marylyn'll be happy," she said. "I know John Lounsbury well enough for that."
She became conscious of thirst. A branch of wild roses, shining with raindrops, bobbed above her. She bent the flowers to her mouth, one by one, and sucked their moisture.
She looked to the front again, across the spreading meadow. She heard the cheeps of awakening birds, and small movements in trees and grass. The grey of the sky was turning to pink. There was a lifting fore-glow in the east.
"See, Charley," she said, "there'll be good light to fight in. But—but there's just one charge."
As each man of the rescuing party splashed out upon the sandy beach before Shanty Town, he headed for the open level. There was no waiting for commands, no attempt at order; only the sound of laboured breathing, of frantic urging, of the plying of heel and fist. Butchery threatened, and a wasted moment might be the one that could have stayed the knife.
Crossing the Bend, the company was strung to a long, bedrabbled line. It was slow going. Already the horses had stood hard usage—the detour with Matthews, the return, and the severely trying swim. Fraser, given the lead, still kept it, dinging hoarse persuasion into "Buckskin's" flattened ears.
So far, the troopers had kept silent through fear for the girls' safety—fear that the hostages, if aware of pursuit, would wreak instant death. But now, as their lieutenant advanced to the shack, the men behind, while trying their utmost to gain, sent forward yell upon yell to startle the Indians into dropping their captives and seeking cover.
No whoops replied, but from the doorway, unheard, the voice of a man, "Oliver—Oliver!—here!"
As the line swung up, and by, in a circle, Fraser, weapon in hand, was down and pressing forward.
He found Lounsbury, seated on the sill, from which he rose unsteadily.
"Lounsbury! Lounsbury!"
"Quick—the coulée! They went that way—Give me a lift!"
His hand was wet. Fraser caught him about the waist.
"Oh, you're wounded!"
"Yes,—glancing blow. But I tied it up."
"Lounsbury? Wounded?" It was Oliver.
"Up the coulée, Captain! Give me a horse."
The captain turned, shouting orders. The other tried to follow, Fraser supporting him.
"Here, somebody, a horse for Lounsbury."
A third man dismounted—Jamieson. He put a rope in Fraser's hand.
"Take my horse," he said. "I'll stay. Ride like the devil, Lounsbury, and soak 'em one for me!"
They helped the storekeeper mount. The command had gone. He and Fraser followed.
Half the troopers were travelling the farther brink, half the near. The two caught up with the latter detachment.
Progress was slow. The men were tired from the fire-fighting. The horses were all but blown.
Nevertheless, not a moment's halt was taken until, after six wearisome miles, the troopers came opposite the cottonwoods where the Indian dead were lashed.
By now the darkness had lifted considerably, and a scout, who was riding the southern side, advised a hunt for tracks.
No tracks were found on the near brink. The horsesmoved forward again, Oliver and Fraser waiting behind to hear from the opposite side.
"Anything over there?" called the captain, and they fell silent for the reply.
All at once, as they waited, Fraser began peering down into the coulée. "What's that?" he whispered. "What's that? Hark!"
"What?"
Just then came a shout: "No tracks, Captain."
Oliver kicked his boots into his horse's side. "Come on, come on," he said, and went hurrying after his men.
"But, Captain——" Fraser was holding back. "There was a cry. I heard——"
"Come on, Fraser." Oliver's horse broke into a trot.
"Captain!"
A third time Oliver called sharply. Behind he heard the cayuse following.
Farther along, however, he turned to address his lieutenant—and saw that "Buckskin" carried no rider.
And now through the dusk of the coulée the Indians advanced toward the Throat. Single file, they came, their leader a stalwart brave who ran unsteadily.
But, of a sudden, they brought up and retreated, tripping back upon one another over rubble and bowlder, and giving out startled oaths. Then they halted, a score of dim, crowding figures.
Beyond the Throat showed a patch of sky, swiftly brightening with the dawn. Against that patch, thrust up by a ragged arm, was a twirling gun.
There was a parley, while the oaths became a jumble of protests, haranguing, and threats.
Presently Standing Buffalo could be heard above the rest. "They are only women. Let us take them and be on!"
At this, all started forward, but warily. As sudden as before, they stopped.
Against the light, for a second time, a ragged arm had shot up. Now at its top was a sinew-backed bow.
The Indians were amazed. One of their kind defending the women? They snorted in rage.
As they jostled, stretching this way and that, the arm began slowly to brandish the bow, and in a manner to announce that the holder desired single combat.
Standing Buffalo went forward in a bound. "I clearthe way," he cried vauntingly to his brothers; to the one before, "Who fears? Come out." He loosened the arrows in his quiver.
The challenger came—a stooping figure in squaw's dress.
The sight of him fairly rooted the young chief. "The Squaw!" His voice was furious.
Behind, a great laugh went up. And, as though there was no longer a need either to respect or fear the signals of the one who barred their path, the whole band charged.
A little to one side of The Squaw, a gun spoke—right into their midst. A brave screamed, catching at his thigh. The others wavered and fell back beyond rifle reach, taking him with them.
The stooping figure in squaw's dress signed once more for single combat.
Lame Foot addressed his brothers. "We delay too long," he cautioned. "Standing Buffalo, go forward and slay the she-skunk, and let us hasten."
Standing Buffalo waved his bow aloft. "I do so," he promised. "But you, Medicine-Giver, must hold me clean of shame for fighting a squaw!" Then, to the outcast, "Come out, coffee-cooler, and die." He halved the distance between him and the Throat.
Squaw Charley approached him watchfully, setting a shaft in place. His face seemed all eyes—eyes burning with a fierce joy. Standing Buffalo fitted an arrow. Both raised their bows.
Behind the chief came calls of derision and execration. Behind the outcast came a voice, clear and steady: "Careful, Charley,careful."
To and fro, the contestants were stealing, noiselessly,on the alert, each striving to get the other in a favourable light.
A minute, another—then Standing Buffalo bent his knees, drew and shot. But the arrow veered a trifle from its intended course.
The Squaw drew. The cord sang. The shaft whistled to its mark.
It drove the chief backward a few paces like a wounded buck. Then, stopping himself with effort, he lurched forward again. As he came, he raised his bow and sent a second arrow that cut the bushes on the canyon side.
The shaft was his last. His face went suddenly livid, his eyeballs started; drivelling, he clutched at the air—tipped down to his hands—touched—let go his weapon—half-rose—pivoted on a heel, and slipped in a heap to the stones.
A wordless cry broke from the lips of The Squaw. He sped across the coulée-bottom to the side of the dead chief. There he struck the fallen man a blow upon the bare knee, snatched from his head an eagle feather, daubed it across the flowing wound, and thrust it dripping red into his own hair.
Then, as he had not done in years, he straightened. Then he cast from him the foul rags of his squaw's dress. And in clout and the colours of death, he stood forth—a warrior!
"I count a coup—Red Moon!" he cried.
Howls—from a watching band that had been struck dumb.
"A coup, I—Red Moon. Come on, you dogs—you that called me dog. Come on, you squaws that called me squaw. Come on, and a warrior will fight you, one by one!"
Before him, more howls, and a bluster of Uncapapa. Behind the voice again: "Charley! Charley!"
And now Red Moon leaped back to resume his stand. With his turning, the band drew after, sending a shower of arrows.
At the Throat he faced them again.
"Braves!" he laughed mockingly. "Dogs—that fight like dogs, a pack against one!"
Now he shot, swift and unerringly. Here one flattened; there, another; a third broke his jaw upon a stone. Till from their midst flew the missile of Big Ox, hard-driven, straight. Quivering, it buried its deadly point in Red Moon's breast.
Deafening whoops echoed in the narrow canyon, drowning the hoof-beats of a nearing horse.
Red Moon answered them. He was swaying to and fro, like a cypress limb in a great wind. He lifted his face to the sky until his crimson scalp-feather drooped; flung back his hair, and clapped palm to mouth in a war-cry.
Then his bow flew from his hand as his arms spread out—spread out as if seeking something upon which to lean. He sank to his knees, chanting the death-song of the Sioux.
"Charley! Charley!" It was a wail.
Not his voice, but another's, answered: "Dallas! Where are you?"
The Indians heard the call. Catching up wounded and dead, they fell back.
Dallas, shielded no longer, yet forgetful of danger and self, ran forward to where Red Moon knelt. Even as she reached him, he could kneel no longer. He toppled sideways, then straightened upon his back.
But now the band was coming back toward Dallas, on their way to the Throat. Their purpose was thwarted. Before Dallas was reached, a man blocked the narrow passage, and two revolvers, barking a staccato, spread panic among them. They turned to the walls, looking for a place to scale. From there came tramping and shouts, and they saw, over them, at either side, a line of downward-pointing guns!
Huddling together, the centre of a complete surround, wounded and unwounded cast aside their bows and flung up their hands in the peace sign.
"Give 'em hell, boys!" screamed a trooper.
But the trumpet interfered.
Close to the Throat was a group that had neither eyes nor ears for the capture. Here was the warrior, Red Moon, calm-faced, bearing his agony bravely, choking back even a murmur of pain. Over him were Lounsbury and Dallas, bent for a final look and word.
"Dear old fellow," murmured Lounsbury. "You gave 'em a good fight to-day. You saved her."
The surgeon was beside them now, hastily examining. The shaft was not in the wound; it had fallen. But the poisoned barb remained. He shook his head.
"No use, John," he whispered, and tiptoed away.
Lounsbury leaned farther down. "Charley," he said, "you're going now, old man. Say good-by to us."
The Indian moved one hand feebly.
Lounsbury understood. He lifted and shook it gently. "Brave Red Moon," he said.
The savagery was all gone from the Indian's eyes; they were wonderfully soft and un-Indian in their expression.He seemed, all at once, to be thinking of something far off. And his look was adoring.
Dallas could not speak to him, but she, too, shook him gently by the hand.
He settled his head upon Lounsbury's arm, as a child might have done. Then he looked up at Dallas. "Friend—friend," he whispered softly, smiled, and with the touch of the sun on his upturned face, he slept.
Lounsbury was stretched in the hammock on Captain Oliver's gallery, his bandaged head on a pillow, his left arm resting in a sling. Leaping about, almost upon him, and imperilling the stout ropes that swung the hammock, were five of the captain's seven.
Twenty-four hours were gone since, having lashed four Indian dead among the branches of the burial trees, troopers, Sioux, and rescued had returned to a post that was half in ashes. Now, guards tramped the high board walk as before, keeping strict watch of their sulky prisoners; the ramshackle ferry-boat, dragged away from the bar that had halted her, was tied up at her landing again; across the upper end of the parade, grey tents had replaced the barracks; while, farther on, teams and scrapers were clearing away smoking ruins and dumping them into the river; squaws were thatching the roofs of the scouts' shanties; and hammers were ringing on new structures for Clothes-Pin Row. With cool enterprise, Brannon was hastening toward recovery.
There was other mending that was less rapid: In the stockade, where one nursed an arrow, another a bullet, wound; in the garrison hospital, where Kippis and a comrade stumped about on swathed feet; and on the Oliver gallery, where Lounsbury lay, his face not the usual fulness, and a trifle white.
The storekeeper, however, was lending entertainment, as hospitality and his popularity demanded.
"The idea of you little apes asking for stories," he was saying to his audience, "when such popping good ones are happening right under your nose!"
Felicia was the youngest of the seven. She gave back at him, prancing up and down insistently. "But we don't want stories of things around here," she cried wilfully. "We want lords and ladies, and yougim'em to us."
"Lords and ladies," sniffed Lounsbury. "Well, Felicia, stop that jumping-jack business and I'll begin."
A chorus of delight—then, the five disposed themselves, the boys (there were two) astride the storekeeper; the girls draping the swinging net at either side.
"Once upon a time," commenced Lounsbury, "in the middle of a gre-a-a-t, wi-i-i-de, fla-a-a-t country——"
"Now," interrupted James, who came next to Felicia. His inflection was rising and suspicious.
"Now," chimed in the others. They, too, did not fancy such familiar topography.
"Look here," said the narrator, "don't get it into your precious noddles that this Territory's the only flat country under the sun. There are other spots upon this green earth where you can see hundreds of miles in any direction."
"Go on, then, go on!"
"Well, this was such a place—great, wide, flat place. The lord lived there. He was called the Lord Harry—got his name from the way he acted; he was always making forced marches——"
Again suspicion, which Lounsbury ignored.
"And violent demands. Oo! my shin!" (This to James,whose heels were curled up under him.) "Violent demands, I said. And so he had the cheek—um—the impudence to love, tolove——" He shut his eyes in silent rhapsody.
"What uz her name?"
"Ah!" Lounsbury threw up his well hand helplessly. "Noname was splendid enough for her—not one. But he called her—for want of a better, mind you—he called her the Rose of the South."
"Bully! bully!" accompanied by the clapping of hands.
The door from the entry opened. Dallas came slowly out.
"Go on," urged Felicia, "'Rose of the South?'"
But Lounsbury was looking at Dallas. "Rose of the South," he repeated, a queer tremor running around his mouth; "as far south as—as Texas."
Dallas seemed about to turn.
Lounsbury hurried to put the well hand behind his ear. "Felicia," he said, "didn't I hear your mother call?"
Felicia rocked herself from foot to foot. "Oh, you goon," she said overbearingly, "or you might fall out of the hammock."
But the spell was broken. Her sisters had pounced upon Dallas. The boys, getting a whiff from regions down the hall, had made off. She followed, with backward demands for "the rest of it" later on, and carried the last of the five with her.
Lounsbury sat up and put out his hand. The fun was gone from his eyes.
"Dallas, you've had your talk," he said quietly, but with a hint of anxiety. "I know it's all right; it'sgotto be."
She came part way to him, and stood wheremorning-glory vines climbed a lattice. "Marylyn's just been telling me," she answered. She raised her head, very intent upon the flagstaff. The light through the vines touched the outline of her face—a firm outline, cut by a flying wisp of hair.
"Dear?" he questioned.
She glanced down at him, smiling through tears. "All the time, they liked each other," she said happily. "He calls her Marylyn, and she calls him Robert."
He got up and went to her. "When I saw him there in the road by that cottonwood bunch, lugging her along so careful, looking so scared—and the way he held her on Buckskin!" He caught her hand.
"There's one thing that hurts," she answered. "That it kept you out there watching, and I didn't even go to you—but I—I——"
"You were doing the white thing by that little sister. That makes it all the sweeter."
"She was afraid I'd scold," still through tears.
"Youscold!"
"I would. I felt different about soldiers—then."
He took a deep breath. "They're handy to have around," he said.
"She's afraid Mr. Fraser'll find out what she said about you."
"He won't. He might get a notion she didn't know her own mind yet! He might—well, as Kippis says, ''E's bloomin' 'ot-'eaded,' the little beggar!"
"She don't know I told you. It'd bother her if——"
"That's between you and me, Dallas." He drew her near.
"Yes."
"Yes,John," promptingly.
"Yes, John."
The morning-glory vines on the lattice reached up and out; brushed by the wind, they made a sheltering veil. He drew her closer. He lifted her face to his by a smoothing caress of her hair. He kissed her.
"My dearest! My splendid girl!"
He shook his head roguishly at her. "So wild, she was, with the bit in her teeth. And now—she eats right out of my hand."
Then, roguish no longer, he lifted her two hands, turned them—palms up—and touched them with his lips.
"Ah, dear, there must be no more going-it-alone. I want to take care of you after this. We won't wait, will we?"
"No."
"Just the minute a minister can be reached?"
"Yes."
"I've a mind to bribe Mike into taking us up to Bismarck after breakfast!"
"You're too sick." Her face was grave, her eyes watched him anxiously. "All night I thought about you: How I went running off when I heard that shot. Oh, suppose,suppose——"
"I'll be over this in a day. And I know you went because you had to. Don't I know you weren't afraid? Don't I know why you left Marylyn behind at the trees? Dallas—you're a wife for a man out here!"
She coloured under his praise.
"There'll be other things coming up to fight," he wenton. "That's the beauty of this West—it keeps you busy. But we'll be together to make the fight. I don't ask anything more."
After a time, they walked to the top of the steps.
Across the river, at the centre of the yellow bend, it stood—the squat shack.
"Dear little home!" she said.
"You wouldn't like to leave it. You can go to Bismarck, you know, or East, or anywhere."
"I'd rather stay."
"We'll stay—right over there. Then, when the town comes, and it gets too populous—if you like, and if Marylyn's not at this post—we'll go farther up, to open country again."
"We'll take your share of the Clark herd," she said.
"I've got afinelittle saddle-mare for you," he said.
Somebody entered the parlour behind them—two somebodies, hand in hand.
"Dallas," called one, meekly.
"Lounsbury," hailed the other.
The storekeeper went in, Dallas with him. "Bless your sweet hearts," he said when he faced the couple. "Marylyn, you rested? Fraser, you look idiotically happy."
"I'm not alone," retorted the lieutenant. "I'd hate to describe you this minute, your face beaming through all that lint."
"Save yourself the trouble, here, before my future wife."
Fraser turned to Marylyn. "Phew! But we're important! Listen to him!"
"Dallas wants to get back to the shack. Can a'ordinary, everyday trooper look after the finest two-year-old and the finest team in Dakota? Not by a long shot! And I'm not going to let her go alone," soberly, "after what's happened. Can't take any more chances."
Fraser sobered too. "Nothing to fear any more," he said. "When Mike's men were getting the boat off, down below, they found—him."
A moment's silence.
"They think he tried to cross and couldn't. There he was, tangled up in some willows, poor devil."
"That ought to explain some things to the Captain," said Lounsbury, in a low voice.
"Yes. And it will satisfy the K. O., I'm pretty sure. An officer's not to be blamed so much for things going wrong when the traitor's practically within the lines. The K. O. himself could have had that fire."
"Well, Dallas." Lounsbury was cheery again. "You and Marylyn own the Bend, sure enough."
There was a knock at the door. Then, with a great show of backing and coughing, young Jamieson appeared.
"Frank," said Lounsbury, "quit your nonsense and tell us about the other side. Did the scout find anything?"
"Yes, he did," answered Jamieson; "and what proves how smart the whole plot was. What do you think? Well, just above where you met that Indian, they found an outfit—black blanket and a ragged skirt——"
A quiet fell. Dallas turned away to the windows. Lounsbury followed her, comforting.
Presently, he returned, clearing his voice. "They copied Charley's clothes," he said. "I guessed that. Asthe Indian came up to me, I spoke. But when he answered, I knew—just a second too late. He gave me a terrible lick, but I caught it on my arm and came back with the gun. Don't know how I ever reached the shack."
"Mr. Lo peeled in the grove and scampered," said Fraser.
"We saw him," said Marylyn, "and I ran."
"He's the only red that got free."
"But, all the same, I plugged him," declared Lounsbury. "And I'll bet he's packing a pound of buckshot. Who was it, do you know?"
"Canada John."
Again the door opened, and Oliver appeared. His long face was distressfully haggard; about his temples and across his forehead, what had been merely lines before were now deep grooves. Yet the fierce, baffled look that had been in his eyes since the escape was entirely gone. He smiled at the group most tenderly, and his moustache wiggled in a most incomprehensible fashion.
He closed the door and waited, his hand on the knob.
Jamieson stepped forward. "Captain," he said with mock injury, "these people"—he indicated the others—"do not mark the flight of the minutes. I don't wonder—it's natural. But I, sir, I—having been asked to breakfast by Mrs. Oliver—do. Is—is breakfast ready?"
"Breakfast is ready," Oliver answered. His voice was unsteady.
"Thank goodness for that!"
There was the sound of a faint cheer outside; then someone went rushing up the plank walk before the house. The captain closed the windows.
"We shall give thanks for many things to-day," he said significantly.
Fraser started, and his eyelids fluttered what his face strove to control.
"What's all that outside?" It was Marylyn, innocently.
But Oliver gave a quick sign, pulling nervously at his moustache.
"Frank," he began, "a—a friend is coming home to us this morning."
"A-a-ah!" It was near a groan.
"Wait—wait," firmly. "Give yourself a moment to guess. But—guess somethinggood."
Jamieson moved like a man in pain. "You mean, you mean——" he whispered. "Oh, Captain, I've waited and waited."
"Bravely—we all know that. And there's reward for you."
Behind Jamieson, the others were leaning forward, hopeful, fearful—in a fever of emotions.
The cheering outside had grown. More people were running up the walk—children, men, bareheaded women.
"Jamieson," said the captain, "you'll be very calm?"
Jamieson relaxed, faltering forward. "I'll try! I'll try!" he promised.
Lounsbury caught him. "Tell him, Oliver," he begged.
The captain turned the knob, took Jamieson by a wrist and led him out through the entry.
On the gallery was a second group. It whispered. It laughed. It cried. It looked north to where the road came down from the landing.
"Easy now, easy," cautioned Oliver. He patted Jamieson, led him down the steps, and faced him up the Line.
"There, my dear boy," he said.
On the upper edge of the parade-ground, the men of B Troop were surrounding some travellers, caps in air. With their cheers mingled wild shouts. And one of them was singing the lines of a song, fervent, loud and martial:
"Glory, glory, Hallelujah!Glory, glory, Hallelujah!"
"Glory, glory, Hallelujah!Glory, glory, Hallelujah!"
For a moment, as one who questions his own sight and hearing, Jamieson gazed before him. Then, he flung up his arms and sprang forward with a great cry:
"Mother! mother!Alice!"
Down the Line they had taken up the singing. And to it, the troopers dividing, the travellers came into full view.
There was a wagon, with red wheels, a green box, and drawn by a milk-white horse. On its seat were two women, who clung to each other as they looked about. Above them a cross of rude boards stood straight up into the sunlight of the morning. And beside the cross, driving, sat a man—an aged man—white-haired, priestly, patriarchal.
The parlour at Captain Oliver's was a homelike place: The black tarred paper that covered its walls was fairly hidden from sight by selected illustrations cut out of leading weeklies—these illustrations being arranged with a nice eye to convenience, right side up, the small-sized pictures low down, the larger ones higher. There was a fireplace which, it being summertime, had a screening brown-paper skirt that fell to the hearth. Above this, along the mantel, was another skirt, made of a newspaper, short and pouty, and scissored at the lower edge into an elaborate saw-tooth design. The mantel was further adorned by certain assorted belongings in the way of a doll, a kite, an empty bank, a racquet, books, and the like, all cast into their various positions by the seven small Olivers. On either side of the fireplace were bracket-lamps. Across the room was the inevitable army cot, spread with wolf skins. There were chairs—two of them—wrought from sugar barrels. There was a table, quite as ingeniously formed. And, completing the whole, the long curtains over the windows—curtains magnificently flowered, and made from a dress-pattern gift (the captain's) that Mrs. Oliver, ever a woman of resource, had artfully diverted to another purpose.
To-night, the parlour was more homelike than usual—and festive. For a family party filled it. Here was thehostess, carrying a huge iced cake, and taking account of the seven's behaviour; the seven themselves, eager, though somewhat repressed, and doing full justice to their portions; their father, thankful, as he passed the coffee, that so much good had come out of some misfortune; Frank Jamieson, mother and sister on either arm; Marylyn Lancaster, looking dimpled consciousness; close upon her every move, a certain young lieutenant, who cast longing glances toward the half-lighted gallery; the surgeon, ungratefully relegated to a corner, but solacing himself in his cup; David Bond, his wrinkled old face a benediction; and, lastly, Dallas and John.
Lounsbury was his former self, save for the plaster-strips that had supplanted the bandages. Everywhere at once he put the grip of two men into his well arm, smiling upon all like the very genius of happiness.
And Dallas—Mrs. Oliver had offered to sew her a plain white dress for the occasion. But she had chosen—since her John must of necessity come in his wonted attire—to appear in the simple frock she had worn the night they met in the swale. Above it, her hair was braided and coiled upon her head like a crown. Her cheeks were a glowing red. Her eyes shone.
All was bedlam: Tongues clattered; cups rattled; laughter rose and fell; the seven, having no chairs, sat in a line under the leadership of Felicia and kicked their heels on the floor.
Then—interrupting—a knock, loud, peremptory.
The company stilled. Jamieson opened.
There stood a jolly figure—the sutler's—apple-round head and all.
"Well, Blakely?" asked the captain.
Blakely hung his weight on a foot and, coughing behind his plump hand, bobbed his answer: "Steam's up, sir."
Lounsbury had the centre of the floor. He kept it, reaching out to bring Dallas beside him. They stood while the others crowded up to give them well wishes and to tell them good-night.
Last of all came David Bond. "My daughter, my son," he said, "God bless you!"
Lounsbury slipped Dallas' hand into his arm. Then the door opened for them, and they went out—together.
"John is a good man," said the evangelist, "and will make a good husband," He was seated with Fraser on the gallery, watching a light in midstream dance its way through the dark.
Fraser sighed happily. "She's a dear girl," he murmured, looking back to where the lamp was moving about in Oliver's spare room. "She'd make a wife for a prince."
Presently he roused himself with another sigh. "You ought to see the way we fixed up the shack," he said. "White kick-up curtains on the windows—that was Mrs. Oliver's idea; rose-berries all over the mantel—Marylyn did that; I stuffed the fireplace full of sumach; then, Michael sprinkled and swept out, and we covered the floor with Navajo blankets."
"Little place looked cosey."
"Cosey as could be."
A little while, and Fraser sprang up. "They're there!" he cried. "See? see? They're home!"
Far away on the bend, the eyes of the shack were bright.
"And you, Mr. Fraser?" asked the evangelist.
"Marylyn and I will wait for the Colonel. Won't be long, now. Shall you be here?"
"I think not. The Indians go to Standing Rock next week. I go with them."
"Poor Charley!" said Fraser, huskily. "He won't go, poor old chap!"
"Hardly poor, Mr. Fraser." There was a triumphant ring in David Bond's voice. "Few men gain as much as he by death."
"I know. Even the Captain's proud of him now."
They fell silent.
Now from the tent rows that replaced the barracks, rang out the trumpet, sounding the day's last call. The two turned their heads to listen.
The call ended. The faint, wavering notes of the echo died away upon river and bluff.
They turned back to the shack again—and saw its light go flickering out.
Transcriber's NoteSome inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document has been preserved.Typographical errors corrected in the text:Page 24 disappeareed changed to disappearedPage 59 work changed to wordPage 80 Mehach changed to MeshachPage 130 resistence changed to resistancePage 136 removed extra word "is"Page 315 Bix changed to BigPage 345 branish changed to brandish
Transcriber's Note