The Plow-Woman Part 21

"Course, I promise."

"Oh, Dallas!" She buried her face in her hands. "It's--it's that I--I like him! _I like him!_"

A moment of perplexity. Then, gradually, it dawned upon the elder girl whom the other meant. In very surprise her arms loosened their hold.

"You _do_ hate me," Marylyn said plaintively.

"No, honey, no--why should I hate you?" Her words were earnest. But her voice--something had changed it. And she felt a strange hurt, a vague hurt that seemed to have no cause.

Marylyn raised herself on an elbow. "He liked me--once," she said. "He showed it, just as _plain_. It was right here, that day the cattle went by."

Dallas got up. She had begun to tremble visibly; her breath was coming short, as if she had been running.

But the younger girl did not notice. "He stayed away so long," she went on. "Then, to-day when he came--you remember, Dallas,--he just said a word or two to me, and laughed at me because I was afraid. And--and I saw that I was wrong, and I--I saw--he liked--_you_."

"_Me!_" Dallas turned. She felt the blood come driving into her face.

She felt that strange hurt ease--and go in a rush of joyful feeling.

Then, she understood the cause of it--and why she had trembled--why that day had been the happiest of her life.

Of a sudden she became conscious that Marylyn's eyes were upon her with a look of pathetic reproach. She began to laugh.

"Nonsense! honey," she said. "Don't be silly! Me! Why, he'd never like a great big gawk like me!"

"But--but----"

"Me, with my red hair--you know it is kinda red--and my face, sunburned as a' Indian--hands all calloused like--like a man's." She turned back to the dusk through the window. "Oh, no, not me."

"But you looked so funny just now."

"Did I? Did I?" Dallas stammered out her reason: "Well--well, that was because--because I thought you was going to say it was a soldier." She laughed--nervously. "But it was Mr. Lounsbury you meant, honey, wasn't it?"

The suspicion that had troubled the mind of the younger girl was allayed. "Why, Dallas, how could you think such a thing about me! Like a soldier? My, no! It was Mr. Lounsbury--but he don't like me."

She got up and went to the foot of her father's bunk. When she reappeared, she was carrying the soap-box that held her belongings. On the robe once more, she took out and held up to the light of the fire two books and a strip of beaded cloth.

The elder left the window and stood beside her.

"These are what he gave me," went on Marylyn, putting forward the books.

"And this"--she showed the beadwork--"he asked me to make for him. But to-day," mournfully, "he didn't even speak of it."

Dallas leaned down and touched her lips to the other's hair. "Baby sister, what did you expect him to do? Hold up a man with one hand and--and reach out for a present with the other?"

Marylyn put away the box. "Anyway, he don't like me."

"Like you? Why, he couldn't help it. There isn't a sweeter, prettier girl on the prairies than my little house-keeper."

"He called me the prairie princess," declared Marylyn, but with lingering doubt.

"Now, that shows," said the elder girl. "Don't you worry another second.

When he comes again, you'll see."

So Dallas soothed and comforted her until she fell asleep, when she lifted her to her father's bed and covered her carefully. Then she drew aside a swinging blanket to let the firelight shine through--and saw that there were still tears on her sister's face.

CHAPTER XIII

A PROPOSAL AND A PROMISE

The medicine lodge of the Indians stood just within the sliding-panel of the stockade. Thirty poles, their tops lashed together so as to leave a smoke-hole, their bases spread to form a generous circle, supported a covering of tanned buffalo hides seamed with buckskin thongs. Here, barely an hour after Matthews' arrival at Fort Brannon, Squaw Charley entered hastily and thrust some red coals under a stick-pile at the centre of the lodge. And at once, by the flickering light of his fire, the warriors of the band entered the low entrance and seated themselves in a semicircle.

When Colonel c.u.mmings learned that an interpreter had been found, he promptly ordered the completion of preparations for the Jamieson expedition, and the calling of a council, unsatisfactory, but necessary.

The redskins jailed in the stockade must know both the object of the trip and his terms, so that they, realising their peril, would reveal the whereabouts of the winter camp of the hostiles.

His interview with Matthews threatened a change in his plans. The latter, having listened to the story of the captured women and to the scheme for their rescue, astonished the commanding officer by declining absolutely to take the proposed journey.

"I'd like t' be obligin'," he said, "but I can't go. I didn't know there was goin' t' be any travellin'. There's business that'll keep me here."

"Why, man!" cried the colonel, "I've made you a good offer."

"I ain't a-sayin' y' didn't," was the curt answer.

Colonel c.u.mmings knew to what "business" he referred; but realised that a discussion of it would not aid in bringing the desired consent. He pretended to guess at reasons for the refusal.

"There's scarcely a possibility of trouble during the journey," he said.

"Indians don't like to fight in the snow, especially when their families are with them and their war-ponies are feeding on cottonwood bark.

Besides, their head chief will be sharp enough to see that he'll have to treat and not fight if he wants to save the necks of his favourites.

Then, as far as the safety and comfort of my men are concerned, everything is being done. Better reconsider, Matthews."

"Can't do it."

Colonel c.u.mmings left his library, where he had been talking, and sought Lounsbury's advice. The two held a short, whispered conversation in the entry.

"Let me have a few words with him," said the storekeeper. Matthews'

balking was not altogether a surprise. Nevertheless, it was a keen disappointment. He had hoped to be able to send Squaw Charley across the river soon with good news. "Let me see him. Maybe I can bring him around."

They entered the library.

"Matthews," began Lounsbury, "you might as well go along. If you stay, you can't get a hold o' that claim." He looked at the colonel's clock.

"It's midnight. Your six months are up. If you did have a chance, it's gone. Possession's nine points in law, and Lancaster's up at Bismarck nailing the tenth."

If the storekeeper's blunt a.s.sertions were of any particular interest to the other, he failed to show it. He occupied himself with finding a cigar, cutting it carefully, and lighting it at the stove. Then he turned about to Colonel c.u.mmings, his glance, as it travelled, utterly ignoring Lounsbury.

"Not to mention the risks you run with the boys," added the storekeeper easily, amused by the play of indifference.

"Oh, I guess Shanty Town can take keer of itself," observed Matthews, sending up smoke rings.