The Plow-Woman Part 48

"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 sa.s.sy. 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 pa.s.sed 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 coulee, and reined upon the yellowing bend. 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 gra.s.s, 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 t.i.ttle-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.

c.u.mmings, 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 gra.s.s 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. c.u.mmings' 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.