The Plow-Woman Part 61

"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. As the 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 k.n.o.b.

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 something _good_."

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 k.n.o.b, 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!_"

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.

CHAPTER XLI

TAPS

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 ill.u.s.trations cut out of leading weeklies--these ill.u.s.trations 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 a.s.sorted 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 the hostess, 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 pa.s.sed 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.