The Plow-Woman Part 9

Dallas released Marylyn. "Yes," she said, watching the younger girl wander back mechanically to the post she had forsaken; "and to-morrow you ought to start for Bismarck. Maybe it wouldn't matter if you waited a while before going; but as long as the weather's good, I think you ought to go right off."

"Ah reckon," he replied, but not heartily.

And so, once more preparations for a trip were made. That night, when all was ready, and Dallas and her father, having given the team a late feed, were leaving the stable together, she spoke to him of her sister.

"There's just one thing that worries me about your leaving," she said.

"I don't know if you've noticed it or not, but Marylyn don't seem to be feeling good."

"Y' think mebbe she takes after her ma?" ventured the section-boss.

Dallas nodded.

"No, no," he said, "she favours me, an' they's no need t' fret. They's nothin' th' matter with her--jus' off her oats a leetle, thet's all."

The developments of the next morning swept every thought from Dallas'

mind save those concerning the journey. For, when it came time to harness the mules, she found that Ben had unaccountably gone lame.

Whether his mate had kicked him, or whether he had sprained a leg while exercising the previous afternoon, she did not know. But it was plain that, as far as he went, the miles between quarter-section and land-office were impossible. At once, Dallas suggested that Betty be driven single to a small pung that had been built for water-hauling when the well froze up. Accordingly, the mule was put before the sleigh.

Failure resulted. Though both Dallas and her father alternately coaxed and scolded, Betty, with characteristic stubbornness, refused to budge a rod from the lean-to without Ben.

Dallas was in despair. "She won't go, she won't go," she said. "We've got to think of some other way."

"Yestiddy," observed the section-boss, as he unfastened the tugs, "y'

said it wouldn' matter ef Ah didn' go now." He was somewhat complacent over the outcome of the hitch-up.

"I don't feel that way now," a.s.serted Dallas.

"Thet ol' man up at th' leetle ben' has hosses," he volunteered when they were again within the shack.

"He took 'em to Clark's two months ago, and walked back."

"Wal, how 'bout th' Norwegian over by th' Mountain?"

"He keeps oxen. If a blizzard came up, they'd never lead you out of it."

Then she was moved to make a suggestion which she felt certain, however, would only be denounced. "There are hundreds of horses and mules at Brannon. I could ask there for a team."

Instantly Lancaster's ire was roused. "Thet's all Ah want t' hear fr'm you 'bout them d.a.m.ned Yankees," he said hotly. "An' Ah want y' t'

remember it."

"But you're wrong, dad."

"Eh?" He turned upon her in amazed disgust.

"You're wrong," she repeated gently. "We oughtn't to treat the soldiers as if they was enemies. Some day we'll be in danger here----"

"Bosh!"

"And then we'll have to take their help."

He began to hobble up and down, working himself into a white heat. "'S long as Ah live on this claim," he said, "Ah'll never go t' Brannon fer anythin', an' they'll be no trottin' back an' forth. Thet ornery trash over thar is th' same, most of it, thet fought th' South, jus' a few years ago. Ah kain't forget thet. An' not _one_ of 'em'll ever set a foot in this house."

After more hobbling, he burst forth again. "Ah tell y', Dallas, Ah won't _hev_' you gals meetin' them no-'count soldiers----"

She smiled at him. "We don't want to meet any soldiers," she answered.

"But there are women at the Fort--women like mother. It seems a shame we can't know them."

"Y' mother raised y' t' be's fine a lady as any of 'em over thar!"

"Maybe that's true. If it is, then they'd like us, wouldn't they? and we could have friends. I'm not thinking about myself--just about Marylyn."

"You gals got each other. Meetin' th' women at Brannon means meetin' th'

men. _An' Ah won't hev it!_" His voice rose almost to a shout.

"I'll never speak to you about it again," she said. And her quiet acceptance mollified him.

"M' gal, y' kain't think how Ah feel about them Yanks," he went on tremulously. "An' Ah want y' t' promise me thet whether Ah'm 'live er dead, y' 'll allus keep on you' own side of th' river."

She glanced up at him quickly. "Do you mean that, daddy?" she asked, using the name he had borne in her babyhood.

"Ah _do!_ Ah do!"

"Then I promise." Her tone was sorrowful.

"Mar'lyn?"

The younger girl faced about slowly.

"D' _you_ promise?"

"Promise?" she repeated. "Yes,--I--I promise."

Dallas knew that the trip to the land-office was impossible unless Lounsbury should chance along--which was unlikely, some weeks having pa.s.sed since his last visit. Undoubtedly were he to come, he would help them. But would her father allow her to ask the storekeeper's aid?

Probably not.

"I'll tell Charley about it to-night," she said finally. "We just _got_ to find a way."

"What c'n _he_ do?" retorted her father. "Far's him's gitting a team's concerned, we-all might's well look fer someone t' come right outen th'

sky."

Her determination to ask advice of the pariah was a natural one. The morning that succeeded the night of the mules' terror, she had awakened to find a rea.s.suring explanation for their fear: In the growing light, as the trumpet sounded reveille from the fort, she sprang up and looked out expectantly. On the top of a drift in front of the door was a bundle of sticks! A hard crust had formed during the night; and moccasin tracks, leading up to the wood, and then pointing away again, were cast in it with frozen clearness.

"That poor Indian!" she had exclaimed, in grateful relief.

Not once after his summoning before Colonel c.u.mmings had The Squaw forgotten daily to leave firewood at the shack. The evening of his second trip across the Missouri, Dallas had lain in wait for him, secreted under the dismantled schooner, which she had drawn into place beside the door. And as, bringing his offering, he crossed the snow softly and approached, the terrified mules again announced his coming, and she hailed him.

"Come on, come near," she had called; "I want to see you."

Eager to prove his good intent, he had hastened forward; and she, just as eager to show her thankfulness, had led him into the house. There, with the distrustful eye of the section-boss upon him, and with Marylyn watching in trepidation from a distance, he had eaten and drunk at Dallas' bidding.

At the very moment when Dallas decided to confide in him, Squaw Charley was not unmindful of her. Where the river-bluffs back of Brannon shoved their dark shoulders through the snow, the wind having swept their tops clean of the last downfall, he was working away like a muskrat. To and fro, he went, searching diligently for buffalo-chips. A sack followed him on a rope tied to his leather belt, so that he could beat his hands against his breast as he covered every square rod of dead, curly gra.s.s on the uplands. The bag crammed to the top, he took off his blanket and, despite the cold, began to fill it also. For he knew, and fully as well as they who watched the thermometer hanging just outside the entrance at headquarters, that the night would require much fuel.