The Lost Wagon Part 36

Emma smiled softly. "You're not exactly very old or experienced, Bobby."

"Oh, I know, but--I'm so ashamed, Mother. _Please_ don't tell Daddy."

Emma nodded gently. "Whatever you say, Bobby. We'll keep it a secret, then."

Barbara thanked her with a pa.s.sionate hug. Then she permitted Emma to wash her face and put her to bed.

For a little while Emma sat on the edge of her daughter's bed, holding the moist and weary hand and stroking it, until finally the girl's nervous breathing steadied and softened, and Bobby was asleep. Sadness that was partly happiness filled Emma's heart. Bobby had been hurt, but pain could be a teacher, too. And she had not been hurt so much as she might have been, had she not discovered the true nature of Hugo Gearey.

Through this shock and this pain, their lovely Barbara would grow.

Joe was thoughtful. For three days he had watched, secretly but vastly amused, while every unattached young man in Fort Laramie vied for Barbara's company. He knew that Barbara was lovely, but he knew also that no young girl could have come to Laramie, in the dead of winter, without creating something of a ripple. The isolated young men there, like isolated young men the world over, were girl-hungry, and any girl who came among them would have been a queen. But few, Joe told himself smugly, would have had the complete reign that was Barbara's.

He had seen her respond with laughing gaiety and delight. But this morning, when three soldiers called for her, she was not her usual radiant self. There had been more than a trace of soberness in Barbara's manner. Joe wondered why it was there and if he should do anything about it, but decided that Emma would have told him if it was anything of importance. He did remember that he had forgotten to ask about Hugo Gearey, and was sorry he had forgotten. He must not forget again; Emma wanted to know.

Joe had taken advantage of their time at Laramie to repair the wagon and to rest and feed the mules. Though they had by no means become fat they were in good shape and they compared very favorably to any mule team in the stables. The mules were ready to go, and the Towers had better go on. There were civilian employees at Laramie, but the soldiers did the woodcutting, carpentry, stock tending, and all the work Joe liked.

Though they could winter at Laramie if they wanted to, and occupy the quarters they had now at least until the lieutenant whose rooms they were using returned, it would be an idle winter and they would have to buy what they needed. There was little possibility of working for wages, or even of paying with labor for what they needed.

The younger children were playing in the snow and grizzled old Sergeant Dunbar was romping with them. Dunbar had spent his life in the army. It was his first love and there'd never been time for any other. But Dunbar was almost through. A veteran of many years' service, he was fast becoming too old for active duty and now he wore a haunted look. The army could no longer use him and there were no wife and children to care about him. Facing a cheerless future, for the time being Dunbar was forgetting it by fall in love with Joe's four youngsters. He was with them every second he could spare, and he forever invented games for them to play. Joe stepped outside. Dunbar arose from the snow fort he was building for the babies.

"Good morning, Mr. Tower."

"Good morning, Sergeant. Have you seen my daughter?"

Dunbar grinned. "She and about a platoon of lovesick soldiers have gone somewhere. They cl.u.s.ter around her like flies around a honey jar. I don't blame them. If I were thirty years younger, I'd be with her too.

But there's safety in numbers. You needn't worry about her."

"I'm not worried. How about my freckle-faced son?"

"He's been spending his time at the stables, listening to tales of Indian fights. Hope he doesn't believe all of them."

There was a vast tenderness and a mighty longing in Dunbar's eyes as he watched the playing children. He had lived his life as he saw fit and, given the same circ.u.mstances, probably he'd live it over again the same way. Joe looked keenly at him. Dunbar's army service had hardened him without making him callous. But only now, when it was too late, did Dunbar think about all he might have done and hadn't. He looked upon the children with the almost desperate longing of an older man who wished they belonged to him.

Suddenly remembering, Joe asked, "Sergeant, can you tell me anything about this Hugo Gearey?"

Dunbar looked frankly at him. "Why?"

Joe, vastly talented when it came to minding his own affairs, squirmed.

But he felt that he should not say that Emma had asked him to find out.

"I just wanted to know."

Dunbar's eyes were grave. "Has Gearey been sparking your daughter?"

"As far as I know, they all have."

"Is there--?" Dunbar waved his hands.

Joe said, "No. There isn't."

Dunbar nibbled his lower lip. "Gearey isn't the best soldier nor the worst. He hasn't been in a fight yet so I can't tell you how he'd act there."

"Where does he come from?"

"New York's his home and," Dunbar became impulsive, "Mr. Tower, I'm going to tell you because I believe you know how to respect a confidence. Gearey comes from a wealthy home. He's here now because he got in trouble."

"What sort?"

"Girl trouble."

"Oh."

He looked gravely at the snow, and thought about Emma's powers of discernment. To Joe, Gearey had been just another soldier. Emma had suspected him, and she was right. Joe must be sure to tell her what he had found out so Emma, in her own way, could tell Barbara. Dunbar broke the silence.

"Are you staying with us?"

"No. I reckon we'll winter at Snedeker's."

"The noises you'll hear at Laramie will be hearts breaking," Dunbar a.s.sured him. "Going on to Oregon when the weather breaks?"

"That's right."

"I've a notion to do that myself. My time is up in June. You know, I used to dream of going back to Boston and spend my time smoking a pipe and wearing slippers when I got a pension. Now I know I'd be lost in Boston."

"Why don't you come to Oregon? I hear it's a big country."

"Sure," Dunbar smiled. "I'll stake a claim near you and spend all my time playing with these kids."

"The kids wouldn't mind."

"Neither would I," Dunbar said earnestly. "Wish I could see my way clear. When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning, I reckon."

"You won't have any trouble. A patrol went down yesterday and broke a track. I'd ride with you myself if I wasn't expecting a load of freight."

"Then you do get freight in winter?"

"Oh sure. But it's three times as hard to get it here in winter as it is in summer. Three times as expensive, too. The summer rate per pound between here and Independence is a little short of ten cents. The winter rate is almost thirty-two cents."

"Whew! And I need supplies!"

"Laramie's the place to stock up," Dunbar a.s.sured him. "You'll buy anything here at just what it would cost you in Independence plus freight, and you'll get summer freight rates on what's here now. That's a lot better than it was. I've seen the time when coffee and sugar were $2 a pound at Laramie, and flour sold for $40 a hundred. It still does at some of the trading posts. The mountain men who run them know how to get an emigrant's last nickel. That's why it's better to stock up here."

"Suppose an emigrant without any money comes through?"

"Plenty of them don't have any, or at least they say they don't. They get enough to see them through. One purpose of this fort is to help emigrants, and letting them starve isn't helping them."