The Plow-Woman Part 31

"No; not your father."

"Maybe"--the bitterness of Mrs. c.u.mmings' slight impelled it--"maybe you don't think she's good enough."

"Dallas! No! No!" He put out a hand to her.

She retreated.

"There's a reason." He let his arm fall. "And it is fair and square. I'm proud of it, too, and you must hear it." His tone was significant, tender.

No hint of his meaning suggested itself to her. "Then I want to know it," she said.

"I didn't intend to tell you," he began, "at least for a while. When I was at the shack last I made up my mind it wouldn't do any good. I said to myself, 'You keep quiet.' But"--he plucked off his hat and sent it whirling to the gun--"I guess you'll have to know now. Dallas, the reason--is you."

"Me?" The question was a cry.

Lounsbury waited, standing very still before her. Then reaching out again, he touched her hand. "You," he said quietly.

Again she retreated.

"Please don't go," he begged. "I want to tell you more. And I want you to say you believe me. You _must_ believe me."

There was another long silence. Presently he went back and picked up his hat and gun. "I know just where it puts you," he said. "But, just the same, I love you."

He was certain now that he had earned her displeasure. When he spoke again, it was as one who accepts a sad finality. "I love you, and I want you. I hoped you might think a little of me some day. For I believe I could make you happy. So it was disappointing to find out that you hadn't thought of me that way; that you were figuring on seeing me take Marylyn.

"I never had much idea of marrying. But when I saw you that first time, when you came in through the door, you remember--why, then, I began to think. Couldn't help it." He put on his hat and lifted the gun to his shoulder. "I even wrote mother about you," he said.

He was unprepared for the answer she gave him, for it was an answer.

Without speaking, she buried her face in the curve of her arm, and, as if seized with an ague, began to tremble.

"Dallas," he whispered tenderly. "Oh, my dear girl! I'm so glad! so _glad_! You will--you do?"

But he found himself pleading into s.p.a.ce.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SMOKING MOUNTAIN

Medicine Mountain was a volcano. Out of its rocky summit and into the quiet air of the May morning was rising a straight, blue column of smoke.

A flag wigwagged from the southern lookout station to herald the phenomenon, and in a moment the post was agog. Keen-sighted scouts hurried to points of vantage, where they studied the mounting plume.

Far-reaching gla.s.ses were trained amid lively surmise from the galleries fronting the parade. While at barracks, blocking the windows and thronging the porch, the eager troopers gossiped and craned.

But in the stockade interest reached its highest pitch. Braves, squaws, and children were strung along the upper end of the enclosure, breathlessly watching the vapour-thread. Each swarthy face had dropped the mask of listlessness; each figure was rooted. Not an eye forsook a straight line to the belching mountain-top.

For full three minutes, the distant fire sent up a steady pillar. Then, fort and stockade saw that pillar suddenly wobble, as if caught in the vagaries of a fitful breeze--saw it wobble, thicken, break, and disappear; when the b.u.t.te again stood, a jagged tooth, against the sky.

Above it, innocently white, floated a hand's breadth of cloud.

And now the trumpet rang. Obeying it, two detachments mounted. One spurred away down-river, keeping close in the lee of the bluffs. The other boarded the ferry and was landed at the cut north of Shanty Town, from where it made toward the Norwegian's. Behind, an envious, but feverishly happy, garrison set about putting an extra polish on its arms. The gra.s.s was too short for a war-pony. Active duty had not been expected within the month. Yet the time of dreary waiting was up at last. For here, within striking distance, were the hostile reds!

The warriors in the stockade knew better. Like so many whipped dogs, they were scattered to cover, there to hide their bitter chagrin. No war-party was come to harry Brannon, to lure the troopers into battle, to free the captive village. A lone Indian--the looked-for messenger--had fanned that signal-fire on the mountain. And, by a wave of his blanket, he had told them evil news!

To Colonel c.u.mmings, the seeming early boldness of the enemy gave an inkling of what might be expected later on--in the summer--when there would be good grazing, and a smaller force at the post. Already he feared for the safety of the settlers living within sight of the garrison flag. The detachment landed at the cut was ordered to warn two of them. The third was Evan Lancaster. To him the commanding officer sent David Bond.

But it was Dallas whom the evangelist sought. He found her at work upon the plowed strip, cross-dragging it in preparation for the planting of the corn. As she drove up and down, she walked hatless in the sun. Her hair was down, and hung forward in two braids. She wore the snug jersey that had been her mother's. Her skirt was tucked up, back and front, to be out of the way. It disclosed no red flannel petticoat, however.

Not far away was Simon, a starling riding him to gobble the greenheads as they bit. The bull was revolving sulkily on his picket-rope, and shedding his long winter coat upon the new gra.s.s. In deference to his inborn dislike, Dallas was wearing an underskirt of blue.

Though the evangelist had never seen her trudging behind the mules, he had often spoken of it pityingly. Yet, as he came toward her now, he felt only an unbounded pride--in her unselfishness, and in her brave efforts to wrest a living from the soil.

"A splendid Ruth," he murmured, advancing, "a splendid Ruth, toiling in the fields!"

Seeing him, she gave a swift, troubled glance at the shack. Then, avoiding his eyes, and without speaking, she pulled up Ben and Betty and held out a hand.

When he took it, the pride of a moment before changed to compa.s.sion. He remembered that he must tell her what would alarm. For in her face he saw the traces of many a sleepless night, and of a sapping worry.

"Daughter, you are ill!" he declared, and kept a tight hold on her fingers.

"No, there ain't anything the matter with me. Only"--still avoiding his eyes, she turned to survey the harrowed land--"only, I'm some put out.

This sod----"

"Never mind the sod," he said gravely. "I want to ask--did you see the mountain?" He loosed her fingers, and pointed an arm to the south.

She laughed, following his pointing. "Yes, I did. Looks as if claims _are_ getting scarce, don't it? When a nester has to file up there!"

Midway between shack and b.u.t.te was an ox-team that had been travelling to and fro across a quarter-section since dawn. The team was now at a stand, and their driver was slouching against his plow. Beyond him were several galloping dots.

"And you saw the cavalry?" said David Bond.

She a.s.sented.

"One word will tell you what it means, Dallas. It's Indians!"

She showed no sign of disquiet. Presently, when she had thought over the announcement, she turned round to him, frankly meeting his gaze for the first time. "That's funny," she said. "Why, last year, all the way up from Texas, there wasn't an Indian bothered us!"

"Last summer, before you came, the soldiers at Brannon did not dare go more than a mile outside the lines to hunt. It will be the same this summer. There is that stockade full of prisoners, and four of them are condemned to be hanged. Before long the Indians will be circling the post."

She looked away at the ox-team. They were being taken from the plow and put to a wagon.

Then, again, she turned squarely. "What about Shanty Town?" she said with meaning.

He understood. "Shanty Town goes when the troops go.

But"--hesitatingly--"Matthews does not. He will stay at Brannon to act as interpreter."