The Plow-Woman Part 20

As if he had caught a cue, the foremost trooper--he who had been the disturbing element--repeated the cry, and directed the eyes of his comrades to the door.

There was a sudden lull. The men in blue wavered. Here and there, a revolver was covertly returned to place.

Lounsbury pushed forward to the stove, Fraser beside him. "Hold on, boys," he said again, and pointed at Matthews; "hold on--I've got a message for that man."

The lull became a dead silence. To the troopers, the sight of shoulder-straps was discomfiting. For the officer at once became the personification of the guard-room, chilly, poorly bedded, and worse provisioned, of all places the one to be dreaded in raw weather. To Matthews, the interruption was welcome. His right hand slowly lowered to join its mate.

"I'm going to ask you to call your little differences with that gentleman off," continued Lounsbury.

Matthews fairly blinked. The storekeeper's voice was soft, confidential, ingratiating.

"Mr. Fraser and I have come to say that Mr. Matthews is wanted to serve as interpreter for Colonel c.u.mmings."

"Interpreter?" queried Matthews.

A bullet-head made itself visible from behind a barrel. "Don't let him bluff y', Nick," called a voice.

The other looked round. "Shut y' fly-trap, Babe," he commanded.

"Thank you," said Lounsbury, pleasantly, "interpreter is right. Two white women are held as captives in an Uncapapa camp somewhere west of here. It's been learned that you understand and speak the tongue. So, we present Colonel c.u.mmings' compliments. He would like very much to have a talk with you at Brannon."

It was a solution to Matthews. "Yes? Yes?" he said approvingly; then hesitated in suspicion as he measured the storekeeper.

"Oh, I guess I don't want to be no interpreter," he said.

Lounsbury smiled. "Just as you say, just as you say.

Boys,"--cheerily--"sorry if I cut in at the wrong time. Don't let us stop your fun. Mr. Fraser is not here _officially_."

A murmur ran around. The disturbing trooper advanced toward Matthews aggressively.

Up went Matthews' hand again. "Jus' a minute," he said.

The trooper quieted.

Matthews turned to Fraser, mustering an expression of importance.

"Lieutenant," he said, "you give me your word this is so--that there ain't no put-up job about it?"

"Put-up job?" Fraser reddened, keeping a straight face with difficulty.

"I give my word," he said solemnly, "that you're wanted as interpreter, and that I'll conduct you safely to headquarters."

Matthews put down the cigar-box and saluted.

"Word of an officer," he said, "is different. And if I can do anythin'--long's it's ladies----"

He reached to a shelf for his hat.

CHAPTER XII

A CONFESSION

That night, after Squaw Charley had come and gone, Dallas returned from the lean-to, where she had fed and bedded Simon and the team, to find Marylyn lying before the hearth, her face flushed and wet with tears.

Instantly, all concern, the elder girl knelt beside her.

"Marylyn," she begged, smoothing the soft, unbraided hair spread out upon the robe, "Marylyn, what's the matter?"

A long sob.

"Why, dear baby, don't you fret. We're going to be all right. Dad'll soon be back, Mr. Lounsbury's watching, and we won't lose the little home."

"Oh, it ain't that, it ain't that," weeping harder than before; "I'm so unhappy!"

It was an answer that smote Dallas to the heart. Some trouble, heretofore concealed, was threatening her sister's peace of mind. And she had not discovered it in time, had not prevented it, had not s.h.i.+elded her as she ought.

"Marylyn, honey, tell me what's the matter."

The younger girl crept closer, screening her eyes.

Dallas lifted her into her arms. Her cheek was feverish, her hands were dry and hot.

Sudden terror seized the elder girl--the old terror that had fastened upon her through all the years of her mother's failing.

"Marylyn," she said huskily, "do you feel that--that you're not as well as you was? are you afraid you'll be sick like--mother?"

There was an answering shake of the head.

Dallas pressed her close, murmuring her thankfulness, whispering broken endearments. "Oh, Dal's so glad! She couldn't stand it if her baby sister was to suffer. Oh, honey-heart! honey-heart!"

But Marylyn was not comforted.

"Listen," bade Dallas. "In all your life have you ever asked me to do anything that I didn't do? or to give you anything that I didn't give you if I could? And now something's fretting you. I can't think what it is. But you got to tell me, and I'll help you out."

"No, no!"

"I don't care what it is, I won't blame you; if it's something wrong,--why, it couldn't be,--I'll forgive you. You know that, Marylyn."

Again, "No, no," but with less resistance.

"Tell me," said Dallas, firmly.

Marylyn looked up. "You'll hate me if I do," she faltered.

The elder girl laughed fondly. "As if I could!"

"You promise not to tell pa?"