The Plow-Woman Part 25

It was not long before the silence told on the section-boss and forced him to talk. "Ef you-all got anythin' t' say," he snarled presently, "y'

might as well spit it out."

No one answered.

"_Ah_ got jes' _this_ t' say:" he continued, "Ah ain't goin' t' hev no lubber o' a storekeep slaverin' aroun' my gals!"

Again no one answered. But David Bond, as he watched Dallas questioningly, determined to be silent no longer. He paused in his walk.

"My friend," he said solemnly, "you talk like a madman. For shame!"

Dallas stood stock still, her eyes warning him. But it was too late.

Her father snickered, drew on his pipe once or twice, and then grinned up at the evangelist. "It's gittin' light outdoors," he said significantly. "Ah reckon y' could cross th' river."

And so David Bond and the white horse went the way of Lounsbury.

Nearly an hour pa.s.sed before the section-boss addressed Dallas. "Wal?

wal? wal?"

She was wrapping up to do the morning ch.o.r.es. "Just as well, I guess, dad," she said wearily. "The meal and bacon's pretty low. I've been cooking out of the seed-sacks lately."

"Th' meal an' bacon's got t' las'," he answered. "Use th' seed ef y'

want t', an' don' give thet Injun so much. We shan't ast tick o' no lallygaggin', do-a-grapevine-twist dandy."

Dallas sighed, found Marylyn to kiss her, and gratefully breasted the chill air beyond the door.

His dismissal from the shack brought no hards.h.i.+p upon David Bond. He found an old acquaintance in Colonel c.u.mmings, who joyfully greeted him as interpreter in the absence of Matthews. He found familiar faces among the hostages, whose sullen reserve in his presence he laid to their imprisonment. At barracks, the enlisted men chaffed him mischievously, christened him "Methuselah," and installed him as "official doom sealer"

of the post. But when he pa.s.sed them by to give every hour of his days and nights to young Jamieson--young Jamieson, battling with all his might against collapse--the men ceased chaffing, and listened to him with respect. A crank on religion was one thing, a man with one eye on the Bible and his sleeves rolled up for hard duty was another. The troopers cared little for sermonising, but they honoured service. Then, it was Jamieson for whom the evangelist was caring. And Jamieson held the very heartstrings of the garrison.

As for Lounsbury, Brannon entertained him no less gladly. His was the rare good-humour that enlivens every occasion. He practised at target-shooting with the enlisted men; he played billiards with the officers; he dined; made up sleigh rides; lent himself to theatricals; furnished a fourth at cards, and, at the frequent dances, led out homely and pretty alike.

To David Bond it seemed as if the storekeeper were indifferent to his own dismissal from the shack. But one morning the evangelist accidentally came upon the younger man. He was watching the Bend through a telescope, and his face was anxious and troubled.

"Lancaster hasn't started for the land-office again," he said. Then, after a moment's silence, "I've just about decided to go Bismarck-way myself to-day. When you can, will you let me know how they are over there?"

"Charles will keep me posted," answered the evangelist, "and I shall send you any news by the mail sleigh."

"Thank you," said Lounsbury, simply. "Good-by." And at the noon mess he was missing.

At the shack, the days were numbered slowly, for all their scant hours of light. Sleep consumed most of the time. The rest was taken by the meals, the ch.o.r.es and the effort of keeping warm. The line of calico-covered books helped to vary the monotony. So did the visits of Squaw Charley. But these were becoming more brief now. Not that Lancaster made them unpleasant--Charley was necessary to him--but that the Indian was always in a fever to be gone. Since the council, his eyes were less downcast, his face was less stolid.

One day brought a totally unexpected visitor, whom Lancaster recognised with some misgivings as the United States land-agent at Bismarck. The section-boss was soon rea.s.sured, however. The agent said that, having business near Brannon, and remembering that Lancaster wished to file an entry on the bend when the first claimant's six months were up, he had come by. In the case of a man who was hurt, he said, the law allowed such a course. The section-boss, thus saved the arduous trip, signed the necessary papers with a jubilant mark.

Then came Old Michael for a time or two. It seemed at first as if he were to be a favourite. He could adapt himself with all the art of his race. And before Lancaster he was intensely Southern in his views, whipping the North in many a broguey strife. Until--it befell through a slip of the tongue--a slip that sent him packing off. For he boasted how, in '62, his freckled hands had helped in piloting the Federals to Island Number 10!

It was an outcome that gave Dallas little concern. Marylyn was her worry. The younger girl was listless, pale and moody. Now and then, Dallas believed she saw a look of actual suffering in her eyes. Once, awakening in the night, she heard her sob.

Marylyn was unhappy, and the thought made the elder girl desperate. This led her to a plan: Lounsbury must be asked to forgive their father and come again--must be told of Marylyn's confession!

Soon afterward a second worry presented itself, one fully as serious.

The provisions were dwindling, the seed-sacks shrinking fast, and, estranged from Lounsbury, they had nowhere to ask credit but at the Fort.

When Dallas spoke of it to her father, he chuckled. "Wal, we got Simon, ain't we?" he said.

That same night, Marylyn put down her fork and stared across the table at her sister. "Why, Dallas, you don't eat!" she complained.

Dallas laughed. "I don't work, honey," she answered.

The question of fuel entered next, and became a grave one. So far, the weather had been fairly mild for the place and the season. Now, it took a more rigorous turn. The bitter cold was intensified by a stiff wind.

Snow began to fall, and the wind, growing, drove the flakes level, so that they cut the face like filings of steel. Charley's trips became uncertain, then impossible. The work of getting out hay for the stock was a desperate tax. It was so difficult that Dallas dared not spare a straw for the fireplace, and Ben and Betty's manger had to be drawn upon for wood. When this source of supply failed, the benches were sacrificed one by one, the cupboard was torn down, and the bunk and part of the table were split into kindling.

The family slept shoulder to shoulder before the hearth, with the brave-coloured blankets of the part.i.tion for extra covering. Lancaster and the younger girl stayed in bed all of the twenty-four hours. Dallas got up only long enough to tend the animals and prepare food. But a day came when she could not make her way to the lean-to, and when the warped door could not be opened in the teeth of the raging storm. Toward noon, she cooked some food, however. The seed sacks were empty; there was no rice and no flour. While the blizzard howled without, and Simon and the mules called pitifully for their fodder and drink, she broke up what was left of the table. Over its blaze the last smitch of bacon went to savour the last pint of beans.

After the meal Dallas read aloud. Lying down, she held her book in one hand until her fingers were blue with cold, then changed to the other.

Father and sister drowsed, and she put the story aside to study over the predicament in which she felt herself at fault. Counting on blizzards, but knowing nothing of their duration, she had determined to say little about their needs until those needs pressed. When, she knew, her father would see their extremity. The extremity had come. Yet, willing or unwilling, Lancaster was cut off from seeking help.

That day closed in fearful cold. The wind was become a furious gale.

St.u.r.dily, the log house withstood it. Only the roof seemed threatened.

With each great blast, it lifted a little, as if on the point of whirling away. But when darkness came, even the roof settled into quiet.

For the drifts that had been piling up gradually to the north and west of the shack, sealing the windows and the door, had risen to the gra.s.sy eaves and overflowed them, and so weighted the thatch.

Next morning, long before Marylyn and her father wakened, Dallas roused.

The room was in dusk, and its air was so cold that it seemed fairly to singe the skin. She could not read. Presently, Marylyn turned. The elder girl hastened to soothe her. Then, their father yawned. Dallas feigned sleep.

But the evil moment could not be put off. Lancaster propped himself on an elbow and called to her. He was hungry.

Very quietly, Dallas told him that there was no food.

He grunted, arose and lighted the lantern. "You dish thet snow on th'

floor," he commanded. "We'll need it fer drink."

"What're _you_ going to do?" she asked, hastening to obey. Her voice was lowered apprehensively.

He was wrapping some clothes over his shoes. "Butcher Simon," he said curtly.

Her face became a white spot in the gloom.

"Critter'll be tough, like's not," went on her father. "But y' c'n poun'

th' meat."

After a long wait, she spoke. "You can't reach him," she declared, half triumphantly.

"Yas, Ah c'n," he answered. "Ah c'n chop through with th' hatchet." He was between the fireplace and a corner, feeling over the logs with his hands.

She ran to him. "Oh, how can you think of it?" she demanded huskily.

"Simon's so friendly and--came to us for a home. How can you kill him!

Maybe _you_ could eat him, but _I_ couldn't. It'd just choke me!"

"Oh, ain't we sof'!" sneered her father. He was fumbling about near the bunk, as if hunting something. "Mebbe y' 'd like Ah should kill a mule!