The Plow-Woman Part 37

"I can't, I mustn't," she said, and moved a little toward the shack.

"Then I'll go," he said firmly. "I didn't mean to drive you out of here." He also moved--toward the landing-place.

At that, she a.s.sented, fearful of hurting his feelings. But she could think of nothing to say, and pulled thoughtfully at the gra.s.s.

He studied the farther bluff-top and its warding gun.

"Peace," he repeated after a time. "It's a thing we're not likely to have this summer. And you folks must let us watch out for you, no matter how much you dislike us. The Indians are out and getting ready. They say there isn't a young brave left on any of the reservations up this way.

They're all hunting--and we know what that means. They're collecting and arming for battle. Our troops go to find them at daybreak. See!" He bent forward, pointing.

Below the stockade, on a level stretch showing yellow with mustard, where grain had been uns.h.i.+pped the year before, stood long, grey-tented rows.

"They've moved out of barracks and gone into temporary camp."

"That land man back there's moved and gone, too." She waited. Then, "Are--are you going?"

He shook his head. "I'm scheduled to stay. It was a disappointment; but I expected it. I've an idea B Troop won't be idle though."

Her brow knit. "Indians?" she asked.

"Your being on this side of the river a.s.sures you folks safety," he hastened to say. "And they shan't get to you while B Troop's in post."

"All the same, I wish pa'd let Dallas take us away."

"If Indians show up, you'll all come to the Fort. And I'd like that."

"No. Pa wouldn't let us. He'd die first."

"And so maybe I shan't see you again--unless you come here some day. Do you think that you can?" He bent to see her face. The bonnet framed it quaintly.

"It's--it's a nice place," she a.s.serted.

He held out his hand to her. "I shall come," he said gently. "But now I've got to go."

She gave him her hand. He got to his feet still holding it, and helped her to rise.

"Good-by," she said bashfully, drawing away.

He freed her hand. "You don't know how glad I am that we've met," he said, "you don't know. It's been pretty lonesome for me since I came out. And you are a taste of--of the old life. You're like one of those prairie-flowers that have escaped from the gardens back home. You sweeten the Western air, Miss Marylyn."

She hung the cow-horn to her wrist and turned away. Overhead the heart-shaped leaves were trembling to the rush of the river. Her heart trembled with them, and her voice. "We ain't Eastern," she said, wistful again. "I was born down yonder in the mesquite, I----" She paused, glancing back at him.

He stood as she had seen him first. His face was flushed, his uncovered hair was rumpled. In one hand he held his rifle, in the other his ta.s.selled hat. And his eyes were eager, admiring. "No, you're not Eastern," he said; "you were born down in the mesquite. But remember this, Miss Marylyn--it's the deepest woods that grow the sweetest violets."

She went on, out of the grove. He lingered to watch her. Beyond the coulee road, she caught sight of some dandelions and, gathering her ap.r.o.n into a generous pouch, started to pick a mess. Her bonnet fell off. She tied it by a string to her braid. Then, flitting here and there, as she spied new cl.u.s.ters, she began an old Texas bunk-house song:

"_We saw the Indians coming, We heard them give a yell.

My feelings at that moment No mortal tongue could tell._"

Her step was light. Her cheek was pink. Her eyes were happy. The corners of her mouth were turned upward smilingly. About her warbled the blackbirds. She mingled her tune with theirs.

CHAPTER XXII

A FIRST WARNING

Piercing its shrill way through the heavy mist that hung above the Missouri, came a strange, new trumpet-call from Brannon. The opening notes, reiterated and smooth-flowing, were unlike the first sprightly lilt of reveille. As Dallas stilled the squeaking of the well-pulley to listen, they fell upon her ear disquietly.

The summons ended. From behind, her father's voice called to her querulously. "Seem t' be changin' they mornin' toot over thar," he said.

"Ah wonder ef it means anythin' par_tic_ular."

"I think the soldiers are going," she answered.

"Th' hull pa.s.sel?" he demanded; then, with a grunt, "Wal, good riddance o' bad rubbish."

Later on, as Dallas circled the shack with the plow, turning up a wide strip as a protection against fires, she found that the reason she had given for the trumpet's varying was the true one. The sun, dispersing the fog, had unshrouded the river and unveiled the barracks and the bluffs. When she saw that, of the canvas row below the stockade not a tent remained, and the campground lay deserted. While from it, heading northward through the post to the faint music of the band, moved an imposing column of cavalry. Arms and equipment flashed gallantly in the sun. Horses curveted. Handkerchiefs fluttered good-bys from the galleries of the Line. Up Clothes-Pin Row, the wives and babies of troopers waited in little groups. At the quarters of the scouts sounded the melancholy beat of a tom-tom. Accompanying it, and contrasting with it weirdly, was a plaintive cadence--the monotonous lament of Indian women.

The column wound on its way, at its rear the heavy-rolling, white-covered wagon-train. The band had ceased to play. The groups that had been waving farewells sorrowfully dispersed. The tom-tom was still, and no wail of squaws was borne across the river. Then, Dallas again started up Ben and Betty.

And now a sudden fit of depression came over her. The dew sparkled on the gra.s.s, the air was soft, the breeze caressing, the sun was warm on her shoulders. Yet with all the brightness on every hand, a sense of uneasiness would not be shaken off.

She found herself reining often to look toward Clark's. Midway of the eastern ridge was a long, buff blotch--the crossing of the coulee road.

Would a horse and rider pa.s.s across that spot to-day? Probably not. A wave of loneliness and of undeserved injury swept her, welling the tears to her eyes.

She was halted close to the corn-land when cheery singing reached her.

Marylyn had left the shack and was going riverward, dawdling with studied slowness.

"_We saw the Indians coming, We heard them give a yell, My feelings at that moment No mortal tongue could tell._

_We heard the bugle sounding, The Captain gave command-- 'To arms! to arms! my comrades, And by your ponies stand!'_

_We fought there full nine hours Before the strife was o'er.

Such sight of dead and wounded I ne'er had seen before--_

_Five hundred n.o.ble Rangers As ever saw the West Were buried by their comrades, May peaceful be their rest!_"

Dallas s.h.i.+vered. The song suggested a cruel end for the gay troopers who had just gone forth. "Marylyn!" she called.

The younger paused to look back.

"Be careful, honey. Keep in sight."

Marylyn nodded, threw a kiss, and strolled on.

All day, Dallas tried to work away her troublesome thoughts. When she had known that an Indian was signalling from Medicine Mountain, she had felt no fear. Why was she growing fearful now? For it was fear--not any mere nervousness, or sadness over the marching of the troops. It was even more: There was a haunting feeling that something was going to happen! There was a terrible certainty weighing upon her--a certainty of coming harm!