"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 passionate 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 cluster 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 circumstances, 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?"