THE AWAKENING
That year, in the northland, winter encroached greedily upon spring. The
latter end of March, the weather did not moderate. Instead, the wide
valley became a channel for winds that were weighted with numbing sleet.
Then, April returned angrily, bringing cold rains and blows to check all
vegetation.
But April half gone, a tardy thaw set in. The icy covering of the river
split into whirling blocks, the snow grew soft and bally, the crust
rotted and picked up. Soon the tempering sun drove the drifts from south
exposures. When a freshet coursed down the coulee, and the low spots on
the prairie filled until they were broad ponds, around which the
migrating wild-fowl alighted with joyous cries. Now eaves dripped
musically; slushy wagon ruts ran like miniature Missouris, and were
travelled by horny frogs; prairie-cocks made each dawning weirdly noisy,
and far and near, where showed the welcome green, blue-eyed anemones
sprang bravely and tossed their fuzzy heads in the sharp air.
Throughout this season, the shack had but one visitor--The Squaw. He
brought fuel, and once a week a basket of supplies from "B Troop."
Occasionally, he came swinging a brant by the neck, or carrying a saddle
of fresh venison. But though his manner was as friendly as ever, and he
seemed no less grateful and devoted, he was always strangely worried and
distraught. The evangelist called by once or twice, when storms or the
rushing icepack in the river did not prevent his crossing. As for
Lounsbury, he traversed the bend often on his way to Brannon and, if he
saw a face at a window, waved his hand in pleasant greeting. But he kept
to the road.
Since the morning of the aurora, the little family had ceased to speak
of him. That silence was neither demanded by the section-boss nor agreed
upon by the three. On Lancaster's part, it grew out of the sneaking
consciousness of the ingratitude he did not regret; on the part of
Marylyn, it arose from two causes: a sense of girlish shame at having
confessed her attachment, and a fear that her father would discover it.
With Dallas, consideration for the feelings of her sister made her
shrink from mentioning Lounsbury. Yet there was another reason, and one
no less delicate--she, as well, had a secret to guard.
But in the mind of the elder girl, the thought of Marylyn's happiness
was the uppermost. There were dread moments when it seemed to her as if
that happiness were to be shattered.
During all the past weeks, Marylyn had carefully harboured her fancies
about Lounsbury. Certain of the calico-covered books on the mantel had
no little part in this. Their stories of undying affection--of bold men,
lorn maidens, and the cruel villains who gloried in severing
them--helped her to fit her little circle into proper roles. She loved,
and must crush out her passion. Lounsbury, whom she loved, had been sent
away by her father. And she lived up to the play consistently. She saw
the storekeeper anguished over his banishment; saw depths of meaning in
the good-natured salutes he gave the shack. With herself, she accepted
loneliness as a sign of deeper suffering. She was tortured by self-pity,
by the doubt she had flung at Dallas, by the firm belief that her heart
was hopelessly fettered. Gazing into a piece of looking-glass that
served her for a mirror, she marked with sorrowful pride her transparent
skin and lustreless eye. She sighed as she watched from the windows.
Patiently, she listened for footsteps, her face half turned to the door.
And yet what she took so tragically was nothing but failing health. What
was not a fact the night of her admission to Dallas, was almost come to
pass. The few days of great cold and hunger in February, coupled with
long confinement in the dirt-floored house, were having their effect.
She was on the verge of illness.
Lancaster, whenever he noticed her dejection, was inclined to pooh-pooh
it. "She looks as ef she'd jes' been slapped," he declared, "an' is
expectin' another lammin' any minnit. Ef she'd cry, she'd shore weep
lemon-juice." Again, he reckoned that she had picked up "some notion."
Jealous and suspicious as he was, however, he got no nearer to the
truth.
But Dallas--she was misled far more than either Marylyn or their father.
She fought away from the idea that her sister might be breaking
physically, and tenderly as a mother yearned over her. Anxious-eyed, she
noted the pallor of the childlike face, the melancholy expression that
had come to be habitual. She fretted over the spareness of the younger
girl, who ate only when she was urged. If, sated with sleep, Marylyn
moved in the night, Dallas aroused on the instant and hovered beside
her.
At last, thoroughly alarmed, the elder girl determined to follow out the
idea that had occurred to her in mid-winter. What did it matter how hard
and hateful the duty would be? What did her own hidden feelings matter?
She would appeal to Lounsbury in her sister's behalf.
But time passed without bringing her the opportunity, and it was borne
in upon her finally that Lounsbury meant to remain away, perhaps until
he was bidden to come. Undaunted, she made plans to waylay him on the
coulee road. Resting the Sharps across her arm, she set out, morning or
afternoon, on a long jaunt.
But Lounsbury was not met. On one such ramble, however, an incident
occurred that was far-reaching, if not fatal, in its results. She was
going, homeward slowly, when she saw, approaching, an ambulance from
Brannon, drawn by a four-mule team. She started timidly aside; then
paused. The vehicle was filled with ladies. A half-dozen, who were
talking and laughing merrily, occupied the lengthwise seats of the
carriage. One sat beside the driver. Dallas put herself in their path,
and waited.
How often she had watched these same ladies canter out of post on their
horseback rides, officers attending them; or seen them make a rollicking
walking-party to the bluff-top. And she had pictured how, some day, they
would be ferried to the bend. They could not have heard how her father
talked. If they had they would not blame her. If they passed her, they
would smile and bow--maybe stop to speak!
She was all aglow, now. The ambulance rolled near. It was closed on its
sides, and the women within could not see her. The woman on the
seat--pretty, slender, daintily clad--did. Dallas leaned forward
eagerly, face flushed, eyes shining.
The woman also leaned forward, and looked Dallas up and down,
searchingly, coldly. Her lips were set in a sneer. Her eyes frowned.
Then, the ambulance bowled smartly along, the driver catching at a
leader with his whip.
"Who's that, Mrs. Cummings?" The women in the rear of the vehicle were
peering out.
Mrs. Cummings answered over her shoulder. "Why, it's The Plow-Woman."
There were "Ohs" and "Ahs"--and laughter.
The girl by the roadside heard. Slighted, rebuffed, wounded to the
quick, she stumbled homeward, her sight blinded by tears.
She did not wait for Lounsbury again. Once she thought of writing him,
of summoning him through a note given Squaw Charley. But recalling her
father's treatment of the storekeeper, she questioned if the latter
would heed her message. She felt herself isolated. But no hint of her
bitterness was allowed to reach Marylyn. The younger girl knew only
bright words, and unceasing, unselfish care.
For one thing Dallas was deeply thankful: Matthews did not trouble the
shack. David Bond had told her that when the troops left for the summer
campaign, the interpreter would ride with them, the evangelist being
retained at the fort to fill the other's place. The latter declared
that, by the pilot's report, Lounsbury's name made Matthews "lay back
his ears," but that he no longer stormed about losing the claim.
And now came the warm days--days in swift, sweet contrast to those just
gone. Sun and shower banded the sky with triple arcs of promise. The
robins arrived, a plump and saucy crew. Bent-bill curlews stalked about,
uttering wild and mellow calls. The dwellers of the ground threw up
fresh dirt around their burrows. The marsh violets opened pale lilac
cups. And the very logs of the shack put forth ambitious sprigs, so
that, from the front, the grotesque head displayed a bristle of green
whisker. The prairie was awake--blood and soil and sap.
Ben and Betty showed their high spirits with comical sporting. The mules
frolicked together, pitching hind quarters, rearing to box and nipping
at Simon. Fully as gay was he, though his shaggy flanks were gaunt. He
played at goring them, or frisked in ungainly circles. Occasionally,
however, he gave signs of ill-humour, lowered his broad horns
threateningly, even at Dallas, pawed up the new grown grass, and charged
to and fro on the bend, his voice lifted in hoarse challenge.
On the little family, the light, the warmth, and added duties wrought a
good effect. Lancaster's grumbling lessened, and he helped to plant some
boxes with cabbage and tomato seed that the "sutler" supplied. Marylyn,
coaxed out for an hour or two daily, rewarded Dallas with smiles. Her
appetite grew (rather to her chagrin). And when she held the
looking-glass before her, she saw a faint colour in her cheeks.
To Dallas, the spring brought renewed courage--and a vague longing. With
the first mild evenings, she took to venturing out, wrapped in her long
cloak, for a lonely walk. In her love of the gloaming, she was like a
wild thing. From birth, the twilights of the _mesa_ had proved
irresistible. When she was a child they soothed her little troubles; in
womanhood, if sorrow pressed heavily, they brought her strength. The
half light, the soft air, and the lack of sound were balm to her spirit.
Nightly she strayed up the coulee, eastward, south, or toward the river;
until, early in May, a second incident occurred and interrupted her
rambles. She had walked as far as the swale that was part way to the
Missouri. There she was startled into a sudden halt. From a point ahead
of her and to the left, sounded a gun shot.
She sank down cautiously, and stayed close to the ground, her fingers
steadying her, her breath suspended. There was no moon, and the stars
were obscured by clouds. The cottonwoods were a black, shapeless mass.
She watched them.
No answering shot rang out. But, after a long wait, a reply came from
the grove. It was a laugh, loud and taunting.
She stayed crouched, and presently saw a small black object leave the
big blackness of the trees and advance. Frightened, she arose and
retraced her steps, glancing behind her as she went. At the shack,
having found the latch-string, she backed into the room.
Her father and sister were asleep. Next morning, on a plea of not
wishing to alarm them, she refrained from telling of the shot. It may
have been a hunter, she reasoned, or a drunken trooper, or one of the
Shanty Town gang. But the laugh--it rang in her ears.
Several twilights passed, then she ventured out again. A lip of moon was
dropping down an unclouded sky; the stars hung low and white. And when
she neared the swale, she saw, a good distance before her, that small
black object separate itself from the grove again and move forward.
She stopped. She was not frightened now. She knew who it was. And when
she saw his arms come up, and caught the glint of metal, she called out
to him: "Don't! _don't_! It's me!"
There was a muttered exclamation, and the arms fell. "Miss Dallas," he
cried, and sprang forward.
"I--I was sure it was you," she admitted tremulously. "And you've been
guarding here all the time!"
Lounsbury was panting. "Suppose I'd fired?" he said. "I had a mind to.
Crimini!"
"You'd 'a' missed, likely."
"Maybe not. You see, I thought, well--that Matthews or that precious
brother of his, they might get to bothering you folks. Anyway, ain't it
dangerous for you to be out here late like this?"
"It is for you. You get shot at--keeping guard on us."
He thumped the swale impatiently with the butt of his gun.
"Oh, it _was_ you," she persisted, gravely enough; "that is why I came
to-night."
"Ah! You mean that I can help you, Miss Dallas. Tell me--tell me, what
can I do?"
"Don't let Matthews kill you."
Lounsbury laid down his gun. When he straightened, he stepped to her
side. "Me?" he said. "Well, I'm a match for him. You ain't. But what
else?"
She moved aside, averting her face.
"There is something, Miss Dallas?"
"Y-e-e-s."
He saw she was disconcerted, and strove to put her at ease. "Do you
know," he said, "you're so tall in that coat, you almost look like a
'heap big chief.'"
She did not hear him. She was not listening. The wished-for opportunity
was come. She was trying desperately to rally a speech. "You--you ain't
been 'round of late," she began at last. "I hope----" But she could not
finish,
"No," he said slowly. He rammed his hands into his trouser pockets. "I
haven't been around lately. But--I didn't think you'd notice it." He
darted a glance at her.
"Was it dad?" she asked. "Did you think----"
"Yes, it was your father. I thought he went out of his way to be--well,
kinda short, you know. I was only trying t' be decent."
"Dad's funny," she said reflectively. "Whenever we get to a chuck-hole,
where all of us ought to pull t'gether, he goes slack on the tugs. He's
like Ben that way. So I have t' go up to him, stroke his mane, fix his
curb, and let some cool air under his collar. After while, he gives a
_haw-hee-haw_ and goes on."
Lounsbury did not laugh. "He balked when it came to me," he said
soberly. "And it hurt. Afterward--I kinda got it into my head that none
of you wanted me."
She looked straight at him. "But one did--_one did_," she whispered,
choking.
He pulled his hands free of his pockets. "One--one," he said huskily.
"Who?"
And now everything was clear to her. She knew just what to say. She had
no feelings of self; the duty was not hateful, nor embarrassing. "Who?"
she repeated. "Don't you know, Mr. Lounsbury? Why, Marylyn."
"Marylyn," he echoed as if in a puzzle; "Marylyn. You're joking!"
She caught a shade of reproach in that, and misunderstood it. "I reckon
you won't like her so well now," she said.
"Like her so well? I don't know what you mean."
"She--she likes you," stammered Dallas.
Still he was puzzled. "I _supposed_ she didn't hate me."
"But now you know."
There was no mistaking her. Utterly dumfounded, he could not trust an
immediate answer. "I see, I see," he said finally.
"And you'll like her just the same?"
He drew a deep breath. His eyes were on her face, trying to read it in
the dimness. Then, "I am not a cub boy, Miss Dallas."
"You won't stay away," she persisted. "You'll come."
"If I'm judging right, I mustn't. I'm--I'm sorry."
"Sorry!--just sorry."
He strode back and forth a few times. "Why--why, Miss Dallas, you must
understand that a man can't--when a girl----Well, it'd be low for me to
talk about it, that's all--out and out _low_."
Something stirred her powerfully then--something she combated, and
concealed from him by a touch of apparent anger. "There's nothing low
about it," she said. "A man ought to be proud. Oh," as he was about to
reply, "you don't know how she's felt. She's been sick over it, white
and sad, and at night she'd cry."
He winced.
"And you're just sorry!"
"When did you find this out?"
"That day you drove Matthews away. She told me."
He walked about again. "I can't see why she does," he mused
pathetically. "I can't remember doing anything."
"But you've been so good to us--even after the way dad acted--guarded
out here, and sent that land-office man down from Bismarck----"
He made a protesting gesture. "Pshaw!"
"Oh, yes, you did. And why? _Why?_--if you don't care----"
A long silence followed. During it she watched him, her very attitude
imploring, while he continued to pace.
All at once he stopped determinedly. "There's a reason," he said, "why I
can't do what you ask: Come to see Marylyn, and--and all that."
"Dad? Ah, he's got to think like me."
"No; not your father."
"Maybe"--the bitterness of Mrs. Cummings' 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 space.