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 passel?" 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 grass, 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 pass 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 noble Rangers
As ever saw the West
Were buried by their comrades,
May peaceful be their rest!_"
Dallas shivered. 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!
Toward night, she began to watch about her--southward, to the shanty of
the Norwegian; eastward, to where the tent of the Sioux Falls man had
been; west, where the setting sun touched the sentinel guns on the
bluffs; along the coulee, where the darkness always crept first.
She found herself examining the tops of distant rises. Medicine Mountain
showed a dark speck at its summit,--had she ever noticed that before?
Other peaks looked unfamiliar--were they the lookouts of savage spies?
And north, far beyond the "little bend" was the smoke of a camp-fire. In
fancy, she saw the one who had lighted it--a warrior with vindictive,
painted face, who peered at the squat shack on the bend as he fanned and
smothered the flame.
Night was at hand. The plover were wailing; the sad-voiced pewits
called; one by one, the frogs began a lonesome chant. A light had sprung
up in the shack. She glanced that way. And the window eyes of the
log-house seemed to leer at her.
A warm supper, Marylyn's bright face, her father's placid retorts--all
these did not suffice to drive away her forebodings. What was there in
the coming night?
All her instinct spoke for caution. The lantern was shaken out before
the table was cleared. Her father and sister early sought their beds.
She only lay down in her clothes. The hours passed in a strange
suspense. She listened to her father's deep breathing, to the mules,
when they wandered into their stalls, to the snap of Simon's long brush
as he whipped at the mosquitoes. Her eyes kept searching the black
corners of the room, and the pale squares of the windows. Her ears were
alert for every sound.
She fell to thinking of Squaw Charley. He had not come for his supper,
or brought them the daily basket. Was he growing indifferent--to them?
It was when she could no longer keep awake that her thoughts assumed
even a terrible shape. She dreamed, and in her dream a head came through
the dirt floor close to her bed. It was covered by a war-bonnet of
feathers. Beside it, thrust up by lissome fingers--fingers white and
strangely familiar--was a tomahawk.
Soon, she made out a face--Matthews'. She squirmed, striving to summon
her father. A flame flickered up in the fireplace. The face changed from
white to red, and Charley danced before her. She squirmed again; the
face faded----
She found herself sitting bolt upright. Her hands were clenched
defensively, her teeth were shut so tight that her jaws ached. She was
staring, wide-eyed, at the door.
The shack was no longer in darkness. Morning was come, and its light
made everything clear. She sprang up and lifted the latch, then fell
back, her stiffened lips framing a cry.
Before the shack, driven deep into the nearest bit of unpacked ground,
was a sapling, new-cut and stripped clean of the bark. From its top,
flying pennon-like in the wind, was a scarlet square. And at one corner
of this, dangling to and fro in horrid suggestiveness, swung a
shrivelled patch that held a lock of hair.