LOUNSBURY'S RETURN
Bismarck nearing at last! Since dawn, Lounsbury's head had been poked
from a window of the forward car. Now, he followed it with a wedge of
shoulder, and muttered a fervent "Thank God!" His face was blackened by
the breath of the engine, his hair was roughed by the tugging wind. So
that he bore not a trace of the past month's careful grooming. Outside
of Chicago, he had shed his Eastern garb for blue flannel shirt, dark
breeches, and tall boots. Again he was a frontiersman.
A brakeman entered to call out the final stop. Cramped bulks, here and
there, slowly unwound their sleepy lengths and gazed around. A slim
recruit in a front seat, who was outward-bound to fight Indians, wakened
with a protesting oath. Other occupants of the car grudgingly put away
their card packs, but cheerfully clapped on their hats. A long, hot
journey was done.
But Lounsbury, when he drew in his head and shoulder, delayed his
preparations to alight. He reached down to a boot-leg and fished out a
letter, one paragraph of which he carefully re-read.
"As I say, if you look for that rascal, you'll find the right man. He
was here, for Charley saw him. 'Who was it?' I asked the Indian. What do
you think he did--he crossed his fingers on his nose!"
Lounsbury took a deep breath. "It's likely," he said aloud. "It don't
take courage to kill a cripple."
The wheels were yet turning when Lounsbury swung off. His looped belt
had been buckled on, and once more his revolver hung handily upon his
thigh. As he tossed his satchel to the ticket-agent, he gave the ".45" a
swift look over. Then, with the expression that the Clark outfit
respected showing through the grime of the train, he started on a tour
of saloons.
In a square-fronted groggery, his hunt ended. An assortment of
adventurers packed the place--mule-skinners, soldiers, gamblers,
settlers. Among them was a sprinkle of women. He pushed his way through
the crowd until he reached the bar. There, officiating in pink
shirt-sleeves, was the "Babe."
A moment Lounsbury faced him in silence, his cheeks puffing and his
chest swelling in an effort at self-control. Then, dropping his hand to
the ".45," he gave a jerk of the head. "Come out," he ordered.
The "Babe's" squint eyes made separate inspections of the room. He was
in the act of pouring from a bottle to a glass. Now, as he held them
before him, they tinkled together.
His customer backed away to the door, where it was cooler. The women
cluttered at the farther bar-end. The other loungers rotated to a
position behind Lounsbury, and waited, all a-grin.
He came loafing out, the sweat standing in huge beads upon his nose.
Lounsbury advanced to him, playing a tattoo along the bar with his left
hand.
"'Babe,'" he said quietly, "the train goes back Chicago-way in the
morning."
The other blinked and gulped. "W'y, w'y----" he began.
"You take it," continued Lounsbury. "Your family's getting darned
unpopular here."
The "Babe's" diverging orbs popped from his face and again played from
side to side.
"Y-e-e-s," drawled Lounsbury. He ripped open the other's vest. Two
pistols were displayed, snuggling head to head. He plucked them out and
kicked them across the room. "The morning train," he repeated. "So
long."
"Babe" gave a weak nod. Lounsbury walked out. "Howdy, boys, howdy," he
said pleasantly as he went. The admiring crowd returned his salute, and
rotated back to the bar.
He wasted no further time, but hurried to his store, a saddle-roofed
building farther along the street. Before it paced a Fort Lincoln
officer. Lounsbury stopped him for news.
"You ought to be chuck full of it," returned the officer, pumping the
storekeeper's arm; "just in from New York."
"The redskins?"
"Daytime sortie on us yesterday."
"Pretty sassy. How about Brannon?"
"Nothing since old Lancaster----"
"I heard that--Fraser wrote me." Lounsbury gritted his teeth.
"And our poor Custer?"
"Ah, poor Custer! The East's talking about nothing else."
"Awful! awful!" The officer turned away to hide the twitching of his
face.
"Going to Lincoln now?" asked Lounsbury.
"Not right away."
"Then, I'm off."
"For Lincoln?"
"No, for Brannon."
"_Brannon!_ Alone? Lounsbury! Why, the Indians----"
"I'm going, just the same." He hailed a neighbour to bargain for a
cayuse of reputed wind and speed. In another half-hour he was ready.
He rode as light as possible. Behind the cantle, rolled in a poncho, he
tied some hardtack, jerked beef, and brandy. His revolver was reinforced
by a Henry, which he carried in a holster under his leg. For the ".45,"
he took fifty rounds. A second fifty, designed for the rifle, occupied
the loops of his belt. Thus armed and provisioned, he jogged out of
town.
Good fortune made the journey almost uneventful. He saw but one Indian,
who loped into sight from a wooded bottom, and turned tail when
Lounsbury levelled his gun. Twice only did he come upon signs of
savages. Toward the middle of the first night, he passed a pile of
glowing embers, where food had been cooked and eaten; and fifty miles
lower down, the next afternoon, as he dismounted at a rivulet, the
cayuse shied from an antelope kid that had dragged itself to the water
for a last drink. There was an arrow through its neck, and the little
body was still limber.
Just before dawn, the second morning, he turned with the river, crossed
the coulee, and reined upon the yellowing bend. To his left, a black
dot, stood the shack. Three smaller dots were near it--Simon and the
mule team. South, on the opposite bank, were the low, whitewashed
buildings of Fort Brannon. He bared his dust-powdered head in
thanksgiving.
The cayuse was warm and dripping. He rode to Shanty Town, loosened the
cinch, and led the animal up and down before the deserted huts. When it
stopped blowing and reached for grass, he picketed it on a lariat north
of The Trooper's Delight. Then he descended to the landing. The light
was growing. Already he had been seen from the post. On his hallooing, a
small boat shoved off toward him, dancing its way against the current.
Old Michael was not in it, only his citizen helpers. Fearing their
tittle-tattle, Lounsbury curbed his impatience to ask about the shack.
Landed, he made for the "Bach" quarters on the Line.
Fraser was not up. To his "Come in," Lounsbury entered. They shook hands
without a word, and the storekeeper sat down on the edge of the bed.
After a while, the lieutenant reached out to put a hand on the other's
knee.
"Lounsbury," he said, "I feel like a criminal. But I never dreamed
anything would go wrong if I kept track of Matthews."
"Why, we both thought that, Fraser. You're not to blame any more than I
am."
"Oh, if I'd only----"
"But we can't spend any time kicking ourselves. After this there mustn't
be a loophole. Besides watching Matthews, we must----"
"Matthews isn't here."
"What!"
"Kicked out. We don't know where he is." Rapidly, Fraser related the
story of Simon's gallantry.
There was another piece of news of lesser importance: An Indian girl
named Brown Mink was seriously ill. Her wigwam had been moved to the
western curve of the stockade, where the ground was clear, and been
changed from tepee-shape to the form of a walled wickie-up. Mrs.
Cummings, touched with pity, had sent her a comfortable bed, while
Captain Oliver, touched no less, and pleased by the good-humour of his
prisoners, had ordered that, during the daily search of the enclosure,
the tent of the sick girl be left entirely undisturbed.
The young officer omitted to tell of his share in the interpreter's
departure, and was distracted over an accident that had befallen him. On
visiting his wild pets the previous evening, he had found that a box
containing reptiles had been broken open, somehow, and that all his
rattlesnakes were gone!
With the first call for the trumpeters, Lounsbury routed the sutler in a
quest for breakfast. Then, once more he sought the river. There was no
waiting for men to row him. He found the small boat, headed for the
beach below Shanty Town, mounted the cayuse, and climbed the steep road
to the prairie. Before him, on a green stretch between river and shack,
he saw Dallas.
She was cutting grass in that same swale across which, a month before,
had been tracked the deep-planted, laboured footprints. As she mowed,
she moved forward slowly, the bent snathe describing a regular
half-circle, the long, curved blade clearing a fragrant path. Her hat
was off, and lay at a distance behind her, where it floated, boat-like,
on some blue-stem tops. Still farther behind was Simon, cropping
industriously, and keeping a furtive watch upon his mistress out of the
corner of one fiery brown eye.
Lounsbury spurred his horse to a run. She saw him coming, but not
knowing him, kept her scythe on the swing. When he had covered the
greater part of the way, however, she stopped work, retreated to her
hat, and put it on. Then, from beside it, she picked up the Sharps.
He saw that, and his jaw squared. The blood darkened his face, too, as
if the sight shamed him. He spurred faster, reined so sharply that the
horse slid upon its fetlocks, and swung off.
"Dallas!" he cried. It was not a greeting, but a plea.
The moment was one long dreamed of, yearned for. A woman less genuine
might have met it without a show of feeling. She--outspoken and
simple--could not. Her eyes swam. Dropping the gun, she clasped his hand
greedily.
"I knew you'd get back quick as you could," she said, choking.
For a long moment they stood thus, hand-in-hand, looking at each other.
She saw that he was changed. The glint of merriment was gone from his
eyes. His forehead bore new lines. His mouth had lost its boyishness.
With her, the past four weeks had also left their mark. The old look of
high purpose was on her face. But she was older and graver, and wore the
new expression that Oliver had seen.
She spoke first. "Your mother?" she faltered inquiringly, and withdrew a
step.
"My mother--is gone," he said slowly. Then, after a pause, "I came right
after that; didn't stop to settle things. I can go back to the States
later. But if I'd been here sooner--it mightn't 'a' happened----"
She checked him gently. "Now, you got enough to worry you without us. We
wouldn't go to the Fort or Bismarck. And that was the whole trouble." To
excuse her father, and to take the blame herself, she told him of the
refusal of David Bond's money, and of Mrs. Cummings' slight.
"You see," she explained earnestly, by way of putting the best possible
colour to the latter episode, "you see, they think over there that we're
trash. So they're bound to let us alone. It ain't that they haven't good
manners----"
It was Lounsbury's turn to interrupt. He was tramping about. "Manners!"
he said violently; "manners! what's manners to do with it? There's a lot
that's good manners--and cursed bad heart!"
She took up the scythe, brought a whetstone from the depths of a pocket
and ran it down the blade thoughtfully.
"I'm going to look into this whole business from first to last," he went
on more quietly. "I'll spend the next few days investigating. You got my
letter?"
"We went to Clark's for you, and got it there." She added that she had
feared Braden, and spoke of his slack courtesy.
"Oh, well," he said, partly in apology for the real-estate agent, "if a
man out here don't take off his hat to a girl, that means nothing."
"It wasn't the hat," she answered, and described Braden's further
conduct.
Lounsbury blazed up again. "I'll see about that, too," he declared. "He
must be another sample of imported manners."
They heard the cheery grinding of a coffee-mill. As if struck by a
thought, she looked toward the shack.
"It's about time for me to go in," she said, a little flurried. Then,
"Won't--won't you come, too, and take a snack with us? Marylyn'd like to
see you."
"Marylyn!" He had read her meaning. "Why, Dallas, you don't meant to say
that you--that she still----"
"Yes," very low.
"Well,"--Lounsbury was determined now,--"there's got to be some kind of
an understanding. I told you how I felt, and you ran away from me. You
shan't do it this time. I'll go to the house, and I'll tell Marylyn just
how things are. I _will_."
"Oh, my baby sister!" she murmured.
Instantly, he was all gentleness. "No--no, I won't tell her," he said.
"But I'm sick and tired of being tied this way, hand and foot. It was
your father first. And now _this_ again--Dallas!"
She could not answer him.
"I won't tell her. I'll wait till--till you do. But, you see that I
can't go to the house. And I suppose I oughtn't to stay here any longer,
for her to see. But I'm coming back here to-night--at taps."
She shook her head. "Marylyn would be alone," she said hastily. "So--so
I can't."
"You will, I know you will. She'll be asleep."
"No--no----"
"At taps, Dallas." He touched the hand that held the scythe upright. She
thought all at once how worn he was, and white. Another moment, he had
mounted and was cantering off.
Left alone, she dreaded going into breakfast, expecting a hurt silence,
or passionate protests, perhaps tears. And she tried to find it in her
heart to blame Lounsbury for not accompanying her.
But Marylyn welcomed her with a question or two, exclaimed sorrowfully
at the news of Lounsbury's mother, and, when the elder girl explained
that the storekeeper had been too busy to come to the shack, returned a
faint smile.
"The brave baby!" thought Dallas.
But Marylyn was puzzling over Lounsbury's true reason for staying
away--now when their father was not there to object. He had told Dallas
he was busy. That, however, was only a pretext. Finally she concluded
that Fraser, in spite of his promise, had made a confidant of the
storekeeper, and that the latter had seen the hopelessness of his
affection for her.
"I'm glad," she said to herself. "Now, I won't have to tell him."
Lounsbury pursued a feverish investigation that day, and found no one
who cared to quibble with him. From the captain, never jealous of his
dignity, to the roly-poly sutler, there was a very outrush of facts. As
they came, he received them with pitchfork sharpness, examined them and
tossed them aside, which led a wag to remark that the storekeeper was
kin to Simon. Yet, when "retreat" sounded, he admitted himself hedged in
by indisputable testimony. Lancaster's death was beyond easy solving. If
Matthews were guilty, he was not the principal, only an accessory, to
the crime. Nevertheless, could the storekeeper have come face to face
with the interpreter that day, scores would have been settled.
To Dallas, laying the blue-stem of the swale, the hours of the morning
went slowly. Yet how warm and golden they seemed! how tuneful the birds!
how cottony-white the clouds that flecked the sky! how pleasant the
long, hushing sound of the scythe! And all the while, she thrilled with
expectancy, and the minutes hung upon each other, as if loath to pass.
The very keenness of her joy brought a swift revulsion. At dinner, with
Marylyn sitting across from her, she began to see more clearly. She
realised she had been dreaming; that for her there was only self-denial.
She ate nothing, but drank her dipper thirstily, as if to wash away a
parch in her throat. Back in the swale again, the scythe was swung less
steadily, but with more strength, so that its sharp tip often hacked up
the ground. She pulled her hat over her eyes, forbore glancing toward
the fort--and fought. A thousand times she vowed she would not meet
Lounsbury that night. To give herself a better whip-hand, she called up
pictures of Marylyn--Marylyn, the baby, all dimples and lisping demands
for "Dals!" Marylyn, the child, slender, yellow-haired, pale; Marylyn,
entering womanhood, still dependent, and, in her frailty, her
pensiveness, more dear than ever before.
Then, with the sun beating upon her, with her temples streaming and
throbbing under the heat and the strain, Dallas' spirit began to flag.
Had she not always borne a hard load? suffered discomforts? There were
the women of the post--they knew little toil or privation. The brunt of
her mother's loss, her father's taking, had fallen upon her. Was she
always to have only sorrow? Now, when happiness came her way--a
happiness that another might not have--must she be denied it?
Disheartened, dizzy, she left the swale for the shade of the nearest
trees.
It was the hottest part of the day, and the life of the prairie seemed
at a standstill. No breeze stirred the high cottonwoods; the corn blades
were quiet; the birds, song-less; the frogs, hid. Resting on the fading
green, looking out upon the silent reaches, she grew calm. Then she
remembered her sister's confession. Again, in fancy, she was leaning
down in the light of a winter fire, looking into a tear-stained face.
She felt humiliation for her own weakness, and for thoughts disloyal to
Marylyn.
"When I see him again, I'll make him promise to come and visit her," she
said. "Oh, he must! he _must_!" At last, renewed in spirit, she returned
bravely to her work.
But the afternoon was not without its tormenting thoughts. And she, who
feared no physical danger, quailed before a temptation that was
overwhelming.
When the shack pointed a stubby finger toward the east, and the mules,
with Simon in tag, came trailing home from their grazing, Marylyn called
her. Near the door, there wafted out the good smell of corn-pone and
roasting fowl. She drew up the well-bucket, hand over hand, and washed
in its generous leak.
Within, the night wind was changing and sweetening the air. As the
younger girl bustled about, the elder put on a fresher dress, and
smoothed and plaited her hair. Again, that strange elation! She was
almost glad.
"Supper!" sang out Marylyn.
Dallas started consciously. She was standing at a window, holding before
her the broken bit of looking-glass.