The Plow-Woman Part 49

"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 pa.s.sionate 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 princ.i.p.al, 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, hus.h.i.+ng sound of the scythe! And all the while, she thrilled with expectancy, and the minutes hung upon each other, as if loath to pa.s.s.

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-gla.s.s.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE TRYST

The thrashers were singing to the moon. Out of the gaping coulee came their chorus, loud, rich, and artfully melodised. It mingled, as it were, with the scent that the wind fanned from the sumach blossoms, yellowish-green. Moon, music, perfume--and lovers were to meet.

The trysting-place lay in billows of frosty white, like the satin dress of a bride. Lounsbury measured it impatiently, with anxious eyes turned to the shack. At the last trumpet-strain from the fort, Dallas approached it on swift foot, her shadow flitting before.

When he saw her--a slender figure--he leaped forward, eager, grateful.

She saw him, and halted, raising defensive hands.

"Dallas! Dallas!" He stretched out his arms to her.

"No, no--no, no."

As well try to stem the Missouri. He caught her close and held her. He pressed his cheek tenderly to hers. She yielded, murmuring to him.

Thus--for a s.p.a.ce that was matchlessly sweet. When, without releasing her, he lifted his head, and lifted hers by a smoothing caress of her hair. Then he searched her face long and hungrily.

"Oh, Dallas, you _do_ care," he said finally, and his voice was deep with joy.

She did not deny--only, "Just makes things worse," she whispered miserably.

Gently he let her go. "But I love you," he answered.

Her eyes were grave. They seemed to blame him.