Part 33 (1/2)

”No, dad, I'll never go to Brannon. Never! never! If I did, you, my father, oughtn't t' misunderstand it.”

He quailed before her vehemence, and hobbled shamefacedly toward the door. ”O' course, if th' Injuns come----” he began.

”They won't.” She drew Marylyn to her. ”And if they do, a shot'll bring help.”

He was in the doorway, now. ”W'y,” he cried, ”here's thet fool Norwegian goin' t' th' landin'. Wal, he is pritty shy on sand!”

”We'll be killed if the Indians come, Dallas.” It was Marylyn, whispering up fearfully to her sister.

”We'll be careful, honey. Keep away from the coulee after this. Walk toward Brannon, always.”

Dallas spent the afternoon out of doors, where everything spoke of peace. Not even a hand's breadth of cloud floated upon the sky. The air was warm, and fragrant with the new growth. Magpies chattered by. The bobolinks sent up their hearty song.

When she left off work, she saw the settler from the ”little bend” drive by with his wife and children. Going home, she found her father cleaning and caressing the Sharps. But in her ability to sense danger, as in her love of the gloaming, Dallas was like a wild thing. And she felt not the slightest disquiet.

CHAPTER XIX

AL BRADEN OF SIOUX FALLS

Midway of the even, broad expanse between shack and gap stood an A-tent, very new, very white, and very generous in dimension. Like a giant mushroom, it had cropped forth during the night. About it stretched the untouched prairie, all purpling over with morning-glories.

The tent opened toward the river, and was flanked on one side by a pile of short pickets, their tops dipped the colour of the canvas, their bases nicely sharpened for the plotting out of ground. Near by, thrown flat, was a wide board sign, which read, in staring blue letters:

”AL BRADEN, REAL ESTATE.”

It was well on toward noon before the tent showed life. Then there emerged from it a bulky man of middle age, who dusted at his high boots as he came, stretched, drawing his long coat snug, and settled an elaborate vest. He completed his costume by donning a black hat that was of wool, and floppy. Then, thumbs tucked in armholes, he strolled away toward the Lancasters'.

The section-boss and his daughters were lined up on the warm side of the lean-to, shading their faces from the sun. When the comer was so near that they could see he was strange to them, Lancaster gave a peremptory wag of the head, and the two girls disappeared around a corner. Their father stayed on watch, his jaws working nervously with the ever-present chew.

The burly man advanced upon the lean-to. ”Mornin', mornin',” was his greeting. He made several swinging bows at Lancaster, and took him in shrewdly from eyes that were round and close-set.

The section-boss grunted.

”_Lovely_ day,” observed the other, with a bland smile. He changed his tack a little, as if he were going by.

Lancaster hobbled along with him. ”Y-a-a-s,” he drawled. ”Right good.

Some cool.”

The stranger agreed by another series of swinging bows. ”You got a nice place here--nice place,” he continued affably. He loosened one thumb with a jerk.

”Nice 'nough.”

The man halted in front of the shack and looked it over. ”You're a Southern gentleman,” said he, ”by your talk.”

”Ah am.” Lancaster spoke with unfriendly rising inflection.

”Well, well.” A hand was extended--a fat hand, where sparkled a diamond.

”Say, now, this is lovely, lovely. I'm a Southerner myself, sir. Put it there!”