Lounsbury was stretched in the hammock on Captain Oliver's gallery, his bandaged head on a pillow, his left arm resting in a sling. Leaping about, almost upon him, and imperilling the stout ropes that swung the hammock, were five of the captain's seven.

Twenty-four hours were gone since, having lashed four Indian dead among the branches of the burial trees, troopers, Sioux, and rescued had returned to a post that was half in ashes. Now, guards tramped the high board walk as before, keeping strict watch of their sulky prisoners; the ramshackle ferry-boat, dragged away from the bar that had halted her, was tied up at her landing again; across the upper end of the parade, grey tents had replaced the barracks; while, farther on, teams and scrapers were clearing away smoking ruins and dumping them into the river; squaws were thatching the roofs of the scouts' shanties; and hammers were ringing on new structures for Clothes-Pin Row. With cool enterprise, Brannon was hastening toward recovery.

There was other mending that was less rapid: In the stockade, where one nursed an arrow, another a bullet, wound; in the garrison hospital, where Kippis and a comrade stumped about on swathed feet; and on the Oliver gallery, where Lounsbury lay, his face not the usual fulness, and a trifle white.The storekeeper, however, was lending entertainment, as hospitality and his popularity demanded.

"The idea of you little apes asking for stories," he was saying to his audience, "when such popping good ones are happening right under your nose!"

Felicia was the youngest of the seven. She gave back at him, prancing up and down insistently. "But we don't want stories of things around here," she cried wilfully. "We want lords and ladies, and you gim 'em to us."

"Lords and ladies," sniffed Lounsbury. "Well, Felicia, stop that jumping-jack business and I'll begin."

A chorus of delight—then, the five disposed themselves, the boys (there were two) astride the storekeeper; the girls draping the swinging net at either side.

"Once upon a time," commenced Lounsbury, "in the middle of a gre-a-a-t, wi-i-i-de, fla-a-a-t country——"

"Now," interrupted James, who came next to Felicia. His inflection was rising and suspicious.

"Now," chimed in the others. They, too, did not fancy such familiar topography.

"Look here," said the narrator, "don't get it into your precious noddles that this Territory's the only flat country under the sun. There are other spots upon this green earth where you can see hundreds of miles in any direction."

"Go on, then, go on!"

"Well, this was such a place—great, wide, flat place. The lord lived there. He was called the Lord Harry—got his name from the way he acted; he was always making forced marches——"

Again suspicion, which Lounsbury ignored.

"And violent demands. Oo! my shin!" (This to James, whose heels were curled up under him.) "Violent demands, I said. And so he had the cheek—um—the impudence to love, to love——" He shut his eyes in silent rhapsody.

"What uz her name?"

"Ah!" Lounsbury threw up his well hand helplessly. "No name was splendid enough for her—not one. But he called her—for want of a better, mind you—he called her the Rose of the South."

"Bully! bully!" accompanied by the clapping of hands.

The door from the entry opened. Dallas came slowly out.

"Go on," urged Felicia, "'Rose of the South?'"

But Lounsbury was looking at Dallas. "Rose of the South," he repeated, a queer tremor running around his mouth; "as far south as—as Texas."

Dallas seemed about to turn.

Lounsbury hurried to put the well hand behind his ear. "Felicia," he said, "didn't I hear your mother call?"

Felicia rocked herself from foot to foot. "Oh, you go on," she said overbearingly, "or you might fall out of the hammock."

But the spell was broken. Her sisters had pounced upon Dallas. The boys, getting a whiff from regions down the hall, had made off. She followed, with backward demands for "the rest of it" later on, and carried the last of the five with her.

Lounsbury sat up and put out his hand. The fun was gone from his eyes.

"Dallas, you've had your talk," he said quietly, but with a hint of anxiety. "I know it's all right; it's got to be."

She came part way to him, and stood where morning-glory vines climbed a lattice. "Marylyn's just been telling me," she answered. She raised her head, very intent upon the flagstaff. The light through the vines touched the outline of her face—a firm outline, cut by a flying wisp of hair.

"Dear?" he questioned.

She glanced down at him, smiling through tears. "All the time, they liked each other," she said happily. "He calls her Marylyn, and she calls him Robert."

He got up and went to her. "When I saw him there in the road by that cottonwood bunch, lugging her along so careful, looking so scared—and the way he held her on Buckskin!" He caught her hand.

"There's one thing that hurts," she answered. "That it kept you out there watching, and I didn't even go to you—but I—I——"

"You were doing the white thing by that little sister. That makes it all the sweeter."

"She was afraid I'd scold," still through tears.

"You scold!"

"I would. I felt different about soldiers—then."

He took a deep breath. "They're handy to have around," he said.

"She's afraid Mr. Fraser'll find out what she said about you."

"He won't. He might get a notion she didn't know her own mind yet! He might—well, as Kippis says, ''E's bloomin' 'ot-'eaded,' the little beggar!"

"She don't know I told you. It'd bother her if——"

"That's between you and me, Dallas." He drew her near."Yes."

"Yes, John," promptingly.

"Yes, John."

The morning-glory vines on the lattice reached up and out; brushed by the wind, they made a sheltering veil. He drew her closer. He lifted her face to his by a smoothing caress of her hair. He kissed her.

"My dearest! My splendid girl!"

He shook his head roguishly at her. "So wild, she was, with the bit in her teeth. And now—she eats right out of my hand."

Then, roguish no longer, he lifted her two hands, turned them—palms up—and touched them with his lips.

"Ah, dear, there must be no more going-it-alone. I want to take care of you after this. We won't wait, will we?"

"No."

"Just the minute a minister can be reached?"

"Yes."

"I've a mind to bribe Mike into taking us up to Bismarck after breakfast!"

"You're too sick." Her face was grave, her eyes watched him anxiously. "All night I thought about you: How I went running off when I heard that shot. Oh, suppose, suppose——"

"I'll be over this in a day. And I know you went because you had to. Don't I know you weren't afraid? Don't I know why you left Marylyn behind at the trees? Dallas—you're a wife for a man out here!"

She coloured under his praise.

"There'll be other things coming up to fight," he went on. "That's the beauty of this West—it keeps you busy. But we'll be together to make the fight. I don't ask anything more."

After a time, they walked to the top of the steps.

Across the river, at the centre of the yellow bend, it stood—the squat shack.

"Dear little home!" she said.

"You wouldn't like to leave it. You can go to Bismarck, you know, or East, or anywhere."

"I'd rather stay."

"We'll stay—right over there. Then, when the town comes, and it gets too populous—if you like, and if Marylyn's not at this post—we'll go farther up, to open country again."

"We'll take your share of the Clark herd," she said.

"I've got a fine little saddle-mare for you," he said.

Somebody entered the parlour behind them—two somebodies, hand in hand.

"Dallas," called one, meekly.

"Lounsbury," hailed the other.

The storekeeper went in, Dallas with him. "Bless your sweet hearts," he said when he faced the couple. "Marylyn, you rested? Fraser, you look idiotically happy."

"I'm not alone," retorted the lieutenant. "I'd hate to describe you this minute, your face beaming through all that lint."

"Save yourself the trouble, here, before my future wife."

Fraser turned to Marylyn. "Phew! But we're important! Listen to him!"

"Dallas wants to get back to the shack. Can a' ordinary, everyday trooper look after the finest two-year-old and the finest team in Dakota? Not by a long shot! And I'm not going to let her go alone," soberly, "after what's happened. Can't take any more chances."

Fraser sobered too. "Nothing to fear any more," he said. "When Mike's men were getting the boat off, down below, they found—him."

A moment's silence.

"They think he tried to cross and couldn't. There he was, tangled up in some willows, poor devil."

"That ought to explain some things to the Captain," said Lounsbury, in a low voice.

"Yes. And it will satisfy the K. O., I'm pretty sure. An officer's not to be blamed so much for things going wrong when the traitor's practically within the lines. The K. O. himself could have had that fire."

"Well, Dallas." Lounsbury was cheery again. "You and Marylyn own the Bend, sure enough."

There was a knock at the door. Then, with a great show of backing and coughing, young Jamieson appeared.

"Frank," said Lounsbury, "quit your nonsense and tell us about the other side. Did the scout find anything?"

"Yes, he did," answered Jamieson; "and what proves how smart the whole plot was. What do you think? Well, just above where you met that Indian, they found an outfit—black blanket and a ragged skirt——"

A quiet fell. Dallas turned away to the windows. Lounsbury followed her, comforting.

Presently, he returned, clearing his voice. "They copied Charley's clothes," he said. "I guessed that. As the Indian came up to me, I spoke. But when he answered, I knew—just a second too late. He gave me a terrible lick, but I caught it on my arm and came back with the gun. Don't know how I ever reached the shack."

"Mr. Lo peeled in the grove and scampered," said Fraser.

"We saw him," said Marylyn, "and I ran."

"He's the only red that got free."

"But, all the same, I plugged him," declared Lounsbury. "And I'll bet he's packing a pound of buckshot. Who was it, do you know?"

"Canada John."

Again the door opened, and Oliver appeared. His long face was distressfully haggard; about his temples and across his forehead, what had been merely lines before were now deep grooves. Yet the fierce, baffled look that had been in his eyes since the escape was entirely gone. He smiled at the group most tenderly, and his moustache wiggled in a most incomprehensible fashion.

He closed the door and waited, his hand on the knob.

Jamieson stepped forward. "Captain," he said with mock injury, "these people"—he indicated the others—"do not mark the flight of the minutes. I don't wonder—it's natural. But I, sir, I—having been asked to breakfast by Mrs. Oliver—do. Is—is breakfast ready?"

"Breakfast is ready," Oliver answered. His voice was unsteady.

"Thank goodness for that!"

There was the sound of a faint cheer outside; then someone went rushing up the plank walk before the house. The captain closed the windows."We shall give thanks for many things to-day," he said significantly.

Fraser started, and his eyelids fluttered what his face strove to control.

"What's all that outside?" It was Marylyn, innocently.

But Oliver gave a quick sign, pulling nervously at his moustache.

"Frank," he began, "a—a friend is coming home to us this morning."

"A-a-ah!" It was near a groan.

"Wait—wait," firmly. "Give yourself a moment to guess. But—guess something good."

Jamieson moved like a man in pain. "You mean, you mean——" he whispered. "Oh, Captain, I've waited and waited."

"Bravely—we all know that. And there's reward for you."

Behind Jamieson, the others were leaning forward, hopeful, fearful—in a fever of emotions.

The cheering outside had grown. More people were running up the walk—children, men, bareheaded women.

"Jamieson," said the captain, "you'll be very calm?"

Jamieson relaxed, faltering forward. "I'll try! I'll try!" he promised.

Lounsbury caught him. "Tell him, Oliver," he begged.

The captain turned the knob, took Jamieson by a wrist and led him out through the entry.

On the gallery was a second group. It whispered. It laughed. It cried. It looked north to where the road came down from the landing."Easy now, easy," cautioned Oliver. He patted Jamieson, led him down the steps, and faced him up the Line.

"There, my dear boy," he said.

On the upper edge of the parade-ground, the men of B Troop were surrounding some travellers, caps in air. With their cheers mingled wild shouts. And one of them was singing the lines of a song, fervent, loud and martial:

For a moment, as one who questions his own sight and hearing, Jamieson gazed before him. Then, he flung up his arms and sprang forward with a great cry:

"Mother! mother! Alice!"

Down the Line they had taken up the singing. And to it, the troopers dividing, the travellers came into full view.

There was a wagon, with red wheels, a green box, and drawn by a milk-white horse. On its seat were two women, who clung to each other as they looked about. Above them a cross of rude boards stood straight up into the sunlight of the morning. And beside the cross, driving, sat a man—an aged man—white-haired, priestly, patriarchal.