That year, in the northland, winter encroached greedily upon spring. The latter end of March, the weather did not moderate. Instead, the wide valley became a channel for winds that were weighted with numbing sleet. Then, April returned angrily, bringing cold rains and blows to check all vegetation.

But April half gone, a tardy thaw set in. The icy covering of the river split into whirling blocks, the snow grew soft and bally, the crust rotted and picked up. Soon the tempering sun drove the drifts from south exposures. When a freshet coursed down the coulÉe, and the low spots on the prairie filled until they were broad ponds, around which the migrating wild-fowl alighted with joyous cries. Now eaves dripped musically; slushy wagon ruts ran like miniature Missouris, and were travelled by horny frogs; prairie-cocks made each dawning weirdly noisy, and far and near, where showed the welcome green, blue-eyed anemones sprang bravely and tossed their fuzzy heads in the sharp air.

Throughout this season, the shack had but one visitor—The Squaw. He brought fuel, and once a week a basket of supplies from "B Troop." Occasionally, he came swinging a brant by the neck, or carrying a saddle of fresh venison. But though his manner was as friendly as ever, and he seemed no less grateful and devoted, he was always strangely worried and distraught. The evangelist called by once or twice, when storms or the rushing icepack in the river did not prevent his crossing. As for Lounsbury, he traversed the bend often on his way to Brannon and, if he saw a face at a window, waved his hand in pleasant greeting. But he kept to the road.

Since the morning of the aurora, the little family had ceased to speak of him. That silence was neither demanded by the section-boss nor agreed upon by the three. On Lancaster's part, it grew out of the sneaking consciousness of the ingratitude he did not regret; on the part of Marylyn, it arose from two causes: a sense of girlish shame at having confessed her attachment, and a fear that her father would discover it. With Dallas, consideration for the feelings of her sister made her shrink from mentioning Lounsbury. Yet there was another reason, and one no less delicate—she, as well, had a secret to guard.

But in the mind of the elder girl, the thought of Marylyn's happiness was the uppermost. There were dread moments when it seemed to her as if that happiness were to be shattered.

During all the past weeks, Marylyn had carefully harboured her fancies about Lounsbury. Certain of the calico-covered books on the mantel had no little part in this. Their stories of undying affection—of bold men, lorn maidens, and the cruel villains who gloried in severing them—helped her to fit her little circle into proper rÔles. She loved, and must crush out her passion. Lounsbury, whom she loved, had been sent away by her father. And she lived up to the play consistently. She saw the storekeeper anguished over his banishment; saw depths of meaning in the good-natured salutes he gave the shack. With herself, she accepted loneliness as a sign of deeper suffering. She was tortured by self-pity, by the doubt she had flung at Dallas, by the firm belief that her heart was hopelessly fettered. Gazing into a piece of looking-glass that served her for a mirror, she marked with sorrowful pride her transparent skin and lustreless eye. She sighed as she watched from the windows. Patiently, she listened for footsteps, her face half turned to the door.

And yet what she took so tragically was nothing but failing health. What was not a fact the night of her admission to Dallas, was almost come to pass. The few days of great cold and hunger in February, coupled with long confinement in the dirt-floored house, were having their effect. She was on the verge of illness.

Lancaster, whenever he noticed her dejection, was inclined to pooh-pooh it. "She looks as ef she'd jes' been slapped," he declared, "an' is expectin' another lammin' any minnit. Ef she'd cry, she'd shore weep lemon-juice." Again, he reckoned that she had picked up "some notion." Jealous and suspicious as he was, however, he got no nearer to the truth.

But Dallas—she was misled far more than either Marylyn or their father. She fought away from the idea that her sister might be breaking physically, and tenderly as a mother yearned over her. Anxious-eyed, she noted the pallor of the childlike face, the melancholy expression that had come to be habitual. She fretted over the spareness of the younger girl, who ate only when she was urged. If, sated with sleep, Marylyn moved in the night, Dallas aroused on the instant and hovered beside her.

At last, thoroughly alarmed, the elder girl determined to follow out the idea that had occurred to her in mid-winter. What did it matter how hard and hateful the duty would be? What did her own hidden feelings matter? She would appeal to Lounsbury in her sister's behalf.

But time passed without bringing her the opportunity, and it was borne in upon her finally that Lounsbury meant to remain away, perhaps until he was bidden to come. Undaunted, she made plans to waylay him on the coulÉe road. Resting the Sharps across her arm, she set out, morning or afternoon, on a long jaunt.

But Lounsbury was not met. On one such ramble, however, an incident occurred that was far-reaching, if not fatal, in its results. She was going, homeward slowly, when she saw, approaching, an ambulance from Brannon, drawn by a four-mule team. She started timidly aside; then paused. The vehicle was filled with ladies. A half-dozen, who were talking and laughing merrily, occupied the lengthwise seats of the carriage. One sat beside the driver. Dallas put herself in their path, and waited.

How often she had watched these same ladies canter out of post on their horseback rides, officers attending them; or seen them make a rollicking walking-party to the bluff-top. And she had pictured how, some day, they would be ferried to the bend. They could not have heard how her father talked. If they had they would not blame her. If they passed her, they would smile and bow—maybe stop to speak!

She was all aglow, now. The ambulance rolled near. It was closed on its sides, and the women within could not see her. The woman on the seat—pretty, slender, daintily clad—did. Dallas leaned forward eagerly, face flushed, eyes shining.

The woman also leaned forward, and looked Dallas up and down, searchingly, coldly. Her lips were set in a sneer. Her eyes frowned. Then, the ambulance bowled smartly along, the driver catching at a leader with his whip.

"Who's that, Mrs. Cummings?" The women in the rear of the vehicle were peering out.

Mrs. Cummings answered over her shoulder. "Why, it's The Plow-Woman."

There were "Ohs" and "Ahs"—and laughter.

The girl by the roadside heard. Slighted, rebuffed, wounded to the quick, she stumbled homeward, her sight blinded by tears.

She did not wait for Lounsbury again. Once she thought of writing him, of summoning him through a note given Squaw Charley. But recalling her father's treatment of the storekeeper, she questioned if the latter would heed her message. She felt herself isolated. But no hint of her bitterness was allowed to reach Marylyn. The younger girl knew only bright words, and unceasing, unselfish care.

For one thing Dallas was deeply thankful: Matthews did not trouble the shack. David Bond had told her that when the troops left for the summer campaign, the interpreter would ride with them, the evangelist being retained at the fort to fill the other's place. The latter declared that, by the pilot's report, Lounsbury's name made Matthews "lay back his ears," but that he no longer stormed about losing the claim.

And now came the warm days—days in swift, sweet contrast to those just gone. Sun and shower banded the sky with triple arcs of promise. The robins arrived, a plump and saucy crew. Bent-bill curlews stalked about, uttering wild and mellow calls. The dwellers of the ground threw up fresh dirt around their burrows. The marsh violets opened pale lilac cups. And the very logs of the shack put forth ambitious sprigs, so that, from the front, the grotesque head displayed a bristle of green whisker. The prairie was awake—blood and soil and sap.

Ben and Betty showed their high spirits with comical sporting. The mules frolicked together, pitching hind quarters, rearing to box and nipping at Simon. Fully as gay was he, though his shaggy flanks were gaunt. He played at goring them, or frisked in ungainly circles. Occasionally, however, he gave signs of ill-humour, lowered his broad horns threateningly, even at Dallas, pawed up the new grown grass, and charged to and fro on the bend, his voice lifted in hoarse challenge.

On the little family, the light, the warmth, and added duties wrought a good effect. Lancaster's grumbling lessened, and he helped to plant some boxes with cabbage and tomato seed that the "sutler" supplied. Marylyn, coaxed out for an hour or two daily, rewarded Dallas with smiles. Her appetite grew (rather to her chagrin). And when she held the looking-glass before her, she saw a faint colour in her cheeks.

To Dallas, the spring brought renewed courage—and a vague longing. With the first mild evenings, she took to venturing out, wrapped in her long cloak, for a lonely walk. In her love of the gloaming, she was like a wild thing. From birth, the twilights of the mesa had proved irresistible. When she was a child they soothed her little troubles; in womanhood, if sorrow pressed heavily, they brought her strength. The half light, the soft air, and the lack of sound were balm to her spirit.

Nightly she strayed up the coulÉe, eastward, south, or toward the river; until, early in May, a second incident occurred and interrupted her rambles. She had walked as far as the swale that was part way to the Missouri. There she was startled into a sudden halt. From a point ahead of her and to the left, sounded a gun shot.

She sank down cautiously, and stayed close to the ground, her fingers steadying her, her breath suspended. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured by clouds. The cottonwoods were a black, shapeless mass. She watched them.

No answering shot rang out. But, after a long wait, a reply came from the grove. It was a laugh, loud and taunting.

She stayed crouched, and presently saw a small black object leave the big blackness of the trees and advance. Frightened, she arose and retraced her steps, glancing behind her as she went. At the shack, having found the latch-string, she backed into the room.

Her father and sister were asleep. Next morning, on a plea of not wishing to alarm them, she refrained from telling of the shot. It may have been a hunter, she reasoned, or a drunken trooper, or one of the Shanty Town gang. But the laugh—it rang in her ears.Several twilights passed, then she ventured out again. A lip of moon was dropping down an unclouded sky; the stars hung low and white. And when she neared the swale, she saw, a good distance before her, that small black object separate itself from the grove again and move forward.

She stopped. She was not frightened now. She knew who it was. And when she saw his arms come up, and caught the glint of metal, she called out to him: "Don't! don't! It's me!"

There was a muttered exclamation, and the arms fell. "Miss Dallas," he cried, and sprang forward.

"I—I was sure it was you," she admitted tremulously. "And you've been guarding here all the time!"

Lounsbury was panting. "Suppose I'd fired?" he said. "I had a mind to. Crimini!"

"You'd 'a' missed, likely."

"Maybe not. You see, I thought, well—that Matthews or that precious brother of his, they might get to bothering you folks. Anyway, ain't it dangerous for you to be out here late like this?"

"It is for you. You get shot at—keeping guard on us."

He thumped the swale impatiently with the butt of his gun.

"Oh, it was you," she persisted, gravely enough; "that is why I came to-night."

"Ah! You mean that I can help you, Miss Dallas. Tell me—tell me, what can I do?"

"Don't let Matthews kill you."

Lounsbury laid down his gun. When he straightened, he stepped to her side. "Me?" he said. "Well, I'm a match for him. You ain't. But what else?"

She moved aside, averting her face.

"There is something, Miss Dallas?"

"Y-e-e-s."

He saw she was disconcerted, and strove to put her at ease. "Do you know," he said, "you're so tall in that coat, you almost look like a 'heap big chief.'"

She did not hear him. She was not listening. The wished-for opportunity was come. She was trying desperately to rally a speech. "You—you ain't been 'round of late," she began at last. "I hope——" But she could not finish,

"No," he said slowly. He rammed his hands into his trouser pockets. "I haven't been around lately. But—I didn't think you'd notice it." He darted a glance at her.

"Was it dad?" she asked. "Did you think——"

"Yes, it was your father. I thought he went out of his way to be—well, kinda short, you know. I was only trying t' be decent."

"Dad's funny," she said reflectively. "Whenever we get to a chuck-hole, where all of us ought to pull t'gether, he goes slack on the tugs. He's like Ben that way. So I have t' go up to him, stroke his mane, fix his curb, and let some cool air under his collar. After while, he gives a haw-hee-haw and goes on."

Lounsbury did not laugh. "He balked when it came to me," he said soberly. "And it hurt. Afterward—I kinda got it into my head that none of you wanted me."

She looked straight at him. "But one did—one did," she whispered, choking.He pulled his hands free of his pockets. "One—one," he said huskily. "Who?"

And now everything was clear to her. She knew just what to say. She had no feelings of self; the duty was not hateful, nor embarrassing. "Who?" she repeated. "Don't you know, Mr. Lounsbury? Why, Marylyn."

"Marylyn," he echoed as if in a puzzle; "Marylyn. You're joking!"

She caught a shade of reproach in that, and misunderstood it. "I reckon you won't like her so well now," she said.

"Like her so well? I don't know what you mean."

"She—she likes you," stammered Dallas.

Still he was puzzled. "I supposed she didn't hate me."

"But now you know."

There was no mistaking her. Utterly dumfounded, he could not trust an immediate answer. "I see, I see," he said finally.

"And you'll like her just the same?"

He drew a deep breath. His eyes were on her face, trying to read it in the dimness. Then, "I am not a cub boy, Miss Dallas."

"You won't stay away," she persisted. "You'll come."

"If I'm judging right, I mustn't. I'm—I'm sorry."

"Sorry!—just sorry."

He strode back and forth a few times. "Why—why, Miss Dallas, you must understand that a man can't—when a girl——Well, it'd be low for me to talk about it, that's all—out and out low."

Something stirred her powerfully then—something she combated, and concealed from him by a touch of apparent anger. "There's nothing low about it," she said. "A man ought to be proud. Oh," as he was about to reply, "you don't know how she's felt. She's been sick over it, white and sad, and at night she'd cry."

He winced.

"And you're just sorry!"

"When did you find this out?"

"That day you drove Matthews away. She told me."

He walked about again. "I can't see why she does," he mused pathetically. "I can't remember doing anything."

"But you've been so good to us—even after the way dad acted—guarded out here, and sent that land-office man down from Bismarck——"

He made a protesting gesture. "Pshaw!"

"Oh, yes, you did. And why? Why?—if you don't care——"

A long silence followed. During it she watched him, her very attitude imploring, while he continued to pace.

All at once he stopped determinedly. "There's a reason," he said, "why I can't do what you ask: Come to see Marylyn, and—and all that."

"Dad? Ah, he's got to think like me."

"No; not your father."

"Maybe"—the bitterness of Mrs. Cummings' slight impelled it—"maybe you don't think she's good enough."

"Dallas! No! No!" He put out a hand to her.

She retreated.

"There's a reason." He let his arm fall. "And it is fair and square. I'm proud of it, too, and you must hear it." His tone was significant, tender.No hint of his meaning suggested itself to her. "Then I want to know it," she said.

"I didn't intend to tell you," he began, "at least for a while. When I was at the shack last I made up my mind it wouldn't do any good. I said to myself, 'You keep quiet.' But"—he plucked off his hat and sent it whirling to the gun—"I guess you'll have to know now. Dallas, the reason—is you."

"Me?" The question was a cry.

Lounsbury waited, standing very still before her. Then reaching out again, he touched her hand. "You," he said quietly.

Again she retreated.

"Please don't go," he begged. "I want to tell you more. And I want you to say you believe me. You must believe me."

There was another long silence. Presently he went back and picked up his hat and gun. "I know just where it puts you," he said. "But, just the same, I love you."

He was certain now that he had earned her displeasure. When he spoke again, it was as one who accepts a sad finality. "I love you, and I want you. I hoped you might think a little of me some day. For I believe I could make you happy. So it was disappointing to find out that you hadn't thought of me that way; that you were figuring on seeing me take Marylyn.

"I never had much idea of marrying. But when I saw you that first time, when you came in through the door, you remember—why, then, I began to think. Couldn't help it." He put on his hat and lifted the gun to his shoulder. "I even wrote mother about you," he said.He was unprepared for the answer she gave him, for it was an answer. Without speaking, she buried her face in the curve of her arm, and, as if seized with an ague, began to tremble.

"Dallas," he whispered tenderly. "Oh, my dear girl! I'm so glad! so glad! You will—you do?"

But he found himself pleading into space.