wholesome love for the wide world about them welled up in the heart of the woman who was riding in the wagon, and found vent in a low, thrilling exclamation.
“Wonderful!” Then louder and with eyes sparkling: “Beautiful!”
A child of about eleven summers, with fair curling ringlets flowing loosely beneath a wide, flat sun-hat, whose wide-open violet eyes stared a little awe-struck at the vast world which greeted them, nestled closer to the woman’s side on the seat of the jolting wagon without comment, but with a sharp little intake of breath. She had no words to add to her mother’s.
At that moment one of three men riding ahead detached himself from the others and dropped back to the wagon, to speak to the woman and child. It was easy to understand the relationship between them by the affectionate smile that greeted him 19 He was a tall man and much tanned by a life spent largely in military camps in hot countries. He had the well-set-up figure of a fighting soldier.
“Well, dearie,” he said cheerfully to his wife, “how do you like the prairie?”
The woman nodded.
“I’m so glad we came on by road, Landor. The hotel people were quite bothersome about the restlessness of the Indians. I suppose that is a bogey they thrust before all strangers. I am glad you did not change your mind.”
The man understood his wife’s strong character, and her reply made him feel as though his responsibilities had been suddenly increased. He looked at his companions riding in scout fashion in front. They were pointing at something on the horizon, and he followed the direction indicated.
At last he looked round and encountered the gaze of his wife’s gray eyes.
“I thought you would be, Al,” he said quietly. “You see the Indians are always restless. Besides, if I——”
“Yes.”
The man laughed happily.
“No not yet, dear. My secret must remain a little longer. You are a wonder, Al. You have known that I have a secret for nearly two months, and still you refrain from questioning me.”
Alice shook her head, and stooped to readjust their daughter’s hat. Her action hid the smile at 20 her husband’s simplicity. A good wife learns many things without questioning.
“You see I know I shall be told when it becomes expedient. How would you like to make hay in these lovely open fields, Marjorie?” she asked the violet-eyed child, gazing so steadfastly at this new world about her.
But Marjorie shook her head. She was a little overpowered.
“It’s so big, mamma,” she murmured, doubtfully.
At that moment one of the two horsemen ahead beckoned to the man a little peremptorily, and he rode off. Then the child turned to her mother.
“What did you mean about the Indians, mamma?”
But the mother did not answer; she was watching her husband, who had just joined the others, and she saw that all three were watching something that looked like smoke on the northwestern horizon.
“Don’t Indians eat people, mamma?” asked the child presently.
Her mother laughed shortly, and answered, “No.” The answer came a little more sharply than she usually spoke. Suddenly she leant forward and touched the driver on the shoulder. He turned round instantly.
“What is that smoke on the horizon, Jim?” she asked.
The man looked into her steady gray eyes. Then 21 he glanced down at the beautiful child at her side, and, in a moment, his gaze came back to the handsome dark face of the mother; but instantly he turned back to the horses.
“Don’t know,” he threw back brusquely over his shoulder.
And the woman who learned so much without asking questions knew that he lied.
The vehicle creaked on. The steady jog of the horses kept the neck-yoke rattling in the harness with a sound that was almost musical. The sun was very hot, and the sweat was caked in white streaks all over the hard-working animals’ flanks. Mother and child sat on in silence. Those two pairs of lovely eyes were looking out ahead. The child interested, and the mother thinking hard and swiftly. Curiously that smoke on the horizon had set her thinking of her husband and child, but mostly of the child. The driver chirruped at his horses as he had done from the start. He munched his tobacco, and seemed quite at his ease. Only every now and then his keen eyes lifted to the smoke. He was an old prairie hand.
The horsemen on ahead had halted where a higher billow of grass-land than usual had left a sharp, deep hollow. A hundred yards to the right of the trail there was a small clump of undergrowth. The men had dismounted. When the wagon came up the husband stepped to its side.
“We are going to camp here, Alice,” he said 22 quietly. “There is good water close by. We can spare the time; we have come along well.”
Alice glanced at the faces of the others while he was speaking. One of the men was a long-haired prairie scout; his keen black eyes were intent upon her face. The other was a military “batman,” a blue-eyed Yorkshireman. His eyes were very bright—unusually bright. The teamster was placidly looking round his horses.
“Very well,” she answered, and passed little Marjorie out into her father’s arms. Then she sprang lightly to the ground.
Then the teamster drove the horses away into the brush, and the wagon was hidden from view. The scout and the batman pitched two “A” tents, and the mother noticed that they were so placed as to be utterly hidden in the thick foliage. The horses were off-saddled, and, contrary to custom, were tethered further still from the road, down by the water.
Little Marjorie went off with the men who were securing the horses, and Alice stood watching her husband’s movements. She was a beautiful woman of that strong, dark Celtic type, so common in Ireland. Her strong supple figure was displayed to perfection in a simple tweed suit with a jacket of the Norfolk pattern. She stood for some moments watching with deep contemplative eyes. Then she abruptly turned away.
“I will gather some fire-wood,” she said deliberately to her husband. 23
He looked up from his work and their eyes met.
“Don’t bother,” he said; “we will use the oil stove.”
And without further explanation the camp was arranged. There was no bustle or excitement. Yet each member of that little party, with the exception of the child, knew that the camp had been made in emergency—grave emergency.
A hearty meal was partaken of. Then the man and the scout disappeared. The others occupied themselves around the camp. The afternoon wore on. At tea the scout and his companion reappeared. The wife still asked no verbal questions. Her eyes told her all she wished to know.
During the evening meal little Marjorie made a discovery.
“Mamma,” she exclaimed, “you’ve got a belt on like daddy’s. What are these?” And she fingered a revolver holster, of which her mother’s belt supported two.
It was the rough, long-haired scout who saved
