atch out for you, no matter
how much you dislike us. The Indians are out and getting ready. They say
there isn't a young brave left on any of the reservations up this way.
They're all hunting--and we know what that means. They're collecting and
arming for battle. Our troops go to find them at daybreak. See!" He bent
forward, pointing.

Below the stockade, on a level stretch showing yellow with mustard,
where grain had been unshipped the year before, stood long, grey-tented
rows.

"They've moved out of barracks and gone into temporary camp."

"That land man back there's moved and gone, too." She waited. Then,
"Are--are you going?"

He shook his head. "I'm scheduled to stay. It was a disappointment; but
I expected it. I've an idea B Troop won't be idle though."

Her brow knit. "Indians?" she asked.

"Your being on this side of the river assures you folks safety," he
hastened to say. "And they shan't get to you while B Troop's in post."

"All the same, I wish pa'd let Dallas take us away."

"If Indians show up, you'll all come to the Fort. And I'd like that."

"No. Pa wouldn't let us. He'd die first."

"And so maybe I shan't see you again--unless you come here some day. Do
you think that you can?" He bent to see her face. The bonnet framed it
quaintly.

"It's--it's a nice place," she asserted.

He held out his hand to her. "I shall come," he said gently. "But now
I've got to go."

She gave him her hand. He got to his feet still holding it, and helped
her to rise.

"Good-by," she said bashfully, drawing away.

He freed her hand. "You don't know how glad I am that we've met," he
said, "you don't know. It's been pretty lonesome for me since I came
out. And you are a taste of--of the old life. You're like one of those
prairie-flowers that have escaped from the gardens back home. You
sweeten the Western air, Miss Marylyn."

She hung the cow-horn to her wrist and turned away. Overhead the
heart-shaped leaves were trembling to the rush of the river. Her heart
trembled with them, and her voice. "We ain't Eastern," she said,
wistful again. "I was born down yonder in the mesquite, I----" She
paused, glancing back at him.

He stood as she had seen him first. His face was flushed, his uncovered
hair was rumpled. In one hand he held his rifle, in the other his
tasselled hat. And his eyes were eager, admiring. "No, you're not
Eastern," he said; "you were born down in the mesquite. But remember
this, Miss Marylyn--