it's the deepest woods that grow the sweetest
violets."

She went on, out of the grove. He lingered to watch her. Beyond the
coulee road, she caught sight of some dandelions and, gathering her
apron into a generous pouch, started to pick a mess. Her bonnet fell
off. She tied it by a string to her braid. Then, flitting here and
there, as she spied new clusters, she began an old Texas bunk-house
song:

"_We saw the Indians coming,
We heard them give a yell.
My feelings at that moment
No mortal tongue could tell._"

Her step was light. Her cheek was pink. Her eyes were happy. The corners
of her mouth were turned upward smilingly. About her warbled the
blackbirds. She mingled her tune with theirs.

CHAPTER XXII

A FIRST WARNING

Piercing its shrill way through the heavy mist that hung above the
Missouri, came a strange, new trumpet-call from Brannon. The opening
notes, reiterated and smooth-flowing, were unlike the first sprightly
lilt of reveille. As Dallas stilled the squeaking of the well-pulley to
listen, they fell upon her ear disquietly.

The summons ended. From behind, her father's voice called to her
querulously. "Seem t' be changin' they mornin' toot over thar," he said.
"Ah wonder ef it means anythin' par_tic_ular."

"I think the soldiers are going," she answered.

"Th' hull passel?" he demanded; then, with a grunt, "Wal, good riddance
o' bad rubbish."

Later on, as Dallas circled the shack with the plow, turning up a wide
strip as a protection against fires, she found that the reason she had
given for the trumpet's varying was the true one. The sun, dispersing
the fog, had unshrouded the river and unveiled the barracks and the
bluffs. When she saw that, of the canvas row below the stockade not a
tent remained, and the campground lay deserted. While from it, heading
northward through the post to the faint music of the band, moved an
imposing column of cavalry. Arms and equipment flashed gallantly in the
sun. Horses curveted. Handkerchiefs fluttered good-bys from the
galleries of the Line. Up Clothes-Pin Row, the wives and babies of
troopers waited in little groups. At the quarters of the scouts sounded
the melancholy beat of a tom-tom. Accompanying it, and contrasting with
it weirdly, was a plaintive cadence--the monotonous lament of Indian
women.

The column wound on its way, at its rear the heavy-rolling,
white-covered wagon-train. The band had ceased to play. The groups