he
continued, "that you'll call on me at any time--if you need more
provisions, say."

Lancaster did not misunderstand the offer of credit. "Thank y'," he
replied stiffly, "but we certainly got 'nough t' las' through."

Lounsbury remembered how small--compared with the orders of other
wintering settlers--was the Lancaster stock; and thought, too, how
likely it was that every passerby would be fed with true Southern
hospitality, thus diminishing the supply. But he refrained from making
any further suggestion. He bade the family good-by, lingering a little
at parting beside the younger girl.

"Miss Marylyn," he said, "before another winter you'll be the belle of
the town of Lancaster."

She put her hand in his bashfully.

"And, Miss Dallas?" His voice entreated a little.

"I hope you'll be the biggest storekeeper," she said.

To Lounsbury's surprise, he saw a trace of fun lurking in her eye. "Ah!
you've forgiven me!" he declared triumphantly.

But she made no answer as she turned away.

The next moment he was galloping toward the coulee crossing.

Marylyn watched him go. When, having disappeared into the ravine, he
came into sight again on the farther side, he turned in his saddle and
saw her. He took off his hat and waved it. She answered with a farewell
signal, and stood, looking after him, until distance dwarfed horse and
rider to a dot.

On the storekeeper's departure, the shack became a scene of action.
Lancaster gave over walking the floor and collected bedding for a
journey. Marylyn was called in to prepare a box of food for her
father--potatoes from the coals of the fireplace, cured pig-meat from
the souse-barrel, bread, and a jug of coffee. While Dallas caught the
mules, gave them some grain and a rubbing-down with straw wisps, and
greased the wagon wheels. All being made ready, the section-boss took
leave of his daughters, urging them to keep within the next day when the
surveyors came up, and to deny his going. Then, with Ben and Betty at a
smart trot, he set off for Bismarck and the land-office.

When he was gone, the squat shack on the bend became vigilant.
Ceaselessly its eyes covered the stretch of road between ferry-landing
and coulee--ceaselessly, though Dallas alone kept watch for wayfarers.
Not until night fell, and the cloud-masked moon disappeared behind the
western bluffs, were small blankets pinned into place across the
windows, and the peering shock head made sightless.

But even w