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 b.u.t.t 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 embarra.s.sing. "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 att.i.tude 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."