She knew something must be done. Simon and the team wrung her heart with their pleas. Beside her, Marylyn was turning with fretful complaints. The younger girl rolled her head from side to side constantly, and moistened her lips. Dallas chopped up the rifle rack and made a fire of it; then plied Marylyn with more of the pepper-tea. The section-boss refused to partake. The first cup, he said, had burned him. Tobacco was better solace.
Dallas did not taste the tea, either. A fearful nausea beset her. Her heart went like a trip-hammer. She wrapped up, turning her back to the blaze. Oddly enough her father did not make a second attack on the log. His perique went far toward helping him fight the gnawing of hunger. He could afford, having to endure little pain, to let the hours bring Dallas to the point where she would ask the life of the bull. He knew where she was most vulnerable. When Marylyn turned from the tea that now partially eased her hunger, and began a demand for food, Simon would die.
It came sooner than the section-boss expected. His lethargic sleep was broken by Dallas' shaking him. As he opened his eyes, she thrust the hatchet into his hands.
"Dad," she said hurriedly. "Get up. You got to do it. For Marylyn—for Marylyn."
To him, it was a real victory. He wrenched a quid from his tobacco-slab, grasped the hatchet handle and arose. Dallas had lighted the lantern once more. Now she pinned one of the smaller blankets over his shoulders. When he put on his hat and knelt before the chopped-out place in the east wall, she wrapped a second blanket about his feet and legs.
"Go 'long, go 'long," he said, not unkindly. "Keep you'self warm." Then the hack, hack, hack began again.
She did not watch him, but donned the long cloak over her jersey, kissed Marylyn and paced up and down the shack. For every step there was a blow of the hatchet.
"Poor Simon! Poor Simon!" she whispered to herself. The bull was lowing again.
At last the sound of the hatchet became unbearable. She gave a quick glance around the room, then, crossing to her father, pulled at his arm. "If you kill Simon, there's no wood to do any cooking," she said. "Better wait, dad—hour or two, please!"
He twisted from under her hand, and scowled up. "Shucks!" he answered. "Here's chips 'nough fer a fire." And swung the hatchet with fresh zeal.