"Maybe, maybe," said Dallas, leaving him to stand beside Marylyn. "But, of course, dad, we mustn't forget that he's warned the other folks on this side, too."
Her father glared at her. "You takin' his part, ain't y'?" he said. "M-m-m! how's thet? Are you so all-fired anxious t' git t' Brannon?"
"No, dad, I'll never go to Brannon. Never! never! If I did, you, my father, oughtn't t' misunderstand it."
He quailed before her vehemence, and hobbled shamefacedly toward the door. "O' course, if th' Injuns come——" he began.
"They won't." She drew Marylyn to her. "And if they do, a shot'll bring help."
He was in the doorway, now. "W'y," he cried, "here's thet fool Norwegian goin' t' th' landin'. Wal, he is pritty shy on sand!"
"We'll be killed if the Indians come, Dallas." It was Marylyn, whispering up fearfully to her sister.
"We'll be careful, honey. Keep away from the coulée after this. Walk toward Brannon, always."
Dallas spent the afternoon out of doors, where everything spoke of peace. Not even a hand's breadth of cloud floated upon the sky. The air was warm, and fragrant with the new growth. Magpies chattered by. The bobolinks sent up their hearty song.
When she left off work, she saw the settler from the "little bend" drive by with his wife and children. Going home, she found her father cleaning and caressing the Sharps. But in her ability to sense danger, as in her love of the gloaming, Dallas was like a wild thing. And she felt not the slightest disquiet.