All looked where he pointed, and someone in the back of the wagon cursed.
"What d' you call that for luck?" yelled the man, shaking his mittened fist. "If Nick knew that!"
Dallas could not hear the mingled answers of his companion.
"Well, I call it damned——"
A woman reached up and pulled him into his seat. There was another shrill chorus, the man whacked the horses till they reared, and the wagon went rumbling on.
Dallas watched it until it disappeared into the cut at the landing. Then she sank upon a bench. For a long time she sat, dumb and immovable, her eyes on the floor. When, finally, she got up, she felt about her, as if overcome by blindness.
Marylyn had not seen or heard the threatening wagon-driver. Seated comfortably on the robe by the fire, she strung beads and hummed contentedly.
Dallas started toward her—stopped—then moved slowly back to the window, where she took up her watch.
Late that night she sprang from fitful, troubled sleep to hear Simon lowing and moving about restlessly. A few moments afterward, there came a mule's long bray from below the shack, followed by the voice of the section-boss, urging on the team. She found her long cloak and hastened out.
She could not wait for the wagon to stop before calling anxiously to her father. "Did you file?" she asked, walking beside Betty.