Rifle in hand, forgetful of crutches, bewildered by sleep, the section-boss came diving through the blanket partition to answer her call. "Wha's matter? Wha's matter?" he demanded thickly, rubbing hard at his eyes to unclog their sight.
Dallas leaned in the doorway, facing out. Her shoulders were bent forward heavily, as if she, too, were only half awake. Her head was rested against a casing. She lifted it when she felt him beside her. "Well, dad," she answered grimly, "it's Indians, this time, and—I reckon they got us stampeded." She smiled a little, ruefully, and pointed.
Winking into the light, Lancaster followed her pointing, and saw the pole. Up jerked his chin, as if from a blow on the goatee. He stared wildly. His jaw dropped. "W'y, Lawd!" he breathed perplexedly, and his chest heaved beneath the grey flannel of his shirt. Slowly he hobbled forward in his bare feet, using the gun for a prop. Before the pole, he halted, and began tousling his grizzled crown with trembling fingers. Overhead, the scalp-weighted rag swung to and fro in the breeze, waving him its sinister salute.
Gradually, his brain cleared, and into it there trickled a hint of the pole's meaning and purpose. He stopped ruffling his hair, and caught up the Sharps in both hands. Then, all at once, the trickle swelled to a foaming torrent of suspicion, that carried him close to the truth. Maddened, cursing, he dropped the gun and fell upon the sapling, pried it furiously from the sod, and smashed it into a dozen bits.
To Dallas, watching him in silence, the destruction of the pole was a sore reminder. For, better than ever before, she realised that her father could only accomplish the hasty, childish things; that beyond these, he was powerless. Without a doubt, she must ask elsewhere for aid.
As he came limping and raging back to her, she hurried forward to relieve him of the rifle and to guide his crippled feet. "Dad, I think it's about time we had a' understanding at the Fort," she said quietly, and took him by an arm.
He brought up short and wrung himself out of her grasp. "Th' Fort! th' Fort! th' Fort!" he repeated in a frenzy. "Lawd-a-mighty, Dallas, y' make me sick!"
"It's Indians," she replied steadily. "They're coming too near to be comfortable. We got to have help."
He raised his fists and shook them. "Help an' fiddlesticks!" he blustered. "Thet ain't no Injuns! It's thet Shanty Town blackleg a-tryin' t' skeer us. Go look at th' groun'—go look at th' groun', Ah say. See if they's moccasin tracks thereabout. Ah bet y' won't fin' any!" He turned back to the scattered splinters, pulling Dallas after him.
Together they got down, examining with care. As he had said, there were no prints of an Indian shoe in the soft earth. But mingling with the round, faint marks of his own naked heel were those—more plainly stamped—of a large boot. They led up to the spot from the nearest point on the river; and back upon themselves toward the same point.