"W'at'd Ah tell y'?" demanded the section-boss, almost triumphantly. His voice quavered, however, and he gulped. "It's thet scalawag, an' he wanted us t' know it! Ain't ev'ry Injun in fifty mile shet up tight in yon corral? Ev'ry one 'cept Charley—an' this ain't the job o' thet blamed fool. No, siree! An' then, th' mules didn' make no row las' night. They'd a shore snorted if it was Injuns——"
"I guess that's so," agreed Dallas, hastily, and made him a warning sign. Marylyn was moving about inside, and calling.
But he was beyond thought for another. "Bosh! bosh!" he cried. "She's got t' stop bein' coddled an' know w'at's w'at. You got t' stop talkin' Fort. Ah'm goin' t' ketch thet low-down skunk 'thout no soldiers. An' Ah'll pepper his ugly hide! Ah'll make him spit blood like a broncho-buster. Th' idee o' his havin' th' gall!" He rammed the Sharps into its rack and laughed immoderately.
"Oh, pa!" expostulated Marylyn, in a startled whisper, and flew to Dallas. Her face, still pink from slumber, paled a little. She laid it against her sister. Long ago, she had seen her father roused to the same pitch. The sight had terrified her, and blunted some earlier and tenderer memories.
"You git you' clothes on," he ordered roughly, "an' rustle us some breakfas'."
She retreated, ready for tears.
Dallas walked up to him, gave him his crutches, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Dad," she said firmly, "don't take out your mad on Marylyn. Keep it all for—him." She nodded south toward Brannon. "That's where it belongs."
"Dallas, you plumb disgus' me," he retorted. "Talkin' soldier, when y' know Matthews could buy th' hull kit an' boodle with a swig o' whisky!" He arraigned the Fort with a crutch.
"What do you think of doing, dad?"
"Ah'll fin' out where thet cuss was las' night—Charley'll help me, y' see——"