"W'y, we'll go t' th' Fort, as you say."
"All right, dad," she replied, giving his back a pat.
He began to hobble up and down. "You ain't scairt t' go?" he ventured at last. "Ain't afeerd o' nothin'?"
"No; and I'm going on my own hook, remember. It's not your fault."
"Y' kain't think o' no other way——"
She paused in front of him. "Can you?" she asked.
He could have sworn; but there was something in her face that forbade it. "No—no," he said explosively, and so matched her determination with his hot stubbornness.
He left her, and taking the rifle and all the ammunition there was, seated himself on a bench placed just outside the door. There he was—a pitiful sentinel—as she circled the shack and reined.
And now another question was presented: Should Marylyn stay or go? Dallas was for her remaining, so that, in case of need, help could be summoned—from somewhere. Marylyn sided with her. And it was long afterward, when many things were made clear, before the elder girl understood her sister's action—one that seemed so contrary to what the younger one felt. But their father opposed them both, and vehemently.
Dallas upon the wagon-seat, prepared for her long drive, had softened and touched him. She bore herself so bravely. She was so respectful, and concerned.