Dallas checked the mules.
"I got a letter for you," he went on. It was Al Braden of Sioux Falls.
Dallas gave Marylyn the reins and reached for the letter, noting that the real-estate man did not doff the floppy hat, or make any swinging bows.
"A letter?"
"Yep, from Lounsbury. I told him I was going to lope back down to the Bend—but I didn't." He snickered.
"Where's he gone?" she asked, slitting the envelope with a shaking hand.
"Dunno," answered Braden. He was leaning on a wheel now, surveying Ben and Betty with a critical, and somewhat disdainful, eye. For each was hanging upon three legs to rest a fourth. Presently, he glanced up at Marylyn, and his eye lit impudently. "Dunno," he repeated. "You're his girl. You ought to know."
But Dallas did not hear him. She was scanning a page, closely written and addressed to herself.
"A telegram has come calling me home [ran the letter]. It says my mother is ill—'seriously ill'—and I am afraid it's put that way to hide something worse. It is the only thing that could take me out of Dakota now. But I am not leaving you unprotected. Before I left Brannon, I arranged to have Matthews watched every hour of the day and night. And he is the only thing that might make you trouble. For if the Indians get nasty, I know Oliver will insist on bringing you in. Still, I shall worry terribly till I get back. I wish I could write all I would like to. But it would be what I have already told you—you will understand."
Thus, it ended.