"And let me say that I heartily commend them," Oliver fairly roared. "They are made of the stuff of our forefathers, who pushed their way into the wilderness. Their spirit is the spirit of the frontier." With which, bowing and fuming, the captain stamped out.
Mrs. Oliver, a motherly chunk of a woman, thought very "differently." Work and babies she consigned to a thrifty trooper's wife and, in a jiffy, pinned on a bonnet that had stood various seasons. "I'll be back in the morning," she said, with a kiss for each of the seven. Then, stuffing a tidbit or two into the wide pockets of a duster, she hastened away.
Captain Oliver, meanwhile, had cleared the front room of his progeny and summoned the surgeon, Lieutenant Fraser and Matthews.
Matthews came last. As he entered, the three men were struck by a curious change in him. He was erect and somewhat soldierly in his bearing; he had let his hair grow until it rested upon the handkerchief knotted about his throat; while his dress now aped that of the more picturesque scouts, yet was still half military. Buckskin trousers, down which, at the outer seams, was a dripping of fringe, were tucked into high boots. Over his red flannel shirt he wore a tunic or blouse, also of buckskin, fringed the length of the arms, and belted at the waist like a hunting-shirt. A vest no longer concealed his revolvers; his weapons were at his side, like a trooper's. In one gauntleted hand, he held a wide, grey hat.
"You want to see me, Cap'n?" he asked, meeting that officer's look squarely.
"Yes," answered Oliver, shortly. "I demand an exact account of your time for the past thirty-six hours, beginning with the evening after the departure of the command. I need not tell you why I ask this, and I make no apology for asking. There are reasons for your wanting that old man over there out of the way. You attacked his house in the winter during his absence, when two defenceless women were at home to repel your attack. That lays you open to mistrust. I may add that Lancaster's eldest girl regards you as her father's murderer."
As Oliver talked, his woe-begone face had grown fierce and dark. Now, he arose, lifting clenched fists. "Murder," he cried; "under my very nose, and against a household that I had sworn to guard. Speak, Matthews, speak!"
Matthews screwed up his mouth thoughtfully and looked into space. "Beginning the ev'ning after the command left?" he said. "Let me see. Why, I ain't crossed since the Colonel left."
"Account for your time," repeated Oliver.
"I messed at Blakely's that night. Afterward, me and Kippis had a little game."