"Don't open! don't!" cried Marylyn. "Maybe it ain't Charley!"
But Dallas, undoubting, swung the door back, and into the room leaped a stooping figure.
It was The Squaw.
He crouched, and moved his head from side to side, as if expecting a blow or a bullet from behind. His right hand held a bow; his left, a bundle of arrows. With these he beckoned violently, shaking the water from his tattered clothes and pointing over his shoulder to the west.
"We're coming, Charley. Dearie, stand up. Now, now!" Marylyn was dragged to her feet. The light was quenched. The outcast faced about. And the three headed for the river, with The Squaw leading at a trot.
As they crossed the plowed land rimming the yard, sleepy birds fluttered up in front of them with startled cheeps and a whistle of wings. They swerved to find the shack road, along which the way was freer and more quiet, and the pace easy. Charley glanced back now and then to see if they were close; or, halted them, when they listened, holding their breath.
They paused for the last time near the river end of the corn, and close to the coulée crossing. From there Dallas saw that the pyres were lower, and that other buildings of the Row were ablaze; the roof of a scout hut, too; and the prairie, over which travelled widening crescents of gold. But the fire was the only thing that was moving. For not a single man was in sight.
Charley was not watching toward Brannon, only along the nearer bank, to the south.
Of a sudden, as their eyes followed his, a gun-shot rang out from the cottonwood grove.
"Mr. Lounsbury!" cried Dallas, starting forward.