Frances had heard the cattleman’s loud demand for instant audience. Now the maid was explaining in temporizing tones.
“The colonel he’s busy with military matters this early in the day, sir, and nobody ever disturbs him. He don’t see nobody but the officers. If you’ll step in and wait—”
“The officers can wait!” Chadron said, in loud, assertive voice that made the servant shiver. “Where’s he at?”
Frances could see in her lively imagination the frightened maid’s gesture toward the colonel’s office door. Now the girl’s feet sounded along the hall in hasty retreat as Chadron laid his hearty knock against the colonel’s panels.
Frances smiled behind her friend’s back. The impatient disregard by civilians of the forms which her father held in such esteem always was a matter of humor to her. She expected now to hear explosions from within her father’s sacred place, and when the sound failed to reach her she concluded that some 136 subordinate hand had opened the door to Chadron’s summons.
“I’ll hurry”—Nola dashed into her own room, finishing from the door—“I want to catch him before he goes and find out what’s wrong.”
Frances went below to see about breakfast for her tardy guest, a little fluttering of excitement in her own breast. She wondered what could have brought the cattleman to the post so early—he must have left long before dawn—and in such haste to see her father, all buckled about with his arms. She trusted that it might not be that Alan Macdonald was involved in it, for it was her constant thought to hope well for that bold young man who had heaved the homesteaders’ world to his shoulders and stood straining, untrusted and uncheered, under its weight.
True, he had not died in defense of her glove, but she had forgiven him in her heart for that. A reasonable man would not have imperiled his life for such a trifle, and a reasonable woman would not have expected it. There was a great deal more sense in Alan Macdonald living for his life’s purpose than in dying for a foolish little glove. So she said.
The white gossamer fichu about her throat moved as with a breath in the agitation of her bosom as she passed down the stairs; her imperious chin was lowered, and her strong brown eyes were bent like a nun’s before the altar. Worthy or unworthy, her lips moved in a prayer for Alan Macdonald, strong 137 man in his obscure place; worthy or unworthy, she wished him well, and her heart yearned after him with a great tenderness, like a south wind roaming the night in gentle quest.
Major King, in attendance upon his chief, had opened the door to Saul Chadron at the colonel’s frowning nod. Without waiting for the password into the mysteries of that chamber, Chadron had entered, his heavy quirt in hand, gauntlets to his elbows, dusty boots to his knees. Colonel Landcraft stood at his desk to receive him, his brows bent in a disfavoring frown.