[CHAPTER IX—THE ATTACK ON THE LAZY S]
It was late. The August night was cool and sweet after a weary day of intense heat. The door was thrown wide open. It was good to feel the night air creeping into the stifling room. There was no light within; and without, nothing but the brilliant stars in the quiet, brooding sky. Williston was sitting just within the doorway. Mary, her hands clasped idly around her knees, sat on the doorstep, thoughtfully staring out into the still darkness. There was a stir.
“Bedtime, little girl,” said Williston.
“Just a minute more, daddy. Must we have a light? Think how the mosquitoes will swarm. Let’s go to bed in the dark.”
“We will shut the door and next Summer, little girl, you shall have your screens. I promise you that, always providing, of course, Jesse Black leaves us alone.”
Had it not been so dark, Mary could have seen the wistful smile on the thin, scholarly face. But though she could not see it, she knew it was there. There had been fairer hopes and more generous promises in the past few years. They had all gone the dreary way of impotent striving, of bitter disappointment. There was little need of light for Mary to read her father’s thoughts.
“Sure, daddy,” she answered, cheerily. “And I’ll see that you don’t forget. As for Jesse Black, he wouldn’t dare with the Three Bars on his trail. Well, if you must have a light, you must,” rising and stretching her firm-fleshed young arms far over her head. “You can’t forget you were born in civilization, can you, daddy? I am sure I could be your man in the dark, if you’d let me, and I always turn your nightshirt right side out before hanging it on your bedpost, and your sheet and spread are turned down, and water right at hand. You funny, funny little father, who can’t go to bed in the dark.” She was rummaging around a shelf in search of matches. “Now, I have forgotten long since that I wasn’t born on the plains. It wouldn’t hurt me if I had misplaced my nightdress. I’ve done it,” with a gay little laugh. He must be cheered up at all costs, this buffeted and disappointed but fine-minded, high-strung, and lovable father of hers. “And I haven’t taken my hair down nights since—oh, since months ago, till—oh, well—so you see it’s easy enough for me to go to bed in the dark.”
Her hand touched the match box at last. A light flared out.
“Shut the door quick, dad,” she said, lighting the lamp on the table. “The skeeters’ll eat us alive.”
Williston stepped to the door. Just a moment he stood there in the doorway, the light streaming out into the night, tall, thoughtful, no weakling in spite of many failures and many mistakes. A fair mark he made, outlined against the brightly lighted room. It was quiet. Not even a coyote shrilled. And while he stood there looking up at the calm stars, a sudden sharp report rang out and the sacred peace of God, written in the serenity of still summer nights, was desecrated. Hissing and ominous, the bullet sang past Williston’s head, perilously near, and lodged in the opposite wall. At that moment, the light was blown out. A great presence of mind had come to Mary in the time of imminent danger.