Joel Barlow merely smiled. He knew Mrs. McGee.
“You’re too good to live, mother,” he said; “but I’ll go over and talk with the girl. It is a shame, as you say; but what am I to do? I’m only in the colonel’s place here while he is away, and I have to be mighty careful.”
“Ye ar-re the dirt av the wurruld!” she snorted, in derision. “Don’t I know that the colonel wouldn’t hold her fer wan second?”
“I think I’ll go and see her? Of course you’ll take good care of her, Mother McGee; but perhaps I’d better have a talk with her.”
He set out to have that talk within the next half hour.
Time had so sped since the “arrest” of the girl and her lover that night was now at hand and the shadows of darkness were gathering over the fort.
As Barlow passed along, heading toward the house where Mrs. McGee lived, he came face to face with a young trooper in a dusty uniform, who seemed to have been watching for him to make his appearance.
Seeing this young fellow he turned aside, and the two came together behind a growth of cottonwood trees which grew beside the water pool supplied by the deep well and windmill.
It must be understood that Fort Cimarron was not just one building; rather it was a number of buildings, officers’ quarters, and barracks for the troopers, with stables for the horses, all surrounded by a strong, palisaded wall. Attempts had been made to make the place attractive. One result was the cottonwood trees, planted where the water from the well could keep them growing in that land of drought; and they made a green and pleasant shade.
“Well, Wilkins?” said Barlow harshly, as he stopped with the young trooper behind the cottonwoods.