"When the drought and the hot winds come in the summer and burn the buffalo grass to a tinder and the monotony of the plains weighs on you as it does now, there's a common, low-growing cactus scattered over the prairie that blooms into the gayest red flower you ever saw.
"It wouldn't count for much anywhere else, but the pluck of it, without rain for months, dew even. It's the 'colours of courage.'"
He turned the torn parcel, showing the bright red within, and looked at the cupboard and window with shining, tired eyes.
"Up and down the frontier in these shacks, homes, you'll find things made of turkey-red calico, cheap, common elsewhere—" He fingered the three-cornered flap. "Its our 'colours.'" He put the parcel back in his pocket. "I bought two yards yesterday after—I got a letter at Haney."
Smith sat looking at the gay curtains before him. The fury of the storm was dying down into fitful gusts. Dan stirred, looked quickly toward the bed, then the window, and got up quietly.
"I'll hitch up. We'll stop at Peterson's and tell her to come over." He closed the door noiselessly.
The traveller was frowning intently. Finally he turned toward the boy who sat with his head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed.
"Hillas," his very tones were awkward, "they call me a shrewd business man. I am, it's a selfish job and I'm not reforming now. But twice to-night you—children have risked your lives, without thought for a stranger. I've been thinking about that railroad. Haven't you raised any grain or cattle that could be used for freight?"
The low answer was toneless. "Drought killed the crops, prairie fires burned the hay, of course the cattle starved."
"There's no timber, ore, nothing that could be used for east-bound shipment?"