Little Marjorie went off with the men who were securing the horses, and Alice stood watching her husband's movements. She was a beautiful woman of that strong, dark Celtic type, so common in Ireland. Her strong supple figure was displayed to perfection in a simple tweed suit with a jacket of the Norfolk pattern. She stood for some moments watching with deep contemplative eyes. Then she abruptly turned away.
"I will gather some fire-wood," she said deliberately to her husband.
He looked up from his work and their eyes met.
"Don't bother," he said; "we will use the oil stove."
And without further explanation the camp was arranged. There was no bustle or excitement. Yet each member of that little party, with the exception of the child, knew that the camp had been made in emergency--grave emergency.
A hearty meal was partaken of. Then the man and the scout disappeared. The others occupied themselves around the camp. The afternoon wore on. At tea the scout and his companion reappeared. The wife still asked no verbal questions. Her eyes told her all she wished to know.
During the evening meal little Marjorie made a discovery.
"Mamma," she exclaimed, "you've got a belt on like daddy's. What are these?" And she fingered a revolver holster, of which her mother's belt supported two.
It was the rough, long-haired scout who saved the woman a deliberate falsehood.
"Guess them's playthings," he said, with a sombre laugh. "B't don't figger they're fer kiddies to monkey with."
After supper the man and the scout again disappeared. Three hours later the moon was high in the starlit sky. It was a glorious summer moon, and the whole country was bright with its silvery light.
Two men were lying upon their stomachs conning the northwestern sky-line.
The scout at last spoke in his slow drawling way.
"Guess it's played out, Colonel," he said. "We're up agin it."
It didn't seem clear to what he referred, but the other understood him.
"Yes, they're working this way," he replied. "See, something has been fired away to the right front. They may be working round that way and will miss us here. What are our chances?"
"Nix," responded the scout decidedly. "Them critturs hev got to git around this way. They're on a line that'll strike Fort Randall, wi' a heap more military 'n they'll notion. They'll strike south an' sweep round sheer through to Wyoming. We're dead in their line."
"Then we'd best get back and prepare. Mrs. Raynor and Marjorie will have turned in; we can do it quietly."
"Yup."
They rose and returned to camp.
Colonel Raynor had intended to avoid his wife's tent. But Alice was waiting for him on the outskirts of the camp. The scout saw her and discreetly passed on, and husband and wife were left together.
"Well?"
The woman's tone was quite steady. She was used to a soldier's life. Besides, she understood the man's responsibility and wished to help him. And Landor Raynor, looking into the gray eyes that were to him the gates of the heart of purest womanhood, could not resort to subterfuge.
"They will be on us before morning, dearest," he said, and it was only by the greatest effort he could check a tide of self-accusation. But the woman understood and quickly interposed.
"I feared so, Landor. Are you ready? I mean for the fight?"
"We are preparing. I thought of sending you and little Marjorie south with Jim, on saddle horses, but----"
"No. I would not go. I am what you men call 'useful with a gun.'" She laughed shortly.
There was a silence between them for some moments. And in that silence a faint and distant sound came to them. It was like the sound of droning machinery, only very faint.
The wife broke the silence. "Landor, we are old campaigners, you and I."
"Yes, Al."
The woman sighed ever so lightly.
"The excitement of the foreknowledge of victory is not in me to-night. Everything seems--so ordinary."
"Yes."
"When the moment comes, Landor, I should not like to be taken prisoner."
"Nor shall you be, Al. There are four good fighting men with you. All old campaigners like--you."
"Yes. I wasn't thinking of that." The gray eyes looked away. The man shifted uneasily.
There was a prolonged silence. Each was thinking over old scenes in old campaigns.
"I don't think I am afraid of much," the woman said slowly, at last. "Certainly not of death."
"Don't talk like that, Al." The man's arm linked itself through his wife's. The woman smiled wistfully up into the strong face bending over her.
"I was thinking, dearest, if death faced us, little Marjorie and me, in any form, we should not like it at the hands of an Indian. We should both prefer it from some one we know and--love."
Another silence followed, and the sound of machinery was nearer and louder. The man stooped down and kissed the upturned face, and looked long into the beautiful gray depths he loved so well.
"It shall be as you wish, Al--as a last resource. I will go and kiss Marjorie. It is time we were doing."
He had spoken so quietly, so calmly. But in his soldier's heart he knew that his promise would be carried out to the letter--as a last resource. He left the woman, the old campaigner, examining the revolvers which looked like cannons in her small white hands.
* * * * *
One brief hour has passed. The peace of that lonely little trail-side camp has gone. War, a thousand times more fierce than the war of civilized nations, is raging round it in the light of the summer moon. The dead bodies of three white men are lying within a few yards of the tent which belongs to the ill-fated colonel and his wife. A horde of shouting, shrieking savages encircle that little white canopy and its two remaining defenders. Every bush is alive with hideous painted faces waiting for the last order to rush the camp. Their task has been less easy than they supposed. For the defenders were all "old hands." And every shot from the repeating rifles has told. But now it is different. There are only two defenders left. A man of invincible courage--and a woman; and behind them, a little, awe-struck child in the doorway of the tent.
The echoing war-whoop sounds the final advance, and the revolvers of those two desperate defenders crack and crack again. The woman's ammunition is done. The man's is nearly so. He turns, and she turns to meet him. There is one swift embrace.
"Now!" she says in a low, soft voice.
There is an ominous crack of a revolver, but it is not fired in the direction of the Indians whom the man sees are within a few yards of him. He sees the woman fall, and turns swiftly to the tent door. The child instinctively turns and runs inside. The man's gun is raised with inexorable purpose. His shot rings out. The child screams; and the man crashes to the earth with his head cleft by a hatchet from behind.
CHAPTER III
AN ALARM IN BEACON CROSSING
A horseman riding from White River Homestead to Beacon Crossing will find himself confronted with just eighty-two miles of dreary, flat trail; in summer time, just eighty-two miles of blistering sun, dust and mosquitoes. The trail runs parallel to, and about three miles north of the cool, shady White River, which is a tantalizing invention of those who designed the trail.
In the whole eighty-two miles there is but one wayside house; it is called the "half-way." No one lives there. It, like the log hut of Nevil Steyne on the bank of the White