LITMIR.BIZ

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of late August. Silent as a mute was he as to what he had seen; elaborately careful likewise to carry out the family programme as usual.

      "Sleepy, kid?" he queried when dinner was over.

      Baby Bess, taciturn, sun-browned autocrat, nodded silent corroboration.

      "Come, then," and, willing horse, the big man got clumsily to all fours and, prancing ponderously, drew up at her side.

      "Hang tight," he admonished and, his wife smiling from the doorway as only a mother can smile, ambled away through the sun and the dust; climbed slowly, the tiny brown arms clasped tightly about his neck, down the ladder to the retreat, adjusted the pillow and the patchwork quilt with a deftness born of experience.

      "Go to sleepy, kid," he directed.

      "Sing me to sleep, daddy," commanded the autocrat.

      "Sing! I can't sing, kid."

      "Yes, you can. Sing 'Nellie Gray.'"

      "Too hot, girlie. My breath's all gone. Go to sleep."

      "Please, papa; pretty please!"

      The man succumbed, as he knew from the first he would do, braced himself in the aperture, and sang the one verse that he knew of the song again and again—his voice rough and unmusical as that of a crow, echoing and re-echoing in the narrow space—bent over at last, touched his bearded lips softly to the winsome, motionless brown face, climbed, an irresistible catch in his breath, silently to the surface, sent one swift glance sweeping the bare earth around him, and returned to the cabin.

      Very carefully that sultry afternoon he cleaned his old hammer shotgun, and, loading both barrels with buckshot, set it handy beside the door.

      "Antelope," he explained laconically; but when likewise he overhauled the revolver hanging at his hip, Margaret was not deceived. This done, notwithstanding the fact that the sun still beat scorchingly hot thereon, he returned to the doorstep, lit his pipe, drew his weather-stained sombrero low over his face, through half-closed eyes inspected the lower lands all about, impassively silent awaited the coming of the inevitable. Of a sudden there was a touch on his shoulder, and, involuntarily starting, he looked up, into the face of Margaret Rowland.

      The woman sat down beside him, her hand on his knee.

      "Don't keep it from me," she requested steadily. "You've seen something."

      In the brier bowl before his face the tobacco glowed more brightly as Rowland drew hard.

      "Tell me, please," repeated Margaret. "Are they here?"

      The pipe left the man's mouth. The great bushy head nodded reluctant corroboration.

      "Yes," he said.

      "You—saw them?"

      Again the man's head spoke an affirmative. "It's perhaps as well, after all, for you to know." One hand indicated the foot of the rise before them. "They waylaid Mueller there."

      "And you—"

      "It was all over in a second." Puff, puff. "After all he—Margaret!"

      "Don't mind me. I was thinking of baby. The hideous suggestion!"

      "Margaret!" He held her tight, so tight he could feel the quiver of her body against his, the involuntary catch of her breath. "Forgive me, Margaret."

      "You're not to blame. Perhaps—Oh, Sam, Sam, our baby!"

      Hotter and hotter beat down the sun. Thicker and thicker above the scorching earth vibrated the curling heat waves. The very breath of prairie seemed dormant, stifled. Not the leaf of a sunflower stirred, or a blade of grass. In the tiny patch of Indian corn each individual plant drooped, almost like a sensate thing, beneath the rays, each broad leaf contracted, like a roll of parchment, tight upon the parent stalk. In sympathy the colour scheme of the whole lightened from the appearance of the paler green under-surface. Though silently, yet as plainly as had done Hans Mueller when fighting for life, they lifted the single plea: "Water! Water! Give us drink!"

      Silent now, the storm over, side by side sat the man and the woman; like children awed by the sudden realisation of their helplessness, their hands clasped in mute sympathy, mute understanding. Usually at this time of day with nothing to do they slept; but neither thought of sleep now. As passed the slow time and the sun sank lower and lower, came the hour of supper; but likewise hunger passed them by. Something very like fascination held them there on the doorstep, gazing out, out at motionless impassive nature, at the seemingly innocent earth that nevertheless concealed so certain a menace, at the patch of sod corn again in cycle growing darker as the broad leaves unfolded in preparation for the dew of evening. Out, out they looked, out, out—.

      "Sam!"

      "Yes,"

      "You saw, too?"

      An answering pressure of the hand.

      "The eyes of him, only the eyes—out there at the edge of the corn!"

      "It's the third time, Margaret." Despite the man's effort his breath tightened. "They're all about: a score at least—I don't know how many. The tall grass there to the east is alive—"

      "Sam! They're there again—the eyes! Oh, I'm afraid—Sam—baby!"

      "Hush! Leave her where she is. Don't seem afraid. It's our only chance. Let them make the first move." Again the hand pressure so tight that, although she made no sound, the blood left the woman's fingers. "Tell me you forgive me, Margaret; before anything happens. I'm a criminal to have stayed here,—I see it now, a criminal!"

      "Don't!"

      "But I must. Tell me you forgive me. Tell me."

      "I love you, Sam."

      Again in the expanse of grass to the east there was motion; not in a single spot but in a dozen places. No living being was visible, not a sound broke the stillness of evening; simply here and there it stirred, and became motionless, and stirred again.

      "And—Margaret. If worst comes to worst they mustn't take either of us alive. The last one—I can't say it. You understand."

      "Yes, I understand. The last load—But maybe—"

      "It's useless to deceive ourselves. They wouldn't come this way if—Margaret, in God's name—"

      "But baby, Sam!" Of a sudden she was struggling fiercely beneath the grip that kept her back. "I must have her, must see her again; must, must—"

      "Margaret!"

      "I must, I say!"

      "You must not. They'll never find her there. She's safe unless we show the way. Think—as you love her."

      "But if anything should happen to us—She'll starve!"

      "No. There are soldiers at Yankton, and they'll come—now; and Landor knows."

      "Oh, Sam, Sam!"

      There was silence. No human being could give answer to that mother wail.

      Again time passed; seconds that seemed minutes, minutes that were a hell of suspense. Below the horizon of prairie the sun sank from sight. In the hot air a bank of cumulus clouds glowed red as from a distant conflagration. For and eternity previous it seemed to the silent watchers there had been no move; now again at last the grass stirred; a corn plant rustled where there was no breeze; out into the small open plat surrounding the house sprang a frightened rabbit, scurried across the clearing, headed for the protecting grass, halted at the edge irresolute—scurried back again at something it saw.

      "You had best go in, Margaret." The man's voice was strained, unnatural. "They'll come very soon now. It's almost dark."

      "And you?" Wonder of wonders, it was the woman's natural tone!

      "I'll stay here. I can at least show them how a white man dies."

      "Sam Rowland—my husband!"

      "Margaret—my wife!" Regardless of watchful savage eyes, regardless of everything,

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