Part 79 (2/2)
She gave me a curious, veiled look--then turned her face away.
”You do not dream of following our army, do you?” I demanded. ”Not one woman would be permitted to go. It is utterly useless for you to expect it, folly to dream of such a thing.... You and Lana are to go to Easton as soon as the heavier artillery is sent down the river, which will be the day we start--Friday. This frontier gypsying is ended--all this coquetting with danger is over now. The fort here is no place for you and Lana. Your visit, brief as it has been, is rash and unwarranted.
And I tell you very plainly, Lois, that I shall never rest until you are at Easton, which is a stone town and within the borders of civilization. The artillery will be sent down by boat, and all the women and children are to go also. Neither Boyd nor I have told this to you and Lana, but----” I glanced over my shoulder. ”I think he is telling her now.”
Lois slowly turned and looked toward them. Evidently they no longer cared what others saw or thought, for Lana's cheek lay pressed against his shoulder, and his arm encircled her body.
We walked back, all together, to the fort, and left Lois and Lana at the postern; then Boyd and I continued on to my bush-hut, the Indians following.
m.u.f.fled drums of a regiment were pa.s.sing, and an escort with reversed arms, to bury poor Kimball, Captain in Colonel Cilly's command, shot this morning through the heart by the accidental discharge of a musket in the careless hands of one of his own men.
We stood at salute while the slow cortege pa.s.sed.
Said Boyd thoughtfully:
”Well, Kimball's done with all earthly worries. There are those who might envy him.”
”You are not one,” I said bluntly.
”I? No. I have not yet played hard enough in the jolly blind man's buff--which others call the game of life. I wear the bandage still, and still my hands clutch at the empty air, and in my ears the world's sweet laughter rings----” He smiled, then shrugged. ”The charm of Fortune's bag is not what you pull from it, but what remains within.”
”Boyd,” I said abruptly. ”Who is that handsome wench that followed us from Otsego?”
”Dolly Glenn?”
”That is her name.”
”Lord, how she pesters me!” he said fretfully. ”I chanced upon her at the Middle Fort one evening--down by the river. And what are our wenches coming to,” he exclaimed impatiently, ”that a kiss on a summer's night should mean to them more than a kiss on a night in summer!”
”She is a laundress, is she not?”
”How do I know? A tailoress, too, I believe, for she has patched and mended for me; and she madded me because she would take no pay. There are times,” he added, ”when sentiment is inconvenient----”
”Poor thing,” I said.
”My G.o.d, why? When I slipped my arm around her she put up her face to be kissed. It was give and take, and no harm done--and the moon a-laughing at us both. And why the devil she should look at me reproachfully is more than I can comprehend.”
”It seems a cruel business,” said I.
”Cruel!”
”Aye--to awake a heart and pa.s.s your way a-whistling.”
”Now, Loskiel,” he began, plainly vexed, ”I am not cruel by nature, and you know it well enough. Men kiss and go their way----”
”But women linger still.”
”Not those I've known.”
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