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The same people I knew first on the night after Jean Pahusca's attempt on Marjie's life, when we were hunting our cows out on the West Prairie, came now in reality before me. The Sweetwater Valley spread out under the late sunshine of a March day was rimmed about by low hills.
A flush mounted to her cheeks, as she took her purchase and hurried out of the door and plump into my father, who was passing just then. Judge Baronet was a man of courtly manners. He gently caught Marjie's arm to steady her. "Good-morning, Marjie. How is your mother to-day?" The little girl did not speak for a moment. Her eyes were full of tears.
"Marjie, girl, I knowed you when you was in bib aperns, and I knowed your father long ago. Best man ever went out to fight and never got back. They's as good a one comin' back, though, some day," he added softly, and smiled as the pink bloom on Marjie's cheeks deepened. "Marjie, don't git mad at an old man like your Uncle Cam. I mean no harm." It was the morning after the party.
"Good for you, Phil. Bet we've got one fellow to make a Bothton girl open her eyeth even if Tillhurtht couldn't. He'th jutht jealouth. But we all know Phil! Nobody'll ever doubt old Philip!" It took the edge off the embarrassment, and O'mie, who had sidled over into Marjie's neighborhood, said in a low voice: "Tillhurst is a consummit liar, beautiful to look upon. That girl tagged Phil.
"If you ever hear me say I don't care for 'Rockport, you will know I do not care for you. Now, think of that!" "Don't ever say it, Phil, please, if you can help it." Marjie's mood was more serious than mine just then. "I used to be afraid of Indians. I am still, if there were need to be, and I looked to you always somehow to keep them away.
I have looked Death in the face day after day creeping slowly, surely toward me while I must march forward to meet it. Did the struggle this night out on the prairie strengthen my soul to bear it all, I wonder. The next morning a package addressed in Marjie's round girlish hand was put before me.
But there was no mockery in the quick opening of the casement above me, where a dim light now gleamed, nor in the flinging up of the curtain, and it was not a spirit but a real face with a crown of curly hair that was outlined in the gloom. And a voice, Marjie's sweet voice, called anxiously: "Is that you, Phil? I'll be right down."
Marjie, do you remember the time Jean Pahusca nearly got you? I remember it, for when I came to after the shock, I was standing square on my head with both feet in the air. All I could see was Bud dragging Jean's pony out of the muss. I thought he was upside down at first and the horses were walking like flies on the ceiling." Marjie's memories of that moment were keen. So were O'mie's.
He was Irish to the bone, and never could entirely master his brogue, but we had no social caste lines, and Springvale took him at face value, knowing his worth. At Marjie's gate I stopped to make sure everything was all right. Somehow when I knew the Indian was in town I could never feel safe for her. She hurried out in response to my call.
On the bend of the crest, where the street drops down almost too steep for a team of horses to climb, I turned and saw Marjie's light in the window, and the shadow of her head on the pane. I gave a long, low whistle, the signal call we had for our own.
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