To Dallas, watching him in silence, the destruction of the pole was a sore reminder. For, better than ever before, she realised that her father could only accomplish the hasty, childish things; that beyond these, he was powerless. Without a doubt, she must ask elsewhere for aid. As he came limping and raging back to her, she hurried forward to relieve him of the rifle and to guide his crippled feet. "Dad, I think it's about time we had a' understanding at the Fort," she said quietly, and took him by an arm. He brought up short and wrung himself out of her grasp. "Th' Fort! th' Fort! th' Fort!" he repeated in a frenzy. "Lawd-a-mighty, Dallas, y' make me sick!" "It's Indians," she replied steadily. "They're coming too near to be comfortable. We got to have help." He raised his fists and shook them. "Help an' fiddlesticks!" he blustered. "_Thet_ ain't no Injuns! It's thet Shanty Town blackleg a-tryin' t' skeer us. Go look at th' groun'--go look at th' groun', Ah say. _See_ if they's moccasin tracks thereabout. Ah bet y' won't fin' any!" He turned back to the scattered splinters, pulling Dallas after him. Together they got down, examining with care. As he had said, there were no prints of an Indian shoe in the soft earth. But mingling with the round, faint marks of his own naked heel were those--more plainly stamped--of a large boot. They led up to the spot from the nearest point on the river; and back upon themselves toward the same point. "W'at'd Ah tell y'?" demanded the section-boss, almost triumphantly. His voice quavered, however, and he gulped. "It's thet scalawag, an' he wanted us t' know it! Ain't ev'ry Injun in fifty mile shet up tight in yon corral? Ev'ry one 'cept Charley--an' this ain't the job o' _thet_ blamed fool. No, siree! An' then, th' mules didn' make no row las' night. They'd a shore snorted if it was Injuns----" "I guess that's so," agreed Dallas, hastily, and made him a warning sign. Marylyn was moving about inside, and calling. But he was beyond thought for another. "Bosh! bosh!" he cried. "She's got t' stop bein' coddled an' know w'at's w'at. _You_ got t' stop talkin' Fort. Ah'm goin' t' ketch thet low-down skunk 'thout no soldiers. An' _Ah'll_ pepper his ugly hide! _Ah'll_ make him spit blood like a broncho-buster. Th' _idee_ o' his havin' th' gall!" He rammed the Sharps into its rack and laughed immoderately. "Oh, pa!" expostulated Marylyn, in a startled whisper, and flew to Dallas. Her face, still pink from slumber, paled a little. She laid it against her sister. Long ago, she had seen her father roused to the same pitch. The sight had terrified her, and blunted some earlier and tenderer memories. "You git you' clothes on," he ordered roughly, "an' rustle us some breakfas'." She retreated, ready for tears.