Under Fire. Charles King

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СКАЧАТЬ him, even at the expense of a sensitive complexion. Mr. Davies's nose was peeling, as a result of a week's exposure to blistering Wyoming suns, his eyes were red-rimmed too, in tribute to alkali dust and water. The gloss was gone from his trim fatigue dress, a red silk handkerchief had replaced the white starched collar, and a soft drab felt hat the natty forage-cap. But he looked the more soldierly and serviceable if less trim, and being tall, spare, and athletic, if not particularly handsome, Mr. Davies was at least as presentable as the average of his fellows now thronging the post, for bristling beards and frontier scouting-dress banish all vestige of dandyism. But if she liked him still better now that the week had wrought its changes, what could be said of his impressions? Attractive as she had appeared in the grime and dust and heat of the railway car, now in that dainty gown of cool white lawn, open at the rounded throat, she saw with woman's unerring eye the unspoken approval if not open admiration in his face. Not yet nineteen, she had lived a busy, earnest, thoughtful life. The Cranstons had known her from early maidenhood. She was a child in the Southern garrison in the days of the great epidemic, when the young captain owed his life to the doctor's skill and assiduous care. It was this that led to the deep friendship between the two men, and to Cranston's assuming the duties of guardian and protector after Loomis's lamented death. It was this that determined her hastening to Mrs. Cranston the moment the sad news came, and then accompanying her to the frontier. A mature head was that on her young shoulders, but she who had so easily repelled the advances of the admiring fellow-passenger on the train had been attracted by the bearing and behavior of the young officer, who, absorbed in his new cares and duties, had apparently noticed her hardly at all. She and the train conductor and Mr. Langston, the elder of the two civilians, at least, knew who was the inspiration of that effective squelching given the rioting recruits, whatever impression might be prevailing at department head-quarters or at Sanders. She, presumably, had her duties as assistant to Mrs. Cranston at the bedside of the sorely wounded officer. Davies, too, had matters requiring his attention about the post, for the word had gone the rounds that they were to march at dawn on the morrow. Yet here under the vine-sheltered portico they lingered, chatting on all manner of topics. Mrs. Cranston came smilingly to congratulate the young officer on his assignment to her husband's regiment, to say the captain was dozing now and that she thought she would lie down a while, but that Miss Loomis was not to think of coming in out of the sweet summer air.

      "Oh, Mr. Davies is only waiting for Captain Tibbetts to come up from camp to call with him on the post commander," said Miss Loomis; "and here comes the captain now," she continued, as a stalwart, full-bearded, heavily-built fellow swung himself off his horse at the gate, and, leaving him with his orderly, came forward with cordial inquiries for his wounded comrade, and with a packet of letters, at least a dozen, which he handed to the new lieutenant.

      "Seven of them addressed in the same fair, feminine hand, youngster," said he, in the easy jocularity of the frontier. "That gives you dead away."

      And the color that mounted to Mr. Davies's forehead, a cloud of embarrassment, told plainly that the shot was a centre. He had not recovered himself when the captain again turned, saying they must go to the commanding officer's quarters at once or be too late.

      "Remember, you are to come and lunch with us, Mr. Davies," said the captain's wife, as he was saying adieu.

      "I—I'm afraid I can't, Mrs. Cranston," was his answer. "We march so soon, and I have so many preparations to make."

      "Preparations? Why, what on earth have you been doing ever since you came up to the post?" asked his witless or too witty tormentor. "He's simply eager to get off by himself somewhere and devour his ration of spoon meat. I know how it is, Mrs. Cranston. I was there ten years ago." And Davies's low-toned protestations were drowned in the jovial tones of his burly comrade.

      "I'll come to say good-by to-night, perhaps," he stammered, as he was led away, still clutching his packet; but Miss Loomis had turned and gone within-doors before the visitors reached the gate.

      "I'm sorry to hear of it," said Captain Cranston, when later that evening his wife was laughingly telling of Davies's betrayal and confusion. "I always feel distressed to find a young fellow, just entering service, has already enlisted in one much more exacting. I was in love when I graduated myself."

      And Davies didn't come to say adieu. He wrote a note to Mrs. Cranston saying he found so many duties crowding on him at the last moment, so many home letters to be written owing to his having left in such haste, that it was impossible for him to leave camp. He begged her to say good-by for him to Miss Loomis, whom he sincerely hoped he might meet again, and with his best wishes for the captain's speedy recovery and restoration to duty, he begged to subscribe himself her friend and most obedient servant.

      "Now, I like that young fellow," said Mrs. Cranston, folding up the letter, "only I didn't——"

      "Well, didn't what?" asked her companion, seeing that she had faltered for a word.

      "Well—he didn't act at all like an engaged man—like he ought to have acted," said Mrs. Cranston, with honest disdain of masculine flirts or malevolent rules of speech, due perhaps to long association with belles of the Blue Grass country.

      "Why, I didn't think he was engaged," said Miss Loomis.

      "No—and he didn't mean you to. But when one mail brings a man seven letters from one girl, I've no use for him."

      "Well, I should much rather he had them of one than from seven different girls," said Miss Loomis, smiling resolutely.

      "Oh, you're bound to uphold him, I see. All the same, I thought better of him."

      "Ah?" And now in a very pretty, playful way did Miss Loomis take her companion's flushed face between two long, white, slender hands—very cool and dainty members were they—and archly queried, "Are you beginning to tire of your bargain, Lady Cranston? Are you planning already to unload me, as the captain says, on somebody else?"

      The answer came with sudden vehemence and a hug. "You are much too good for any man I know—except Will, and you can't have him. And I'll never let you go till the right one comes."

      After which outburst, and for over a week, did this young matron say little more to Miss Loomis on the subject, but she must have enlivened some hours of the captain's convalescence with her views on recent graduates in general, and this one in particular, for when at last letters came from the front announcing the arrival of the reinforcements and the final cutting loose of the reorganized column from its base, the prostrate warrior glanced up at his busy wife with an odd mixture of merriment and concern in his haggard face.

      "To whose troop do you suppose your friend Davies has been assigned?"

      "Not to yours, surely. You have no vacancy."

      "No. I fear I wish I had—every time I see my bulky senior sub in saddle. But, of all men you know——"

      "Will Cranston! You don't mean Captain Devers?"

      "Yes—Captain Differs, for a fact."

      "Well, then your protégé and Mr. Davies have gone into the same troop. What a strange coincidence! Isn't it time Mrs. Barnard answered Agatha's letter?"

      "Time she answered it? Yes," replied Cranston, "yet not time for her answer to get here. Poor lady! She was so distressed at the thought of his going into the army. I hope that letter will comfort her. It ought to. I doubt if he ever did an honest day's work before."

CHAPTER VI.

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