he had delayed a trip to the land-office
for the purpose of filing on the claim. "W'at they doin'?"

"Something right in your line, sir. They're laying out a railroad."

"A railroad? You don' say! How'll it come?"

"Why, right this way."

Lancaster caught the other by the bootstrap. "Shore?" he asked.

"Sure," repeated Lounsbury; "sure as death and taxes. It's bound to run
somewhere between the coulee and Medicine Mountain, and it'll stop--at
least for a few years--at the Missouri. With those sloughs in the way at
the south end of the gap, it can't reach the river without coming over
your land. First thing you know, you'll have stores and saloons around
your house. There's going to be a town on the Bend, sir."

The elder man scanned the younger's face. Lounsbury was smiling half
teasingly, yet undoubtedly he was in earnest.

"W'y, Lawd!" breathed the section-boss, realising the whole import of
the news. A railroad would mean immeasurable good fortune to the trio of
settlers who, like young prairie-chickens that fear to leave the side of
their mother, had chosen quarter-sections near the guarding fort. And to
him, penniless, with motherless girls, it meant----

"The ferrying's so good right here," went on the storekeeper. "Why, it's
a ten-to-one shot the track'll end on your claim."

With one accord all looked across the level quarter, where the new green
was creeping in after the late rains.

"A railroad! An' a town!" The section-boss pulled at his grizzled
goatee. "They'll make this piece worth a heap!"

"They will," agreed Lounsbury. "But road or no road, seems to me you've
got about the cream of this side of the river."

"You' right," said Lancaster. But the girls were silent, except that
Dallas gave a sigh, deep and full of happiness.

Lounsbury glanced at her. "You like the place, don't you?" he asked;
"even if----" He suddenly paused. Her palms were open and half turned
upward. Across each lay a crimson stripe--the mark of the plow-handle.

For the second time she read his meaning. "Yes, I like the prairie," she
answered, "if I do have to plow." And she stepped from the furrow to the
unturned sod.

As she stood there, Lounsbury caught the clear outline of her firmly
drawn face. Beside her, Marylyn, slight and colourless, was for the
moment eclipsed. The hat of the elder girl was brushed back, displaying
a forehead upon which shone the very spirit of the unshackled. Her
hands, large, yet not too l