Drums Along the Mohawk by Walter D. Edmonds Page A

spring where it was cool. He thought he heard Lana in the kitchen, but if she was she was working in the dark. At any rate, when he returned, she was not downstairs.
    He saw that she had cleaned up the supper things and washed the two cups he and Blue Back had used. She must have gone back up to bed.
    He sat down in the dark by the table, wondering what heought to say to her. He was half angry, half nettled; and yet he felt sorry for her, too. It was the first time he had wished that they lived close to neighbors, for he would have liked to be able to get the advice of George Weaver, or even of Emma. He did not know what a man ought to do.
    Whatever was the matter with her, she had no business talking and acting the way she had before anyone he chose to bring into his house. But on the other hand she had been frightened just before, and a frightened woman could not rightly be held responsible for much, he supposed.
    It seemed very serious to Gil. To him it was the kind of thing that shouldn’t be let pass. He should not just go up to bed without having it out, and discovering, if he could, what was wrong in her mind. Their whole future life might hinge on what he did. And then it occurred to him what a silly business it was, and he got up angrily from the table.
    He didn’t light the tallow dip. He took his shoes off in the dark and felt his way upstairs.
    The loft was like ink, with the window in the gable showing only a pale gray set of squares. The air smelled faintly of Lana and of spruce wood. Standing beside the trap, Gil stripped to his undershirt.
    The boards gave springily as he walked slowly to the bed. His hand touched the foot and then guided him round to his side. He sat down on the edge and said, “Lana.”
    She did not answer. He held his breath and could not hear her breathing. He put his hand out cautiously and felt her hip under the blanket. She was lying with her back to him, and she must be holding her breath.
    They were both holding their breath.
    “Lana!” He spoke explosively.
    She rolled over on her back and said in a very low, calm, forced voice, “Yes, Gil.”
    “You going to listen to me?”
    “Yes, of course, if you want to stay awake.”
    Dutiful as damnation.
    “You didn’t have no right acting the way you did.”
    “What way?” she asked with such deliberate sweetness that he wished he could see her face.
    “The way you did in front of Blue Back.”
    “I brought you what you asked me, didn’t I?”
    “You could have poured his glass, couldn’t you?”
    “I didn’t know my marriage contract called for waiting on the heathen.”
    “He ain’t a heathen. He’s one of Reverend Kirkland’s Indians.” Gil swallowed. “I bet he’s a better Christian than either one of us, for that matter. And even if he wasn’t you or me could go into his house and they’d offer us anything there was in it.”
    “It’s too bad you didn’t marry an Indian girl.”
    “It don’t matter what you think, Lana. You’ve got no right to shame me in front of a visitor.”
    “You’ve got no right bringing any muck out of the woods into my house, using my things; and I won’t stand for it.”
    “You won’t? What will you do?”
    She said furiously, “I’ll take them and myself back out of here.”
    “You won’t either. As long as we’re talking this way you might just as well understand you couldn’t do that if you wanted to. There ain’t a thing you own here under the law. Now, you listen to me. You behave decently and I won’t talk about it. But you can’t act like this and expect me to allow it.”
    He heard her draw a deep breath.
    Then she cried out, “You can’t stop me. I don’t care what the law is. And I don’t care what there is in here, either. You can have it. But you can’t talk to me that way.” She breathed again. “I’ll just walk out of here, that’s all. You won’t know anything of it.”
    “Now, Lana.” Gil tried to talk calmly. “We didn’t marry to