RANSON'S FOLLY

PART I


The junior officers of Fort Crockett had organized a mess at the
post-trader's. "And a mess it certainly is," said Lieutenant Ranson.
The dining-table stood between hogsheads of molasses and a blazing
log-fire, the counter of the store was their buffet, a pool-table
with a cloth, blotted like a map of the Great Lakes, their sideboard,
and Indian Pete acted as butler. But none of these things counted
against the great fact that each evening Mary Cahill, the daughter of
the post-trader, presided over the evening meal, and turned it into a
banquet. From her high chair behind the counter, with the cash-
register on her one side and the weighing-scales on the other, she
gave her little Senate laws, and smiled upon each and all with the
kind impartiality of a comrade.

At least, at one time she had been impartial. But of late she smiled
upon all save Lieutenant Ranson. When he talked, she now looked at
the blazing log-fire, and her cheeks glowed and her eyes seemed to
reflect the lifting flame.

For five years, ever since her father brought her from the convent at
St. Louis, Mary Cahill had watched officers come and officers go. Her
knowledge concerning them, and their public and private affairs, was
vast and miscellaneous. She was acquainted with the traditions of
every regiment, with its war record, with its peace-time politics,
its nicknames, its scandals, even with the earnings of each company-
canteen. At Fort Crockett, which lay under her immediate observation,