He smiled on his white councilor when the last of his own people had departed. He thrust out a slim, strong hand, and the two men shook hands heartily.

"It is slow with many in council," the chief said, in his own smooth-flowing tongue. "You, white man, and I can settle matters quickly. Quicker than these wise men of my father."

There was a flash of impatience in his speaking eyes. Nevil nodded approval.

"They think much before they speak," he replied, in the language in which he had been addressed. He, too, smiled; and in their manner toward each other it was plain the excellent understanding they were on.

"Sit, my white brother, we have many things for talk. Even we, like those others, must sit if we would pow-wow well. It is good. Sit." Little Black Fox laughed shortly, conceiving himself superior in thought to the older generation of wise men. He was possessed of all the vanity of his years.

They both returned to the ground, and the chief kicked together the embers of the council-fire.

"Tell me, brother, of Wanaha," this still unproved warrior went on, in an even, indifferent voice; "she who was the light of our father's eyes; she who has the wisdom of the rattlesnake, and the gentle heart of the summer moon."

"She is well." Nevil was not expansive. He knew the man had other things to talk of, and he wanted him to talk.

"Ah. And all the friends of my white brother?"

The face smiled, but the eyes were keenly alight.

"They are well. And Rosebud——"

"Ah."

"She grows fairer every day."

There was a truly Indian pause. The fire sputtered and cast shadows upon the dark, bare walls. The two men gazed thoughtfully into the little flame which vauntingly struggled to rear itself in the dense atmosphere. At last the Indian spoke.

"That man who killed my father is a great brave."

"Yes," nodded Nevil, with a reflective smile in his pale eyes. "And Rosebud is a ripe woman. Beautiful as the flower which is her name."

"Hah!" Then the Indian said slowly with an assumed indifference, "She will be his squaw. This white brave."

"That is how they say." It might have puzzled Nevil to apply names to those represented by "they." "He is a great brave, truly. He fought for her. He killed your father. That is how these things go. She is for him surely."

A frown had settled on the fierce young chief's face.

"My father was old," he said.

Nevil glanced at the speaker out of the corner of his eyes, and then continued his watch on the flame still struggling so ardently to devour the half-green wood. He knew when to hold his tongue.

"Yes," the young man went on. "My father was a wise chief, but he was old—too old. Why did he keep the white girl alive?"

"He took her for you. You only had fifteen summers. The white girl had eleven or thereabouts. He was wise. It was good med'cine."

Then the chief stirred himself. And Nevil, who lost no movement on the other's part, detected the restless action of one who chafes under his thought. Little Black Fox prefixed his next remark with another short laugh.

"My people love peace now. It is good. So good that your people come and teach us. They show our squaws how to make things like the white squaws make. And the papooses forget our tongue, and they make words out of strange drawings which the white med'cine man makes on a board. Tchah! We forget our fathers. We feed when your people give us food, and our young men are made to plough. We only hunt when we are told to hunt. Our life is easy, but it is not a brave's life."

Nevil nodded, and chose his reply carefully.

"So," he said, "it is a life of ease. You choose your life. And naturally you choose a life where you have all you want, and do not have to trouble. After all, what is the old life? A life of much danger, and little ease. You fight, you kill, or you are killed. You risk much and gain little. But you are men, brave men, great warriors, I grant you. And the squaws like brave men—even white squaws. But I say it is wise, though not brave, to live in the tepee. It is so easy. Your braves have their squaws always with them. They grow fat till their sides shake. They no longer care to hunt. Why should they? Many papooses come, and they grow up like their fathers. There are no Sun-Dances to make braves, because none want to be braves. There are no Ghost-Dances, because the white men keep the Evil Spirits away, and there is no need. So. The Indian lies upon his blankets, and he lives with the squaw always. They all become squaw-men. Never was there such peace for the Indian."

Nevil had drawn his peaceful picture with care; also the tail of his eye told him that his companion was listening. And his movements, every now and then, had in them something of the spasmodic movements of a chained wild beast. This lithe youth had certain resemblance to the puma. He seemed to burn with a restless craving spirit. The puma never ceases to seek his prey. This man would be the same were he once to begin.

"Yes. You say well," he observed moodily, "we are all squaw-men. The white squaws love braves, you say. I know all squaws love braves. The squaws of our people will soon spit in our faces."

"You have no squaw to do that," observed Nevil, bending over and pushing the fire together.

"No."

"You are chief. You should have many."

"Yes."

"Then give the word to your people and you can have them."

"I do not want them—yet."

Nevil looked round. The chief turned to the fire uncertainly. His fierce eyes were half veiled.

"This Rosebud, she was for me," he went on. "She is fair as the summer sky. Her eyes are like the stars, and her laugh is like the ripple of the waters when the sun and the wind make play with them. She is so fair that no squaw can compare with her. Even Wanaha is as night to day."

"You cannot have her. She is for the man who killed your father."

The young chief leapt to his feet with a cry that told of a spirit which could no longer be restrained. And he towered threateningly over the undisturbed wood-cutter.

"But I will!" he cried vehemently, while his eyes flashed in the dying light of the fire. "You are my white brother, and to you I can say what is in my thoughts. This squaw, I love her. I burn for her! She is with me night and day. I will have her, I tell you! There shall be no peace till my father is avenged. Ha, ha!" And the ferocity of that laugh brought a smile to the hidden lips of the listening man.

He looked up now, and his words came thoughtfully.

"You are a great chief, Little Black Fox," he said. "But, see, there is no need to go on the war-path. Sit, like those wise councilors of yours. It is good to pow-wow."

The headstrong youth sat down again, and the pow-wow went forward. It was daylight again when Nevil returned to Wanaha. For Indian pow-wows are slow moving, ponderous things, and Little Black Fox was no better than the rest of his race when deliberations of grave import were on.



CHAPTER VIII

SETH WASHES A HANDKERCHIEF

Seth was not in the habit of making very frequent visits to Beacon Crossing. For one thing there was always plenty to do at the farm. For another the attractions of the fledgling city were peculiarly suited to idle folk, or folk who had money to spend. And this man was neither the one nor the other.

White River Farm was a prosperous farm, but it was still in that condition when its possibilities were not fully developed, and, like the thrifty, foresighted farmers Rube and his adopted son were, they were content to invest every available cent of profit in improvements. Consequently, when the latter did find his way to Roiheim's hotel it was always with a definite purpose; a purpose as necessary as any of his duties in his day's labor.

Riding into the township one evening he made straight for the hotel, and, refusing the stablehand's offer of care for his horse, sat down quietly on the verandah and lit his pipe. Beyond the loungers in the saloon and old Louis Roiheim no one worth any remark approached him. He sat watching the passers-by, but went on smoking idly. There were some children playing a sort of "King-of-the-Castle" game on a heap of ballast lying beside the track, and these seemed to interest him most. The sheriff stopped and spoke to him, but beyond a monosyllabic reply and a nod Seth gave him no encouragement to stop. An Indian on a big, raw-boned broncho came leisurely down the road and passed the hotel, leaving the township by the southern trail.

Seth waited until the sun had set. Then he stepped off the verandah and tightened the cinches of his saddle, and readjusted the neatly rolled blanket tied at the cantle. The proprietor of the hotel was lounging against one of the posts which supported the verandah.

"Goin'?" he asked indifferently. Seth was not a profitable customer.

"Yes."

"Home?"

"No. So long."

Seth swung into the saddle and rode off. And he, too, passed out of the town over the southern trail.

Later he overhauled the Indian. It was Jim Crow, the chief of the Indian police.

"Where do we sleep to-night?" he asked, after greeting the man.

Jim Crow, like all his race who worked for the government, never spoke his own language except when necessary. But he still retained his inclination to signs. Now he made a movement suggestive of three rises of land, and finished up with the word "Tepee."

"I must get back the day after to-morrow," Seth said. "Guess I'll hit back through the Reservations. I want to see Parker."

"Good," said the Indian, and relapsed into that companionable silence which all prairie men, whether Indian or white, so well understand.

That night the two men sheltered in the tepee belonging to Jim Crow. It was well off the Reservation, and was never pitched in the same place two nights running. Jim Crow's squaw looked after that. She moved about, acting under her man's orders, while the scout went about his business.

After supper a long talk proceeded. Seth became expansive, but it was the Indian who gave information.

"Yes," he said, in answer to a question the white man had put. "I find it after much time. Sa-sa-mai, my squaw. She find it from old brave. See you. Big Wolf and all the braves who come out this way, you make much shoot. So. They all kill. 'Cep' this one ol' brave. He live quiet an' say nothing. Why? I not say. Some one tell him say nothing. See? This Big Wolf. Before you kill him maybe. So he not say. Bimeby Sa-sa-mai, she much 'cute. She talk ol' brave. Him very ol'. So she learn, an' I go. I show you. You give me fi' dollar, then I, too, say nothing."

"Ah." Seth pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to the scout, and went on smoking. Presently he asked, "Have you been there?"

"No." Jim Crow smiled blandly. He had the truly Indian ambiguity of expression.

"Then you don't know if there's any traces, I guess."

"See. I go dis place. Little Black Fox hear. He hear all. So. There are devils on the Reservation. Jim Crow much watched. So. They know. These red devils."

Seth noted the man's air of pride. He was keenly alive to his own importance and exaggerated it, which is the way of his class. Jim Crow was a treacherous rascal, but it paid him to work for the white folk. He would work for the other side just as readily if it paid him better.

"That's so," observed Seth, seriously; but it was his pipe that absorbed his attention. "Wal, to-morrow, I guess," he added after a while. And, knocking his pipe out, he rolled over on his blanket and slept.

On the morrow the journey was continued, and at sundown they neared the great valley of the Missouri. Their route lay over a trail which headed southeast, in the direction of Sioux City. The sun had just dropped below the horizon when Jim Crow suddenly drew rein. Whatever character he might bear as a man he was a master scout. He had a knowledge and instinct far greater than that of a bloodhound on a hot scent. He glanced around him, taking in the lay of the land at every point of the compass. Then he finally pointed at a brush growing a few hundred yards from the trail.

"The bluff," he said. "It may be what we look for. Sa-sa-mai, she tell me. Ow."

The last was a grunt which expressed assurance.

The horses left the trail for the prairie. The eyes of both men were turned upon the ground, which is the habit of such men when out on the trail. It is the soil over which the prairie man passes which is the book. The general scene is only the illustration.

At the bluff the men dismounted. Seth now took the lead. He did not plunge haphazard into his search. He still studied the brush and the ground. But it was the scout whose trained instincts were the first to discover the signs they sought. And he found it in the dead, broken twigs which marked the course of a wagon.

The two followed the lead; followed it unerringly. With every foot of the way the task became easier. Once they had turned the cover the book had become the simplest reading. In a few minutes they came to a clearing well screened from the road. Now they parted company. The scout went on toward the water further on, but the white man turned to the clearing. Herein was displayed the difference in the men. Seth had come to the point where imagination served him. The other was only a craftsman.

The grass was tall in the clearing. There was a low scrub too, but it was a scrub that might be trodden under foot. In two minutes Seth was stooping examining a tent-peg, discolored by weather, but intact, and still holding in the earth where it had been driven. It was but four yards from this to a place where two distinct piles of human bones were lying hidden in the rank grass.

Seth was on his knees pulling the grass aside, but he did not touch the bones. The skeletons were far from complete. Fortunately the skulls were there, and he saw that they were those of a man and a woman. While he contemplated the ghastly remains his thoughts conjured up many scenes. He saw the bullet hole through the woman's skull, and the horrid rift in the man's. The absence of many of the bones of the extremities made him think of the coyotes, those prairie scavengers who are never far off when death stalks the plains.

After a few moments he was searching the long grass in every direction. He looked for remnants of clothing; for anything to give him a sign. In his search he was joined by the scout who had returned from the water, where he had discovered further traces of an encampment.

At last the examination was completed. There was nothing left to indicate the identity of the bones.

The two men now stood by the bones of the unfortunate man and woman. Seth was staring out at the surrounding brush.

"I guess the Injuns cleaned things up pretty well," he said, while his eyes settled on one little bush apart from the rest.

The scout shook his head.

"That's not Injuns' work," he said.

"No?" Seth queried casually.

"No. Everything gone. So. That not like Injun."

Seth made no response, but walked over to the bush he had been looking at. The scout saw him thrust a hand in amongst the branches and withdraw it holding something.

"What you find?" he asked, when Seth came back.

"Only a rag."

Then, a moment later, Seth asked suddenly: "How far from here to—Jason's old place?"

"Six—eight—nine hour," Jim Crow said, with his broad smile that meant nothing.

Seth looked long and thoughtfully at the split skull on the ground. Then his eyes sought the bullet hole in the woman's skull. But he said nothing.

A little later the two men went back to the horses and mounted.

"Guess I'll git on to see the Agent," Seth observed, while the horses moved away from the bluff.

"You go by Reservation?"

"Yes."

Jim Crow surveyed the prospect in silence. They reached the trail, and their horses stood preparatory to parting company.

"S'long," said Seth.

The Indian turned and looked away to the north. It was the direction in which lay the great Reservations. Then he turned back, and his black, slit-like eyes shot a sidelong glance at his companion.

"You go—alone?" he asked.

The other nodded indifferently.

"Then I say sleep little and watch much—I, Jim Crow."

The two men parted. The scout moved off and his hand went to the pocket of his trousers where his fingers crumpled the crisp five-dollar bill he had received for his services. Nothing else really mattered to him. Seth rode away humming a tune without melody.

All the way to the Agent's house he carried out the scout's advice of watchfulness; but for a different reason. Seth had no personal fear of these stormy Indians. His watchfulness was the observation of a man who learns from all he sees. He slept some hours on the prairie while his horse rested, and arrived at the Agency the next day at noon.

Jimmy Parker, as he was familiarly called, greeted him cordially in his abrupt fashion.

"Ah, howdy," he said. "Prowling, Seth?" His words were accompanied by a quick look that asked a dozen questions, all of which he knew would remain unanswered. Seth and he were old friends and understood one another.

"Takin' a spell off," replied the farmer.

"Ah. And putting it in on the Reservation."

The Agent smiled briefly. His face seemed to have worn itself into a serious caste which required effort to change.

"Many huntin' 'passes' these times?" Seth inquired presently.

"None. Only Little Black Fox says he's going hunting soon." The Agent's eyes were fixed on the other's face.

"See you've got Jim Crow workin' around—south." Seth waved an arm in the direction whence he had come.

"Yes." Again came the Agent's swiftly passing smile. "We're a good distance from the southern boundary. Jim Crow's smart enough. How did you know?"

"Saw his tepee."

"Ah. You've been south?"

"Yes. There's a fine open country that aways."

They passed into the Agency, and Parker's sister and housekeeper brought the visitor coffee. The house was very plain, roomy, and comfortable. The two men were sitting in the office.

"Seen anything of Steyne around?" asked Seth, after a noisy sip of his hot coffee.

"Too much. And he's very shy."

Seth nodded. He quite understood.

"Guess suthin's movin'," he said, while he poured his coffee into his saucer and blew it.

"I've thought so, too, and written to the colonel at the fort. What makes you think so?"

"Can't say. Guess it's jest a notion." Seth paused. Then he went on before the other could put in a word. "Won't be just yet. Guess I'll git on."

The two men passed out of the house, and Seth remounted.

"Guess you might let me know if Black Fox gits his 'pass,'" he said, as he turned his horse away.

"I will."

Parker watched the horseman till he disappeared amongst the bushes. A moment later he was talking to his sister.

"Wish I'd telegraphed to the fort now," he said regretfully. "I can't do it after writing, they'd think—I believe Seth came especially to convey warning, and to hear about Black Fox's pass. It's a remarkable thing, but he seems to smell what these Indians are doing."

"Yes," said his sister. But she felt that when two such capable men discussed the Indians there was no need for her to worry, so she took out Seth's cup and retired to her kitchen.

In the meantime Seth had reached the river. Here he again dismounted, but this time for no more significant reason than to wash out the rag he had rescued from the bush south of the Reservations. He washed and rewashed the cotton, till it began to regain something of its original color. Then he examined it carefully round the hem.

It was a small, woman's handkerchief, and, in one corner, a name was neatly written in marking ink. The name was "Raynor."



CHAPTER IX

THE ADVENTURES OF RED RIDING HOOD

It is Sunday. The plaintive tinkle of the schoolroom bell at the Mission has rung the Christianized Indians to the short service which is held there.

"Indian Mission." The name conveys a sense of peace. Yet the mission histories of the Indian Reservations would make bloody reading. From the first the Christian teacher has been the pitiable prey of the warlike savage. He bears the brunt of every rising. It is only in recent years that his work has attained the smallest semblance of safety. The soldier fights an open foe. The man in charge of an Indian mission does not fight at all. He stands ever in the slaughter-yard, living only at the pleasure of the reigning chief. He is a brave man.

The service is over. It is perforce brief. The grown men and women come out of the building. The spacious interior is cleared of all but the children and a few grown-up folk who remain to hold a sort of Sunday-school.

There are Wanaha and Seth. Rosebud, too, helps, and Charlie Rankin and his young wife, who have a farm some two miles east of White River Farm. Then there is the missionary, Mr. Hargreaves, a large man with gray hair and rugged, bearded face, whose blue eyes look straight at those he is addressing with a mild, invincible bravery. And the Agent, James Parker, a short, abrupt man, with a bulldog chest and neck, and a sharp, alert manner.

These are the workers in this most important branch of the civilizing process. They are striking at the root of their object. The children can be molded where the parents prove impossible. Once these black-eyed little ones have mastered the English language the rest is not so difficult. They have to be weaned from their own tongue if their Christian teachers would make headway. A small, harmless bribery works wonders in this direction. And all these children have learned to speak and understand the English language.

Seth attempts no Bible instruction, and his is a class much in favor. His pockets always contain the most home-made taffy. He has a method purely his own; and it is a secular method. Only to the brightest and most advanced children is the honor of promotion to his class awarded.

He is holding his class outside the building. His children sit round him in a semicircle. He is sitting on an upturned box with his back against the lateral logs of the building. There is a pleasant shade here, also the pungent odor from the bright green bluff which faces him. The Indian children are very quiet, but they are agog with interest. They have noted the bulging pockets of Seth's Sunday jacket, and are more than ready to give him their best attention in consequence. Besides they like his teaching.

Seth's method is quite simple. Last Sunday he told them a little, old-fashioned children's fairy story with a moral. Now he takes each child in turn, and questions him or her on the teaching he then conveyed. But in this direction they are not very apt, these little heathens.

The singing inside the Mission had died out, and the last chords on the small organ had wheezed themselves into silence. Seth, having finished his preliminaries, began serious business.

He deposited a large packet of treacle taffy upon the ground at his feet, cut the string of it with his sheath-knife, opened it, and examined the contents with a finely critical air. Having satisfied himself he set it down again and smiled on his twelve pupils, all ranging from ten to twelve years of age, sitting round him. He produced a well-thumbed volume from his pocket, and, opening it, laid it upon his knee. It was there in case he should stumble, for Seth was not a natural born teacher. He did it for the sake of the little ones themselves.

Next he handed each child a piece of taffy, and waited while it was adjusted in the cheek.

"Guess you've all located your dollops o' candy?" he said, after a while. "I allow you ken get right at it and fix it in. This camp ain't goin' to be struck till the sweet food's done. Guess you'll mostly need physic 'fore you're through, sure. Howsum, your mam's 'll see to it."

The last remarks were said more to himself than to the children, who sat staring up into his dark, earnest face with eyes as solemn as those of the moose calf, and their little cheeks bulging dangerously. Seth cleared his throat.

"Guess you ain't heard tell o' that Injun gal that used to go around in a red blanket same as any of you might. I'm jest going to tell you about her. Ah, more candy?" as a small hand was held out appealingly toward him. "Guess we'll have another round before I get going right." He doled out more of the sticky stuff, and then propped his face upon his hands and proceeded.

"Wal, as I was goin' to say, that little squaw lived away there by the hills in a snug tepee with her gran'ma. They were jest two squaws by themselves, an old one, and a young one. And they hadn't no brave to help 'em, nor nothin'. The young squaw was jest like any of you. Jest a neat, spry little gal, pretty as a picture and real good.

"She kind o' looked after her gran'ma who was sick. Sick as a mule with the botts. Did the chores around that tepee, bucked a lot of cord-wood, fixed up moccasins, an' did the cookin', same as you gals 'll mebbe do later on. She was a slick young squaw, she was. Knew a caribou from a jack-rabbit, an' could sit a bucking broncho to beat the band. Guess it was doin' all these things so easy she kind o' got feelin' independent—sort o' wanted to do everything herself. And she just used to go right down to the store for food an' things by herself.

"Now I don't know how it rightly come about, but somewheres around that tepee a wolf got busy. A timber wolf, most as big as—as—the Mission house. An' he was savage. Gee, but he was real savage! Guess he was one o' them fellers always ready to scare squaws an' papooses an' things. Ther's lots o' that sort around."

Wanaha, quite unobserved by Seth, had come round the corner of the building, and stood watching the earnest face of the man who was so deliberately propounding his somewhat garbled version of Little Red Riding Hood. While she listened to his words she smiled pensively.

"Yes, they git themselves up fancy an' come sneakin' around, an' they're jest that fierce there ain't no chance for you. Say, them things would eat you right up, same as you've eaten that taffy. Wal, this young squaw was goin' off on her broncho when this timber wolf comes up smilin', an' he says, 'Good-day.' An' he shakes hands with her same as grown folks do. All them timber wolves are like that, 'cause they think you won't see they're going to eat you then. You see he was hungry. He'd been out on the war-path—which is real bad—an' he'd been fightin', and the folks had beaten him off, and he couldn't get food, 'cause he'd left the Reservation where there's always plenty to eat an' drink, and there was none anywhere else.

"Wal, he sizes up that squaw, and sees her blanket's good an' thick, and her moccasins is made of moose hide, and her beads is pretty, and he thinks she'll make a good meal, but he thinks, thinks he, he'll eat the squaw's sick gran'ma first. So he says 'Good-bye,' an' waits till she's well away on the trail, and then hurries back to the tepee an' eats up the old squaw. Say wolves is ter'ble—'specially timber wolves.

"Now, when that squaw gits home——" Seth paused and doled out more taffy. The children were wonderfully intent on the story, but the sweets helped their attention. For there was much of what he said that was hard on their understandings. The drama of the story was plain enough, but the moral appealed to them less.

"When that squaw gits home she lifts the flap of the tepee, and she sees what she thinks is her gran'ma lying covered up on the skins on the ground. The fire is still burnin', and everything is jest as she left it. She feels good an' chirpy, and sits right down by her gran'ma's side. And then she sees what she thinks looks kind o' queer. Says she, 'Gee, gran'ma, what a pesky long nose you've got!' You see that wolf had come along an' eaten her gran'ma, and fixed himself up in her clothes an' things, and was lying right there ready to eat her, too, when she come along. So master timber wolf, he says, 'That's so I ken smell out things when I'm hunting.' Then that squaw, bein' curious-like, which is the way with wimminfolk, says, 'Shucks, gran'ma, but your tongue's that long you ain't room for it in your mouth.' That wolf gits riled then. Says he, 'That's so I ken taste the good things I eat.' Guess the squaw was plumb scared at that. She'd never heard her gran'ma say things like that. But she goes on, says she, 'Your teeth's fine an' long an' white, maybe you've cleaned 'em some.' Then says the wolf, 'That's so I ken eat folks like you right up.' With that he springs out of the blankets an' pounces sheer on that poor little squaw and swallows her up at one gulp, same as you ken swaller this taffy."

Seth suddenly sprang from his seat, held the bag of candy out at arm's length, and finally dropped it on the ground in the midst of the children. There was a rush; a chorus of childish glee, and the whole twelve fell into a struggling heap upon the ground, wildly fighting for the feast.

With a gentle smile Seth looked on at the fierce scramble. To judge from his manner it would have been hard to assert which was the happier, the children or their teacher. Though Seth found them a tax on his imaginative powers, and though he was a man unused to many words, he loved these Sunday afternoons with his young charges.

His thoughtful contemplation was broken by Wanaha. Her moccasins gave out no sound as she stepped up to him from behind and touched him on the shoulder. Her grave smile had passed; and when he turned he found himself looking into a pair of steady, serious, inscrutable eyes. No white woman can hide her thoughts behind such an impenetrable mask as the squaw. Surely the Indian face might well have served as a model for the Sphinx.

"The white teacher makes much happy," she said in her labored English.

Seth promptly answered her in her own tongue.

"The papooses of the Indian make the white man happy," he said simply.

There was a long pause. Suddenly one dusky urchin rose with a whoop of delight, bearing aloft the torn paper with several lumps of sweet stuff, discolored with dirt, sticking to it. With one accord the little mob broke. The triumphant child fled away to the bluff pursued by the rest of her howling companions. The man and the squaw were left alone.

"The white man tells a story of a wolf and a squaw," Wanaha said, returning to her own language. The children were still shrieking in the distance.

Seth nodded assent. He had nothing to add to her statement.

"And the wolf eats the squaw," the woman went on, quite seriously. It sounded strange, her literal manner of discussing this children's story.

A look of interest came into the man's thoughtful eyes. But he turned away, not wishing to display any curiosity. He understood the Indian nature as few men do.

"There was no one by to warn the squaw?" she went on in a tone of simple inquiry. "No brave to help her?"

"No one to help," answered the man.

There was another pause. The children still inside the Mission house were helping to chant the Doxology, and the woman appeared to listen to it with interest. When it was finished she went on——

"Where the wolf is there is much danger for the squaw. Indian squaw—or white. I, too, learn these things. I learn from much that I hear—and see."

"I know," Seth nodded.

"You know?"

"Yes."

"Wanaha is glad. The white brave will watch over the young squaw." The woman smiled again. Seth thought he detected a sigh of relief. He understood this woman as well as it is given to man to understand any woman—even an Indian woman.

"This wolf won't bother about the gran'ma," said Seth, looking straight into Wanaha's eyes. "He's after the young squaw."

"And he will have the young squaw soon."

Wanaha abruptly turned away and hurried round to the entrance of the Mission. The sound of people moving within the building told her that the Sunday-school was over. Her silent going suggested that she had no wish to be seen talking in private to Seth.

Seth remained where he was. His delay may have been intentional, yet he had the appearance of deep preoccupation. He quite understood that Wanaha's presence during his story had been deliberate. She had left her own class on some trifling excuse and come out to warn him, knowing that he would be alone with his children. There was no smile on his face while he stood thinking, only a pucker between his dark brows, and an odd biting of his under-lip.

At last he shook himself as though he found the shade chilly, and, a moment later, sauntered round to the front of the building in time to meet the others coming out.

He joined the group which included Wanaha, and they talked a few minutes with the Agent and Mr. Hargreaves. Then Mrs. Rankin and Rosebud moved off to the two waiting buckboards, and Wanaha disappeared down a by-path through the trees. Seth and Charlie Rankin followed their womenfolk.

Seth was the only silent member of the party, but this was hardly noticeable, for he rarely had much to say for himself.

On the way home Rosebud at last found reason to grumble at his silence. She had chattered away the whole time in her light-hearted, inconsequent fashion, and at last asked him a question to which she required more than a nod of the head in reply. And she had to ask it three times, a matter which ruffled her patience.

"Why are you so grumpy with me, Seth?" she asked, with a little frown. She always accused Seth of being "grumpy" when he was more than usually silent.

"Eh?" The man turned from the contemplation of the horses' tails.

"I asked you three times if you saw the Agent talking to two of his scouts—Jim Crow and Rainmaker—before service."

Seth flicked his whip over the backs of the horses.

"Sure," he said indifferently.

"Jim Crow is the head of his Indian police."

The girl spoke significantly, and Seth glanced round at her in surprise.

"I know," he observed.

"Do you think there is anything—moving? Oh, look, Seth, there's a lovely jack-rabbit." Rosebud pointed ahead. A large jack-rabbit was loping slowly out of the way of the buckboard. Seth leant forward with unnecessary interest, and so was saved a direct answer to the girl's question.



CHAPTER X

SETH ATTEMPTS TO WRITE A LETTER

It is not usually a remarkable event in one's life, the writing of a letter. In these days of telephone, however, it soon will be. In Seth's case it nearly was so, but for a different reason. Seth could write, even as he could read. But he was not handy at either. He abominated writing, and preferred to read only that which Nature held out for his perusal. However, after some days of deep consideration, he had decided to write a letter. And, with characteristic thoroughness, he intended it to be very long, and very explicit.

After supper one evening, when Rube had gone out for his evening smoke, and that final prowl round necessary to see that all was prepared for the morrow's work, and the stock comfortable for the night, and Ma Sampson and Rosebud were busy washing up, and, in their department, also seeing things straight for the night, Seth betook himself to the parlor, that haven of modest comfort and horsehair, patchwork rugs and many ornaments, earthen floor and low ceiling, and prepared for his task. He had no desire to advertise the fact of that letter, so he selected this particular moment when the others were occupied elsewhere.

His ink and paper were on the table before him, and his pen was poised while he considered. Then the slow, heavy footfall of old Rube sounded approaching through the kitchen. The scribe waited to hear him pass up-stairs, or settle himself in an armchair in the kitchen. But the heavy tread came on, and presently the old man's vast bulk blocked the doorway.

"Ah! Writin'?"

The deep tone was little better than a grunt.

Seth nodded, and gazed out of the window. The parlor window looked out in the direction of the Reservation. If he intended to convey a hint it was not taken. Old Rube had expected Seth to join him outside for their usual smoke. That after-supper prowl had been their habit for years. He wanted to talk to him.

"I was yarnin' with Jimmy Parker s'afternoon," said Rube.

Seth looked round.

The old man edged heavily round the table till he came to the high-backed, rigid armchair that had always been his seat in this room.

"He says the crops there are good," he went on, indicating the Reservation with a nod of his head toward the window.

"It'll be a good year all round, I guess," Seth admitted.

"Yes, I dare say it will be," was the answer.

Rube was intently packing his pipe, and the other waited. Rube's deep-set eyes had lost their customary twinkle. The deliberation with which he was packing his pipe had in it a suggestion of abstraction. Filling a pipe is a process that wonderfully indicates the state of a man's mind.

"Jimmy's worried some. 'Bout the harvest, I guess," Rube said presently, adjusting his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and testing the draw of it. But his eyes were not raised to his companion's face.

"Injuns ain't workin' well?"

"Mebbe."

"They're a queer lot."

"Ye-es. I was kind o' figgerin'. We're mostly through hayin'."

"I've got another slough to cut."

"That's so. Down at the Red Willow bluff." The old man nodded.

"Yes," assented Seth. Then, "Wal?"

"After that, guess ther's mostly slack time till harvest. I thought, mebbe, we could jest haul that lumber from Beacon Crossing. And cut the logs. Parker give me the 'permit.' Seems to me we might do wuss."

"For the stockade?" suggested Seth.

"Yes."

"I've thought of that, too." The two men looked into each other's eyes. And the old man nodded.

"Guess the gals wouldn't want to know," he said, rising and preparing to depart.

"No—I don't think they would."

The hardy old pioneer towered mightily as he moved toward the door. In spite of his years he displayed none of the uneasiness which his words might have suggested. Nothing that frontier life could show him would be new. At least, nothing that he could imagine. But then his imagination was limited. Facts were facts with him; he could not gild them. Seth was practical, too; but he also had imagination, which made him the cleverer man of the two in the frontiersman's craft.

At the door Rube looked round.

"Guess you was goin' to write some?"

He passed out with a deep gurgle, as though the fact of Seth's writing was something to afford amusement.

Seth turned to the paper and dipped his pen in the ink. Then he wiped it clean on his coat sleeve and dipped it again. After that he headed his paper with much precision. Then he paused, for he heard a light footstep cross the passage between the parlor and the kitchen. He sighed in relief as it started up-stairs. But his relief was short-lived. He knew that it was Rosebud. He heard her stop. Then he heard her descend again. The next moment she appeared in the doorway.

"What, Seth writing?" she exclaimed, her laughing eyes trying to look seriously surprised. "I knew you were here by the smell of the smoke."

"Guess it was Rube's." Seth's face relaxed for a moment, then it returned to its usual gravity.

"Then it must have been that pipe you gave him the other night," she returned quick as thought.

Seth shook his head.

"Here it is," he said, and drew a pipe from his pocket. "He 'lowed he hadn't no nigger blood in him."

"Too strong?"

"Wal—he said he had scruples."

Rosebud laughed, and came and perched herself on the edge of Seth's table. He leant back in his chair and smiled up at her. Resignation was his only refuge. Besides—

"So you're writing, Seth," the girl said, and her eyes had become really serious. They were deep, deep now, the violet of them was almost black in the evening light. "I wonder——"

Seth shook his head.

"Nobody yet," he said.

"You mean I'm to go away?" Rosebud smiled, but made no attempt to move.

"Guess I ain't in no hurry."

"Well, I'm glad of that. And you're not grumpy with me either, are you? No?" as Seth shook his head. "That's all right, then, because I want to talk to you."

"That's how I figgered."

"You're always figuring, Seth. You figure so much in your own quiet way that I sometimes fancy you haven't time to look at things which don't need calculating upon. I suppose living near Indians all your life makes you look very much ahead. I wonder—what you see there. You and Rube."

"Guess you're side-tracked," Seth replied uneasily, and turning his attention to the blank paper before him.

The girl's face took on a little smile. Her eyes shone again as she contemplated the dark head of the man who was now unconscious of her gaze. There was a tender look in them. The old madcap in her was taming. A something looked out of her eyes now which certainly would not have been there had the man chanced to look up. But he didn't. The whiteness of the paper seemed to absorb all his keenest interest.

"I rather think you always fancy I'm side-tracked, Seth," the girl said at last. "You don't think I have a serious thought in my foolish head."

Seth looked up now and smiled.

"Guess you've always been a child to me," he said. "An' kiddies ain't bustin' with brain—generly. However, I don't reckon you're foolish. 'Cep' when you git around that Reservation," he added thoughtfully.

There was a brief silence. The man avoided the violet eyes. He seemed afraid to look at them. Rosebud's presence somehow made things hard for him. Seth was a man whom long years of a life fraught with danger had taught that careful thought must be backed up by steady determination. There must be no wavering in any purpose. And this girl's presence made him rebel against that purpose he had in his mind now.

"That has always been a trouble between us, hasn't it?" Rosebud said at last. And her quiet manner drew her companion's quick attention. "But it shan't be any more."

The man looked up now; this many-sided girl could still astonish him.

"You're quittin' the Reservation?" he said.

"Yes,—except the sewing and Sunday classes at the Mission," Rosebud replied slowly. "But it's not on your account I'm doing it," she added hastily, with a gleam of the old mischief in her eyes. "It's because—Seth, why do the Indians hate you? Why does Little Black Fox hate you?"

The man's inquiring eyes searched the bright earnest face looking down upon him. His only reply was a shake of the head.

"I know," she went on. "It's on my account. You killed Little Black Fox's father to save me."

"Not to save you," Seth said. He was a stickler for facts. "And saved you."

"Oh, bother! Seth, you are stupid! It's on that account he hates you. And, Seth, if I promise not to go to the Reservation without some one, will you promise me not to go there without me? You see it's safer if there are two."

Seth smiled at the naive simplicity of the suggestion. He did not detect the guile at first. But it dawned on him presently and he smiled more. She had said she was not going to visit the Reservation again.

"Who put these crazy notions into your head, Rosebud?" he asked.

"No one."

The girl's answer came very short. She didn't like being laughed at. And she thought he was laughing at her now.

"Some one's said something," Seth persisted. "You see Little Black Fox has hated me for six years. There is no more danger for me now than there was when I shot Big Wolf. With you it's kind o' different. You see—you're grown——"

"I see." Rosebud's resentment had passed. She understood her companion's meaning. She had understood that she was "grown" before. Presently she went on. "I've learned a lot in the last few days," she said quietly, gazing a little wistfully out of the window. "But nobody has actually told me anything. You see," with a shadowy smile, "I notice things near at hand. I don't calculate ahead. I often talk to Little Black Fox. He is easy to read. Much easier than you are, Seth," she finished up, with a wise little nod.

"An' you've figgered out my danger?" Seth surveyed the trim figure reposing with such unconscious grace upon the table. He could have feasted his eyes upon it, but returned to a contemplation of his note-paper.

"Yes. Will you promise me, Seth—dear old Seth?"

The man shook his head. The wheedling tone was hard to resist.

"I can't do that," he said. "You see, Rosebud, ther's many things take me there which must be done. Guess I git around after you at times. That could be altered, eh?"

"I don't think you're kind, Seth!" The girl pouted her disappointment, but there was some other feeling underlying her manner. The man looked up with infinite kindness in his eyes, but he gave no sign of any other feeling.

"Little Rosebud," he said, "if ther's a creetur in this world I've a notion to be kind to, I guess she ain't more'n a mile from me now. But, as I said, ther's things that take me to the Reservation. Rube ken tell you. So——"

The man broke off, and dipped his pen in the ink. Rosebud watched him, and, for once in her wilful life, forgot that she had been refused something, and consequently to be angry. She looked at the head bending over the paper as the man inscribed, "Dear sirs," and that something which had peeped out of her eyes earlier in their interview was again to be seen there.

She reached out a hand as she slid from the table and smoothed the head of dark hair with it.

"All right, Seth," she said gently. "We'll have no promises, but take care of yourself, because you are my own old—'Daddy.'"

At the door she turned.

"You can write your letter now," she said, with a light laugh. The next moment she was gone.



CHAPTER XI

THE LETTER WRITTEN

But Seth's trials were not yet over. The two interviews just passed had given Ma Sampson sufficient time to complete her household duties. And now she entered her parlor, the pride of her home.

She came in quite unaware of Seth's presence there. But when she observed him at the table with his writing materials spread out before him, she paused.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "I didn't know you were writin', Seth!"

The man's patience seemed inexhaustible, for he smiled and shook his head.

"No, Ma," he said with truth.

The little old woman came round the table and occupied her husband's chair. If Seth were not writing, then she might as well avail herself of the opportunity which she had long wanted. She had no children of her own, and lavished all her motherly instincts upon this man. She was fond of Rosebud, but the girl occupied quite a secondary place in her heart. It is doubtful if any mother could have loved a son more than she loved Seth.

She had a basket of sewing with her which she set upon the table. Then she took from it a bundle of socks and stockings and began to overhaul them with a view to darning. Seth watched the slight figure bending over its work, and the bright eyes peering through the black-rimmed glasses which hooked over her ears. His look was one of deep affection. Surely Nature had made a mistake in not making them mother and son. Still, she had done the next best thing in invoking Fate's aid in bringing them together. Mrs. Sampson looked no older than the day on which Rosebud had been brought to the house. As Seth had once told her, she would never grow old. She would just go on as she was, and, when the time came, she would pass away peacefully and quietly, not a day older than she had been when he first knew her.

But Seth, understanding so much as he did of the life on that prairie farm, and the overshadowing threat which was always with them, had yet lost sight of the significance of the extreme grayness of this woman's hair. Still her bright energy and uncomplaining nature might well have lulled all fears, and diverted attention from the one feature which betrayed her ceaseless anxiety.

"I kind o' tho't sech work was for young fingers, Ma," Seth observed, indicating the stockings.

"Ah, Seth, boy, I hated to darn when I was young an' flighty."

The man smiled. His accusations had been made to ears that would not hear. He knew this woman's generous heart.

"I reckon Rosebud'll take to it later on," he said quietly.

"When she's married."

"Ye-es."

Seth watched the needle pass through and through the wool on its rippling way. And his thoughts were of a speculative nature.

"She's a grown woman now," said Mrs. Sampson, after a while.

"That's so."

"An' she'll be thinkin' of 'beaus,' or I'm no prophet."

"Time enough, Ma."

"Time? I guess she's goin' on eighteen. Maybe you don't know a deal o' gals, boy."

The bright face looked up. One swift glance at her companion and she was bending over her work again.

"I had 'beaus' enough, I reckon, when I was eighteen. Makes me laff when I think o' Rube. He's always been like what he is now. Jest quiet an' slow. I came nigh marryin' a feller who's got a swell horse ranch way up in Canada, through Rube bein' slow. Guess Rube was the man for me, though, all through. But, you see, I couldn't ask him to marry me. Mussy on us, he was slow!"

"Did you have to help him out, Ma?"

"Help him? Did you ever know a gal who didn't help her 'beau' out? Boy, when a gal gets fixed on a man he's got a job if he's goin' to get clear. Unless he's like my Rube—ter'ble slow."

"That's how you're sizin' me now," said Seth, with a short laugh.

Ma Sampson worked on assiduously.

"Maybe you're slow in some things, Seth," she ventured, after a moment's thought.

"See here, Ma, I've always reckoned we'd get yarnin' like this some day. It 'ud please you an' Rube for me to marry Rosebud. Wal, you an' me's mostly given to talkin' plain. An' I tell you right here that Rosebud ain't for the likes o' me. Don't you think I'm makin' out myself a poor sort o' cuss. 'Tain't that. You know, an' I know, Rosebud belongs to mighty good folk. Wal, before ther's any thought of me an' Rosebud, we're goin' to locate those friends. It's only honest, Ma, and as such I know you'll understand. Guess we don't need to say any more."

Mrs. Sampson had ceased working, and sat peering at her boy through her large spectacles. Seth's look was very determined, and she understood him well.

She shook her head.

"Guess you're reckoning out your side." She laughed slyly and went on darning. "Maybe Rosebud won't thank you a heap when you find those friends. They haven't made much fuss to find her."

"No, Ma. An' that's just it."

"How?" The darning suddenly dropped into Mrs. Sampson's lap.

"Maybe they were killed by the Injuns."

"You're guessin'."

"Maybe I am. But——"

"What do you know, boy?" The old woman was all agog with excitement.

"Not a great deal, Ma," Seth said, with one of his shadowy smiles. "But what I do makes me want to write a letter. And a long one. An' that sort of thing ain't easy with me. You see, I'm 'ter'ble slow.'"

Seth's manner was very gentle, but very decided, and Ma Sampson did not need much explanation. She quietly stood up and gathered her belongings together.

"You get right to it, boy. What you do is right for me. I'll say no more. As my Rube says, ther' ain't nothin' like livin' honest. An' so I says. But if that letter's goin' to lose you Rosebud, I'd take it friendly of Providence if it would kind o' interfere some. I'll go an' sit with Rube, an' you can write your letter."

At last Seth turned to his letter in earnest. He first pulled out a piece of newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it. Then he laid it on the table, and carefully read the long paragraph marked by four blue crosses. He wanted to make no mistake. As he had said himself, letter-writing wasn't easy to him. He read thoughtfully and slowly.

"THE ESTATE OF THE LOST COLONEL RAYNOR

"Once more we are reminded of the mysterious disappearance of that distinguished cavalry officer, Colonel Landor Raynor. This reminder comes in the form of the legal proceedings relating to his estate.

"For the benefit of our readers, and also in the gallant officer's own interests, we give here a recapitulation of the events surrounding his sudden disappearance.

"On May 18th, 18—, Colonel Raynor returned from service in Egypt, on six months' leave, and rented a shooting-box in the Highlands. Hardly had he settled down when he suddenly declared his intention of crossing the Atlantic for a big game shoot in the Rockies. This purpose he carried out within four days of his announcement, accompanied by Mrs. Raynor and their little daughter Marjorie, aged eleven, a golden-haired little beauty with the most perfect violet eyes, which is a very rare and distinguishing feature amongst women. It has been clearly proved that the party arrived safely in New York, and proceeded on their way to the Rockies. Since that time nothing has been heard of any of the three.

"There is no definite pronouncement as to the administration of Colonel Raynor's estate. He owns large property, valued roughly at nearly a quarter of a million sterling. It has come to light that he leaves a will behind him, but whether this will be executed or not remains to be seen. There are no near relations, except the colonel's brother, Stephen, who was disinherited by their father in favor of the colonel, and who, it is believed, left this country at the time, and went to the United States. His whereabouts are also unknown, in spite of advertisement during the last six years.

"We publish these details, even at this late hour, in the faint hope that some light may yet be thrown on the mystery which enshrouds the fate of the gallant colonel and his family, or, at least, that they may assist in discovering the whereabouts of his brother. Theories have been put forward. But the suggestion which seems most feasible comes from the New York police. They think he must have met with some accident in the obscurer mountains, for he was a daring climber, and that, unaccompanied as they were by any servants, his wife and daughter, left helpless, were unable to get back to civilization. There is a chance that misfortune of some other character overtook him, but of what nature it is impossible to estimate. It has been asserted by one of the officials at the railway station at Omaha that a party alighted from a transcontinental train there answering the description of Colonel Raynor's party. These people are supposed to have stayed the night at a hotel, and then left by a train going north. Inquiry, however, has thrown no further light in this direction, and so the police have fallen back on their original theory."

Seth laid the cutting aside, and thoughtfully chewed the end of his pen. There were many things he had to think of, but, curiously enough, the letter he had to compose did not present the chief item. Nor did Rosebud even. He thought chiefly of that railway official, and the story which the police had so easily set aside. He thought of that, and he thought of the Indians, who now more than ever seemed to form part of his life.

Finally he took a fresh piece of paper and headed it differently. He had changed his mind. He originally intended to write to the New York police. Now he addressed himself to the Editor of the ——, London, England. And his letter was just the sort of letter one might have expected from such a man, direct, plain, but eminently exact.

As he finally sealed it in its envelope there was no satisfaction in the expression of his face. He drew out his pipe and filled it and lit it, and smoked with his teeth clenching hard on the mouthpiece. He sat and smoked on long after Rube had looked in and bade him good-night, and Ma had come in for a good-night kiss, and Rosebud had called out her nightly farewell. It was not until the lamp burnt low and began to smell that he stole silently up to his bed. But, whatever thought had kept him up to this hour, he slept soundly, for he was a healthy-minded man.



CHAPTER XII

CROSS PURPOSES

Seth was out haying. It was noon, and his dinner hour. He and his old collie dog, General, were taking their leisure on the slope of Red Willow slough, while the horses, relieved of their bits and traces, were nibbling at the succulent roots of the grass over which the mower had already passed.

General possessed a sense of duty. His master was apparently sleeping, with his prairie hat drawn over his face. The dog crouched at his feet, struggling hard to keep his eyes open, and remain alert while the other rested from his labors. But the sun was hot, the scent of the grass overpowering, and it was difficult.

At last the man roused and sat up. The dog sprang to his feet. His ears were pricked, and he raced off across the slough. As he went, the sound of wheels became distinctly audible. Rosebud, seated in a buckboard, and driving the old farm mare, Hesper, appeared on the opposite side of the slough. She was bringing Seth his dinner.

A moment later the girl drew rein and sprang out of the vehicle. The heat in no way weighed upon her spirits. She looked as fresh and cool in her white linen dress and sun-hat as if it were an early spring day. Her laughing face was in marked contrast to the man's dark, serious countenance. Her dazzling eyes seemed to be endowed with something of the brilliancy of the sunlight that was so intensely pouring down upon them.

"Oh, Seth, I'm so sorry!" she cried, in anything but a penitent tone, "but just as I was starting Wana came up with a note for you, and I'm afraid we stopped and talked, and you know what a dozy old mare Hesper is, and she just went slower than ever, and I hadn't the heart to whack her, she's such a dear, tame old thing, and so I'm ever so late, and I'm afraid your dinner's all spoiled, and you'll be horribly angry."

But Seth displayed no anger; he only held out his hand.

"An' the note?"

Rosebud thought for a moment. "Whatever did I do with it?" she said, looking about her on the ground. Seth watched her a little anxiously.

"Who was it from?" he asked.

"Oh, just the old Agent. I don't suppose it was important, but I know I put it somewhere."

"Guess so."

Seth lifted the dinner-box out of the buckboard. Suddenly Rosebud's face cleared.

"That's it, Seth. I put it in there. In with the dinner. Oh, and, Seth, I got Ma to let me bring my dinner out, so we can have a picnic, you and I, and General."

Seth was bending over the box.

"Then I guess your dinner's kind o' spoiled too," he said.

"Oh, that doesn't matter so long as yours isn't. You see it's my own fault, and serves me right. If it's very nasty we can give it all to General; so it won't be wasted."

"No, it won't be wasted."

Rosebud watched her companion remove the things from the box, and wondered if he were glad or sorry that she was going to have her dinner with him. She had been wildly delighted at the thought of springing this surprise on him, but now she felt doubtful, and a certain shyness kept her usually busy tongue silent. She would have given much to know what Seth thought. That was just where she found the man so unsatisfactory. She never did know what he really thought about anything.

Seth found the note, and put it in his pocket. Now he set their meal on the newly cut grass. Rosebud, with a thoughtfulness hardly to be expected of her, turned Hesper loose. Then she sat down beside General and put the tin dishes straight, according to her fancy. In silence she helped Seth to a liberal portion of lukewarm stew, and cut the bread. Then she helped the dog, and, finally, herself.

"Ma's a dear!" she suddenly exclaimed, when the silence had become irksome to her. "She's making me a new dress. It's a secret, and I'm not supposed to know."

"Ah! An' how d' you find out?"

"Oh, I asked Pa," Rosebud laughed. "I knew it was something for me. So when he went to look at the new litter of piggies this morning I went with him, and just asked him. I promised not to give him away. Isn't she a dear?"

"Sure. Guess you like dress fixin's."

"Love them."

"Most gals do, I reckon."

"Well, you see, Seth, most girls love to look nice. Mrs. Rankin, even, says that she'd give the world to get hold of a good dressmaker, and she's married. Do you know even Wana likes pretty things, and that's just what I'd like to talk to you about. You see, I've got twenty dollars saved, and I just thought I would get Wana a nice dress, like white people wear. I mean a good one. Do you know what store I could send to in Sioux City, or Omaha, or even New York?"

"I ain't much knowledge o' stores an' things. But I 'lows it's a good notion."

The man's brown eyes looked over at the girl as she plied her knife and fork.

"Maybe," he went on, a moment later, "ther' ain't no need to spend them twenty dollars. I've got some. Say, you talk to Ma an' fix the letter an' I'll mail it."

The girl looked up. Seth's kindness had banished the ready laugh for the moment. If her tongue remained silent her eyes spoke. But Seth was concerned with his food and saw nothing. Rosebud did not even tender thanks. She felt that she could not speak thanks at that moment. Her immediate inclination was a childish one, but the grown woman in her checked it. A year ago she would have acted differently. At last Seth broke the silence.

"Say, Rosebud," he said. "How'd you like a heap o' dollars?"

But the girl's serious mood had not yet passed. She held out her plate to General, and replied, without looking at her companion.

"That depends," she said. "You see, I wouldn't like to marry a man with lots of money. Girls who do are never happy. Ma said so. The only other way to have money is by being clever, and writing, or painting, or play-acting. And I'm not clever, and don't want to be. Then there are girls who inherit money, but——"

"That's jest it," broke in Seth.

"Just what?" Rosebud turned from the dog and eyed her companion curiously.

"Why, s'pose it happened you inherited them dollars?"

"But I'm not likely to."

"That's so. But we know your folks must a' been rich by your silk fixin's. Guess you ain't thought o' your folks."

The girl's sunburnt face took on a confident little smile as she looked out from under the wide brim of her hat.

"Oh, yes, I have. I've thought a lot. Where are they, and why don't they come out and look for me? I can't remember them, though I try hard. Every time I try I go back to Indians—always Indians. I know I'm not an Indian," she finished up naively.

"No." Seth lit his pipe. "Guess if we did find 'em you'd have to quit the farm."

There was a short silence.

"Seth, you're always looking for them, I know. Why do you look for them? I don't want them." Rosebud was patting the broad back of General. "Do you know, sometimes I think you want to be rid of me. I'm a trouble to you, I know."

"'Tain't that exactly."

Seth's reply sounded different to what he intended. It sounded to the girl as if he really was seeking her parents to be rid of her. And his manner was so deliberate, so short. She scrambled to her feet without a word, and began to gather up the dishes. Seth smoked on for a moment or two. But as Rosebud showed no sign of continuing the conversation he, too, rose in silence, and went over to Hesper and hitched her to the buckboard. Then he came back and carried the dinner-box to the vehicle, while Rosebud mounted to the driving-seat.

"Seth," she said, and her face was slightly flushed, and a little sparkle of resentment was in her eyes, "when you find them I'll go away. I never looked at it as you do. Yes, I think I should like that heap of dollars."

Seth smiled slowly. But he didn't quite understand her answer.

"Wal, you see, Rosebud, I'm glad you take it that aways. You see it's better you should go. Yes, much better."

His thoughts had turned on the Reservations, that one direction in which they ever seemed to turn. Rosebud was thinking in another direction. Seth wanted to be rid of her, and was meanly cloaking his desire under the guise of her worldly welfare. The angry flush deepened, and she sat very erect with her head held high as she drove off. Nor did she turn for her parting shot.

"I hope you'll find them; I want to go," she said.

Seth made no answer. He watched her until the vehicle dropped down behind the brow of the farther slope. The girl's attitude was as dignified as she could make it while she remained in view. After that it was different. And Seth failed to realize that he had not made his meaning plain. He saw that Rosebud was angry, but he did not pause to consider the cause of her anger.

He stood where she had left him for some time. He found his task harder than ever he had thought it would be. But his duty lay straight before him, and, with all his might, he would have hurried on his letter to England if he could. He knew he could see far ahead in the life of his little world as it affected himself and those he loved. He might be a dull-witted lover, but he was keen and swift to scent danger here on the plains; and that was what he had already done. Cost him what it might, Rosebud must be protected, and this protection meant her removal.

He sighed and turned back to his work, but before he went on with it he opened and read the note which Rosebud had thought so unimportant.

He read it twice over.

"Little Black Fox applied for 'pass' for hunting. He will probably leave the Reservation in three weeks' time. He will take a considerable number of braves with him; I cannot refuse.

"J. P."



CHAPTER XIII

THE DEVOTION OF WANAHA

Nevil Steyne's day's labor, of whatever it consisted, was over. Wanaha had just lit the oil lamp which served her in her small home.

The man was stretched full length upon the bed, idly contemplating the dusky beauty who acknowledged his lordship, while she busied herself over her shining stove. His face wore a half smile, but his smile was in nowise connected with that which his eyes rested on.

Yet the sight he beheld was one to inspire pleasurable thoughts. For surely it falls to the lot of few men, however worthy, to inspire one woman with such a devotion as Wanaha yielded to him. Besides, she was a wonderful picture of beauty, colored it is true, but none the less fair for that. Her long black, braided hair, her delicate, high-bred face so delightfully gentle, and her great, soft black eyes which had almost, but not quite, lost that last latent glimmer of the old savage. Surely, she was worth the tenderest thought.

But Nevil's thoughts were not with her, and his smile was inspired by his thoughts. The man's mean, narrow face had nothing pleasant in it as he smiled. Some faces are like this. He was a degenerate of the worst type; for he was a man who had slowly receded from a life of refinement, and mental retrogression finds painful expression on such a face. A ruffian from birth bears less outward trace, for his type is natural to him.

Wanaha always humored her husband's moods, in which, perhaps, she made a grave error. She held silent until he chose to speak. And when she turned at last to arrange the supper table, he was so moved. The smile had died out of his thin face, and his pale blue eyes wore a look of anxious perplexity when he summoned her attention.

"Wana," he said, as though rousing himself from a long worrying thought, "we must do something, my Wana. And—I hardly know what."

The black eyes looked straight into the blue ones, and the latter shifted to the table on which the woman's loving hands had carefully set the necessaries for supper.

"Tell me," she said simply, "you who are clever—maybe I help."

"That's just it, my Wana. I believe you can. You have a keen brain. You always help me."

Nevil relapsed into silence, and bit nervously at his thumb nail. The woman waited with the stoical patience of her race. But she was all interest, for had not the man appealed to her for help?

"It's your brother," Nevil said at last. "Your brother, and the white girl at the farm, Rosebud."

"Yes."

The dark eyes suddenly lit. Here was a matter which lay very near her heart. She had thought so much about it. She had even dared at other times to speak to her husband on the subject, and advise him. Now he came to her.

"Yes," the man went on, still with that look of perplexity in his shifty eyes; "perhaps I have been wrong. You have told me that I was. But, you see, I looked on your brother as a child almost. And if I let him talk of Rosebud, it was, as I once told you, because he is headstrong. But now he has gone far enough—too far. It must be stopped. The man is getting out of hand. He means to have her."

Wanaha's eyes dilated. Here indeed was a terrible prospect. She knew her brother as only a woman can know a man. She had not noted the melodramatic manner in which her husband had broken off.

"You say well. It must be stop. Tell your Wana your thought. We will pow-wow like great chiefs."

"Well, that's just it," Nevil went on, rising and drawing up to the table. "I can't see my way clearly. We can't stop him in whatever he intends. He's got some wild scheme in his head, I know; and I can't persuade him. He's obstinate as a mule."

"It is so. Little Black Fox is fierce. He never listen. No. But you think much. You, who are clever more than all the wise men of my race."

Wanaha served her husband with his food. Whatever might be toward, her duty by him came first. Nevil sat eating in what appeared to be a moody silence. The velvety eyes watched his every expression, and, in sympathy, the woman's face became troubled too.

"Well, of course we must warn—some one," Nevil went on at last. "But the question is, who? If I go to the Agent, it'll raise trouble. Parker is bullheaded, and sure to upset Black Fox. Likely he'll stop his going hunting. If I warn old Rube Sampson it'll amount to the same thing. He'll go to the Agent. It must be either Seth or Rosebud."

"Good, good," assented the Indian woman eagerly. "You say it to Seth."

Nevil ate silently for some minutes, while the woman looked on from her seat beside the stove. Whatever was troubling the man it did not interfere with his appetite. He ate coarsely, but his Indian wife only saw that he was healthily hungry.

"Yes, you're right again, my Wana," Nevil exclaimed, with apparent appreciation. "I'd prefer to tell Seth, but if I did he'd interfere in a manner that would be sure to rouse your brother's suspicions. And you know what he is. He'd suspect me or you. He'd throw caution to the devil, and then there'd be trouble. It's a delicate thing, but I can't stand by and see anything happen to your chum, my Wana."

"No; I love the paleface girl," replied Wanaha, simply.

"It comes to this," Nevil went on, with something like eagerness in his manner. "We must warn her, and trust to her sense. And mind, I think she's smart enough."

"How?"

The woman's dark eyes looked very directly into the man's. Nevil was smiling again. His anxiety and perplexity seemed suddenly to have vanished, now that he had come to his point; as though the detailing of his fears to her had been the real source of his trouble.

"Why, I think it will be simple enough."

The man left the table and came to the woman's side. He laid one hand caressingly on her black hair, and she responded with a smiling upward glance of devotion. "See, you must tell her I want to speak with her. I can't go to her. My presence at the farm is not welcome for one thing," he said bitterly, "and, for another, in this matter I must not be seen anywhere near her. I've considered this thing well. She mustn't come here either. No."

He spoke reflectively, biting his long, fair moustache in that nervous way he so often betrayed.

"You, my Wana, must see her openly at the farm. You must tell her that I shall be in the river woods just below the bridge, cutting wood at sundown on Monday. That's three days from now. She must come to me without being seen, and without letting any one know of her visit. The danger for me, for us, my Wana, is great, and so you must be extra careful for all our sakes—and so must she. Then I will tell her all, and advise her."

The woman's eyes had never left his face. The trust and confidence her look expressed were almost touching. She did not question. She did not ask why she could not give the girl her warning. Yes, she understood. The proceeding appealed to her nature, for there is no being in the world to compare with the Indian when native cunning is required. She could do this thing. Was it not for Rosebud? But, above all, was it not for him? The honest man rarely puts faith in a woman's capacity outside her domestic and social duties. The rascal is shrewder.

"It is a good way," she said, in her deep, soft voice, after much thought. "And I go—yes. I tell her. I say to her that she must not speak. And she say 'yes.' I know Rosebud. She clever too. She no child." She paused, and the man moved away to his seat. She looked over at him and presently went on. "Rosebud, she love Seth. I know."

Nevil suddenly swung round. Only the blind eyes of love could have failed to detect the absolute look of triumph which had leapt to the man's face. Wanaha mistook the look for one of pleasure, and went on accordingly, feeling that she had struck the right note.

"Yes. And Seth, he love too. They are to each as the Sun and the Moon. But they not know this thing. She think Seth think she like sister. Like Black Fox and your Wana. But I know. I love my man, so I see with live eyes. Yes, these love. So." And the dark eyes melted with a consuming love for the man she was addressing.

Nevil sprang from his seat, and, crossing to the dark princess, kissed her with unwonted ardor.

"Good, my Wana; you are a gem. You see where I am blind." And for once he was perfectly sincere.

"It good?" she questioned. Nevil nodded, and at once the woman went on. "So. I know much. Rosebud tell me much. She much angry with Seth. She say Seth always—always look for find her white folks. She not want them—these white folks. She love Seth. For her he is the world. So. She say Seth angry, and want her go away. Wana listen. Wana laugh inside. Wana love too. Seth good. He love her much—much. Then she say she think Seth find these white folks."

"Seth has found Rosebud's—folk?"

The man's brows had drawn together over his shifty blue eyes, and a sinister look had replaced the look of triumph that had been there before.

"She say she think."

"Ah! She only thinks." Nevil's thumb was at his mouth again.

"Yes."

Wanaha finished. The change in the man's face had checked her desire to pursue the subject. She did not understand its meaning, except that her talk seemed no longer to please him; so she ceased. But Nevil was more interested than she thought.

"And what made her think so?" he asked sharply.

"She not say."

"Ah, that's a pity."

The room became silent. The yellow light of the lamp threw vague shadows about, and these two made a dark, suggestive picture. The woman's placid and now inscrutable face was in marked contrast to her husband's. His displayed the swift vengeful thoughts passing behind it. His overshot jaws were clenched as closely as was physically possible, while his pallid eyes were more alight than Wanaha had ever seen them. As he sat there, biting his thumb so viciously, she wondered what had angered him.

"I don't see how he could have found them," he said at last, more to himself than to her. But she answered him with a quiet reassurance, yet not understanding why it was necessary.

"She only think," she said.

"But he must have given her some cause to think," he said testily. "I'm afraid you're not as cute as I thought."

Wanaha turned away. His words had caused her pain, but he did not heed. Suddenly his face cleared, and he laughed a little harshly.

"Never mind," he said; "I doubt if he'll lose her through that."

The ambiguity of his remark was lost upon the Indian. She heard the laugh and needed no more. She rose and began to clear the table, while Nevil stood in the open doorway and gazed out into the night.

Standing there, his face hidden from Wanaha, he took no trouble to disguise his thoughts. And from his expression his thoughts were pleasant enough, or at least satisfactory to him, which was all he could reasonably expect.

His face was directed toward White River Farm, and he was thinking chiefly of Seth, a man he hated for no stronger reason than his own loss of caste, his own degeneracy, while the other remained an honest man. The deepest hatreds often are founded on one's own failings, one's own obvious inferiority to another. He was thinking of that love which Wanaha had assured him Seth entertained for Rosebud, and he was glad. So glad that he forgot many things that he ought to have remembered. One amongst them was the fact that, whatever he might be, Wanaha was a good woman. And honesty never yet blended satisfactorily with rascality.



CHAPTER XIV

THE WARNING

"Ma," exclaimed Rosebud, after a long and unusual silence while she was washing up the breakfast things, and Mrs. Sampson was busy with some cleaning at the other side of the kitchen, "do you ever get tired of your work here? Your life, I mean?"

It was early morning. Already the heat in the kitchen was intense. Ma looked hot, but then she was stooping and polishing, and the flies were provoking. Rosebud, in linen overall, still looked cool. Her face was serious enough, which seemed to be the result of some long train of thought. Ma suddenly stopped working to look up, and waved a protesting hand at the swarming flies. She found the girl's violet eyes looking steadily into hers. There was an earnestness in their depths as unusual as the seriousness of her face. The old woman had been about to answer hastily, but she changed her mind.

"Why should I, child?" she said, as though such a contingency were out of all reason. "It's all ours, I guess. It's jest ours to make or mar. Ther' isn't a stick on this farm that we haven't seen set ther', Rube an' me. Tired of it? Guess the only tire I'll feel'll come when I can't set foot to the ground, an' ain't the strength to kindle a stove or scrub a floor. Tired? No, child. What fixed you to get askin' that?"

The plates clattered under Rosebud's hands as she went on with her work. Ma eyed the stack of dishes in some doubt. She thought there might be some excuse for the girl being a little tired of domestic duties. She often wondered about this. Yet she had never heard Rosebud complain; besides, she had a wise thought in the back of her head about the girl's feelings toward at least one of their little family circle.

"I don't quite know, Ma," the girl said at last. Then she added quickly, feeling, of a sudden, that her question had suggested something she did not intend. "Don't think I am. I was wondering over something else." She laughed a little uncertainly. "It's Seth. He's always harping on my going away. Always thinking of the time when my people are to be found. And I just wondered if he thought I was tired of the farm and wanted to be away. He's so kind and good to me, and I thought he might, in a mistaken way, believe I'd be happier in—well, with those people who have forgotten my very existence. I love the farm, and—and all of you. And I don't want to go away."

Ma turned again to her work with a wise little smile in her twinkling eyes.

"Seth's a far-seein' boy, an' a good boy in 'most everything," she said, in a tone indicating wholehearted affection; "but he's like most folks with head-pieces, I guess. He don't stop at things which it is given to men to understand. Ef I wus a man I'd say of Seth, he's li'ble to git boostin' his nose into places not built fer a nose like his. Seein' I'm his 'Ma,' I'd jest say he ain't no call to git figgerin' out what's good fer wimminfolk."

"That's just what I think," exclaimed Rosebud, with a quick laugh. "He made me quite angry some time ago. He means to get me off the farm somehow. And—and—I could just thump him for it." The girl's seriousness had passed, and she spoke lightly enough now.

"Men-folk do rile you some," nodded Ma. But the twinkle had not left her eyes. "But, my girl, I shouldn't be surprised if Seth's got mighty good reason. An' it ain't to do with his personal feelin's."

Rosebud went on with her washing without speaking. She was thinking of that picnic she had taken with Seth and General nearly three weeks ago. It had almost developed into a serious quarrel. It would have done so, only Seth refused to quarrel.

"He said, one day, he thought it was better I should go. Much better," she said, presently. "Well, it made me angry. I don't want to go, and I don't see why Seth should be allowed to order me to go. The farm doesn't belong to him. Besides——"

"Well, y' see, Rosebud, you're forgettin' Seth brought you here. He's a kind of father to you." Ma smiled mischievously in the girl's direction, but Rosebud was too busy with her own thoughts to heed it.

"He's not my father, or anything of the kind. He's just Seth. He's not thirty yet, and I am eighteen. Pa's a father to me, and you are my mother. And Seth—Seth's no relation at all. And I'm just not going to call him 'Daddy' ever again. It's that that makes him think he's got the right to order me about," she added, as a hasty afterthought.

Further talk was interrupted at that moment by a knock at the back door. Rosebud passed out into the wash-house to answer the summons, and Ma Sampson heard her greet the Indian woman, Wanaha. The old farmwife muttered to herself as she turned back to her work.

"Guess Seth ain't got the speed of a jibbin' mule," she said slowly and emphatically.

The girl did not return, and Ma, looking out of the window, saw the two women walking together, engaged in earnest conversation. She looked from them to the breakfast things, and finally left her own work and finished the washing up herself. It was part of her way to spare Rosebud as much as she could, and the excuse served her now.

While Rosebud was receiving a visit from Wanaha at the back of the house, the men-folk, engaged in off-loading pine logs from a wagon, were receiving visitors at the front of it. The Indian Agent and Mr. Hargreaves had driven up in a buckboard. The Agent's team was sweating profusely, a fact which the sharp eyes of Seth were quick to detect; also he noted that Parker was driving a team and not the usual one horse.

"Kind o' busy?" questioned Seth, in answer to the two men's greetings.

The Agent glanced at the steaming horses and nodded.

"Going into Beacon Crossing," he said.

"Ah," said Rube, in his heavy, guttural fashion. "Gettin' fixin's?"

The Agent smiled, and nodded at the minister beside him.

"Yes, of a sort; we both are."

"How?"

It was Seth who spoke, and a shade more sharply than usual.

"Well, I want to send a wire over the line, and wait a reply. We shan't be out again until Tuesday, and that's why we came over. There'll be no sewing class on Monday. You see, Mr. Hargreaves is going with me. We are driving instead of riding, because we're going to bring out some small arm ammunition. We're both getting short of it."

The Agent's manner was casual enough, but the minister's face was grave. The former endeavored to pass lightly over the matter of the ammunition.

A brief silence followed. It was broken at last by the Agent again.

"Getting on with the logs?" he said.

"Yes. We're fixin' a big corral right round the farm."

It was Rube who explained; and the old man glanced from Seth with a comprehensive survey of the proposed enclosure.

"By the way," said Mr. Hargreaves, "I shouldn't let Rosebud come to the Mission on Sunday. I shan't be there, but Jackson from Pine Ridge will hold the service. You see, there's—well——" The churchman broke off, and turned appealingly to the Agent.

"The fact is," Parker said, in his quick, abrupt manner, "Jim Crow and some of the other boys have warned me that these red heathens are 'making med'cine.' I don't know what it means—yet. I wish to goodness the troops were nearer."

The Agent's hard face was very set. His final wish was the key-note of his life. His was truly an unsmiling existence.

"So you're jest goin' in to sound the warnin'," observed Seth. The other nodded.

"I'd like to cancel Little Black Fox's pass on Monday," Parker went on, "but it would be a bad policy. Anyway, if he goes out for a month the others will likely keep quiet until he comes back, unless of course this pass of his has another meaning. I shall have him tracked. But—well, we'd best get on. I should give some slight word of this to the Rankin people and old Joe Smith, north of you, and any one else you have time to—I mean the men-folk. You know, the usual thing, pass it on."

After a few more remarks the buckboard drove off and Rube and Seth returned to their work. The silence between them was broken at last by Rube.

"Seems to me ther's something to that pass."

"Yes," said Seth, thoughtfully. Then, with an impatient gesture, "Guess I'll go into Beacon myself to-day. There's a thing or two for me to do. Keep an eye on the wimminfolk. Guess I'll git goin' now."

Seth's announcement was received without question by Rube, for there was perfect understanding between these men.

Half an hour later Seth was leading his horse from the barn ready saddled for the journey. As he moved out he saw Rosebud coming toward him from the house. He waited, and she came up in something of a flutter of confusion. She had an unusual color, and her eyes were sparkling. Seth noted these things while he appeared to be arranging the contents of his saddle-bags.

"Pa says you're going into Beacon Crossing, Seth," she said without preamble, as she stood at the horse's head and idly smoothed its velvety muzzle with her soft brown hand.

"That's so," the man answered.

"I've written a letter to New York for a store price list. Will you mail it?"

"Sure."

There was an odd smile in Seth's dark eyes. He knew this was not the girl's object in coming to him. He always called in at the house to ask for letters at the last moment before starting. There was a slight awkwardness while he waited for the girl to go on.

Suddenly Rosebud stooped and ran her hands down the horse's fore-legs. Her face was thus concealed.

"Seth, I used to think you wanted to get rid of me. You remember? Well, I—I think I know differently now. I'm sure I do. And I want to say I'm sorry for being angry and nasty about it that time. What beautiful clean legs Buck has got."

"Ye-es." A soft light shone in the man's steady eyes as he gazed upon the girl's still bent figure. One of his hands was resting on the cantle of his saddle, and for a moment it gripped tight. He was suddenly swept by a passionate longing that was hard to resist, and his answer came in a slightly husky tone. "You see, Rosie, when I want to be quit of you, it ain't for anything you do or say, it's—— Guess I must be goin'."

Rosebud had abruptly straightened up, and her bright eyes were smiling into his face. At that moment Seth could not support the flashing inquiry of them, so he sought safety in flight. He vaulted into the saddle almost as he spoke, and, with a wave of his hand, rode off, leaving her undeniably mistress of the situation.

She followed him with her eyes as he rode to the kitchen door and hailed Ma. Her smile was still wreathing her pretty features when he finally headed away for the trail. It became more and more tender as horse and rider receded, and at last she turned away with a sigh.

"I wonder what he'd say if he knew what I've promised Wana?" she said to herself. Then she laughed a sudden, wilful laugh as she remembered that she hadn't given him her letter.

But Seth was not quite free to go his way. Another interruption occurred about half a mile from the farm, where the trail dipped so that he was completely hidden from view. He overtook Wanaha. The Indian had been walking steadily on, but, since the sound of his horse's hoofs reached her, she had been waiting at the roadside.

He greeted her and would have passed on, but she stopped him, addressing him in her soft, flowery, native tongue.

"It is of Rosebud," she said, her dark eyes looking solemnly up into his. "My brother, the great chief, he love her, and in his love is danger for her. I come. And I tell her these things. You love her. So, it is good. You know Indian as no other knows, 'cep' my man. He learn this danger, and he send me for warning. I tell her to-day. You I tell too, for you have much knowledge and you watch. So."

"What danger? What is it?" Seth's questions came very sharply.

"I not know. It is so. My man he not know. He say only 'danger.' He say Black Fox leave Reservation. So, watch. An' I tell you. You must speak no word, or there danger for my man too, and for Wanaha. It is all."

Seth nodded.

"All right. I understand. You're a good squaw, Wanaha."

He passed on, for Wanaha waited for no questions. She had done what she thought best. Had not Nevil seen the gravity of the matter? But of her own accord she had gone further than her instructions. She had warned Seth, whom Nevil had said must not be told. For once in her life Wanaha had exercised her own judgment in defiance of her husband's.

The squaw passed down the deep prairie furrow while Seth held to the trail. And the man's thoughts went back to the interview he had had with Rosebud that morning. So it was Wanaha who had caused her to come to him.



CHAPTER XV

THE MOVEMENTS OF LITTLE BLACK FOX

The woodlands on the northern side of the great Reservations of Dakota amount almost to a forest. From Beacon Crossing, after entering the Pine Ridge Reservation, a man might travel the whole length of the Indian territory without the slightest chance of discovery, even by the Indians themselves; that is, provided he be a good woodsman. And this is what Seth accomplished. He did it without any seeming care or unusual caution. But then he was consummate in the necessary craft which is to be found only amongst the sons of the soil, and, even then, rarely outside the few who have been associated with Indians all their lives.

It was soon after sunrise on Monday morning that Seth found himself in the neighborhood of the principal Indian camp of the Rosebuds. Yet none had seen him come. He was hidden in the midst of a wide, undergrown bluff. Directly in front of him, but with at least four hundred yards of uninterrupted view intervening, was the house of Little Black Fox.

Seth was not usually a hard rider—he was far too good a horseman—but when necessity demanded it he knew how to get the last ounce out of his horse. He had left the farm on Saturday morning, and at midnight had roused the postmaster of Beacon Crossing from his bed. Then, at the hotel of Louis Roiheim, he had obtained a fresh horse, and, by daylight on Monday morning, after traveling the distance through nothing but mazy woodland, had reached the locality of Little Black Fox's abode. Thus he had covered something like one hundred and seventy miles in less than forty-eight hours. Nor had he finished his work yet.

Now he lay on the ground in the shadow of the close, heavy-foliaged brush, watching with alert, untiring eyes. Something of the Indian seemed to have grown into the nature of this uncultured product of the prairie world. He had smothered the only chance of betrayal by blindfolding his horse, now left in the well-trained charge of the dog, General. For himself he gave no sign. Not a leaf moved, nor a twig stirred where he lay. If he shifted his position it must have been done in the manner of the Indians themselves, for no sound resulted. He knew that a hundred pairs of eyes would infallibly detect his presence at the least clumsy disturbance of the bush. For the Indian is like the bear in his native woods. He may be intent in another direction, but the disturbance of the leaves, however slight, in an opposite direction, will at once attract his attention.