The squaws were astir at daylight. Now, as the sun rose, it became apparent that there were many preparations going forward in the chief's quarters. There was a gathering of ponies in a corral hard by. Also the long "trailers," already packed with tepee-poles and great bundles of skins and blankets, were leaning against the walls of the corral.

To Seth's practised eyes these things denoted an early departure; and, by the number of ponies and the extent of the equipment, it was evidently to be the going of a large party. But time went on, and no further move was made. Only all those who came and went seemed busy; not on account of what they did, but from their manner and movement. Through the greater part of the day Seth kept his sleepless watch. Only once did he abandon his post, and then merely to return to his horse to secure food from his saddle-bags. When he rose to go thither it was to be seen that he was fully armed, which had not been the case when he left the farm.

Seth's arguments were as simple and straightforward as he was himself, and none the less shrewd. The position was this. The Indians were in a state of ferment, to which, of course, the chief was party. Second, the chief was going off on a hunting trip, and apparently abandoning his people at a critical time. Third, he had received warning of Rosebud's danger from one whose knowledge and good-will could be relied on. Fourth, the warning had come to them, indirectly, from the one man who he now had every reason to suspect had no very good-will toward Rosebud; but he also saw, or thought he saw, the reason of that warning. It was that this man might clear himself should the chief's plans go wrong. These were Seth's arguments, and he intended to prove them by remaining on Little Black Fox's trail until he was assured that the danger to Rosebud no longer existed. It was in the nature of the man that he had sought no outside aid, except that of his faithful General.

The story the watcher read as he observed the Indians' movements was a long one. The climax of it did not come until late in the afternoon, and the conclusion not until an hour later.

The climax was reached when he saw a tall figure coming up from the direction of the bridge. A grim pursing of the lips lent a curious expression to the smile that this appearance brought to his face. The man was clad in a blanket, and his gait was the gait of an Indian. There was nothing to give any other impression to the casual observer. But Seth was very intent, and he saw the color of the man's face. It was then that his lips shut tight and his smile developed something tigerish in its appearance.

However, he remained quite still, and saw the man pass into the chief's house. He did not reappear for a full half-hour. When at last he came out he departed at once the way he had come. Half an hour later the chief's ponies, a number of squaws, and the baggage, set out accompanied by half a dozen mounted bucks. Another half-hour and Little Black Fox appeared and vaulted to the back of his waiting pony. A dozen warriors joined him almost at the same moment, gathering from different directions, and the chief rode off at their head.

Then it was that Seth rose from his hiding-place. He stood watching the going of these men until he had made sure of the direction they were taking. They were making for the river ford, and he instantly ran back to his horse and mounted. Just for a second he hesitated. Then he set off for the wagon bridge as fast as he could urge his horse.

It was late the same afternoon that Charlie Rankin rode up to the River Farm and greeted Rube, who was hard at work upon the stockade. He was a large, cheery Britisher, with a florid face and ready laugh. He drew up with a jerk, sprang to the ground, and began talking with the perfect freedom of long friendship.

"I've passed the word, Rube," he said, without any preamble. "It's gone the round by this time. I thought I'd run over and consult you about the womenfolk. I'm new to this work. You are an old bird. I thought of sending the missis into Beacon."

Rube paused in his work and surveyed the horizon, while, in his slow way, he wiped the perspiration from his weather-furrowed face.

"Howdy, Charlie," he said, without displaying the least concern. "Wal, I don't know. Y' see this thing's li'ble to fizzle some. We've had 'em before. Guess my missis an' the gal'll stay right here by us. I 'low I feel they're safer wi' us. Mebbe it's jest a notion. If things gits hummin' I'd say come right along over an' share in wi' us. Y' see if it's a case of git, we'd likely do better in a party. Seth's away jest now."

The old man's quiet assurance was pleasant to the less experienced farmer. There was soundness in his plans too. Charlie nodded.

"That's good of you. Of course, we've got the warning, but we don't know how far things are moving. Do you?"

"Wal, no. But I don't think ther's anything to worry over fer a week or two."

"I thought there couldn't be, because I saw your Rosebud riding down toward the river as I came along. And yet——"

But Rube broke in upon him vehemently.

"Goin' to the river?" he cried. Then his usual slow movements suddenly became electrical. He strode away to the barn, and left Charlie to follow.

"What's up?" the latter asked, as he paused in the doorway.

"Up? Up? What's up?" The old man was saddling a big raw-boned mare with almost feverish haste. "She's no right goin' that aways. An' I promised Seth, too. I didn't know but what she wus in the kitchen. Here, fix that bridle while I get into the house. Ha' y' got your gun?"

"Yes; but why?"

"Wal—y' never can figger to these durned Injuns when they're raisin' trouble."

The old man was off like a shot, while Charlie fixed the great mare's bridle. He returned almost immediately armed with a brace of guns.

"Say, ken y' spare an hour or so?"

As Charlie looked into the old farmer's face when he made his reply he read the answer to all he would have liked to ask him. Rube was consumed with an anxiety that no words, delivered in his slow fashion, could have conveyed to any one but Seth.

"Certainly, as long as you like."

"Good boy," said Rube, with an air of relief. "I wouldn't ask you, but it's fer her." And the two men rode off hastily, with Rube leading.

"By-the-way," said Charlie, drawing his horse up alongside the dun-colored mare, "Joe Smith, north of us, says some neighbor of his told him there were tents on the plains further north. I was wondering. The troops haven't been sent for, have they?"

"Can't say," said Rube, without much interest. Then he asked hastily, "Which way was she headin'?"

The question showed the trend of his whole thought.

"Why, straight down."

"Ah, Nevil Steyne's shack."

"He lives that way, doesn't he?"

"Yes."

The two men rode on in silence. This was the first time Charlie had ever seen Rube disturbed out of his deliberate manner. He made a mental resolve to bring his wife and children into White River Farm at the first sign of actual danger.



CHAPTER XVI

GENERAL DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF

Never since her first coming to the farm had Rosebud been forced to keep her goings and comings secret. But Wanaha had made it imperative now. It went sorely against the girl's inclination, for she hated deception of any kind; and she knew that what she meditated was a deception against those she loved. Consequently she was angry; angry with Wanaha, angry with the Indians, but most of all with herself. Wanaha had asked for a secret visit to Nevil Steyne, who was cutting wood below the bridge.

But in spite of her anger, as she made the necessary detour for concealment in one of those deep troughs amid the billows of grass-land, there was a sparkle of anticipation and excitement in her violet eyes. Before she was half-way to the woods that lined the river the last shadow of her brief anger had passed from her face. After all, she told herself in weak excuse, what she was doing was only a very little matter, and, perhaps—who could tell?—she might learn something that would be useful to Seth, who cared for nothing and nobody in the world but the Indians. So she rode on quite fearless, with no graver qualms than the very slightest twinge of conscience.

As she rode she debated with herself the manner in which she was to conceal her destination from chance observers. Wilful and irresponsible as Rosebud always appeared to be, there was yet something strongly reliant in her nature. She was, as so many girls are, a child in thought and deed until some great event, perchance some bereavement, some tragedy, or some great love, should come to rouse the dormant strength for good or ill which lies hidden for years, sometimes for life, in nearly every daughter of Eve.

The result of her debate was a decision to head for the ford when once she was out of view of the farm. She argued, if Nevil Steyne were cutting wood below the bridge, as Wanaha had told her, then by entering the woods at the ford she could make her way through them until she came to him. Thus she would not show herself near his hut, or near where he might be known to be working.

So, in the waning daylight, she cantered over the scented grass without a thought of the danger which Wanaha had hinted to her. She was defenceless, unarmed, yet utterly fearless. Her spirit was of the plains, fresh, bright, strong. Life to her was as the rosy light of dawn, full of promise and hope. Her frail figure, just budding with that enchanting promise of magnificent womanhood, swaying to the light gait of her broncho, was a sight to stir the pulse of any man. It was no wonder that the patient, serious Seth watched over her, shielding her with every faculty alert, every nerve straining, all his knowledge of that living volcano over which they lived brought into service.

Some such thoughts as these may have passed through Charlie Rankin's mind when he saw her as he passed on his way to the farm. For men are like this. Married or single they always have an eye for feminine beauty, only when they are married they generally keep their observations to themselves—if they be wise.

The sun was almost upon the horizon when the girl reached the ford. The rift in the woods, which formed a wagon trail, was very narrow, and even though the sun had not yet set, the spot was dark and sombre by reason of the wall of pine trees which lined it upon each side.

Just for a second Rosebud experienced the dark moody influence of the gloomy pine canopy beneath which she was to plunge. Like all high-spirited creatures she had no love for any form of gloom. And there is nothing in nature that can compare with the American pinewoods for gloom. Stately, magnificent, if you will, but funereal in their gloom.

Something of her surroundings now found reflection in the expression of her fair face as she plunged down the solemn aisles of black, barren tree trunks, like columns supporting the superstructure of some Gothic cathedral.

Her broncho was forced to take his way carefully, and thus his gait was reduced to little better than a walk. Further in, the tree-trunks gave way occasionally to patches of undergrowth. Then they became mixed with other growths. Maple and spruce held place and made her course more awkward, and further hindered her. The blue gums crowded so closely that frequently she was driven to considerable detour. Gradually the maze began to confuse her. She started to reckon the whereabouts of the river, a process which confused her more. But she kept on, her whole attention concentrated,—so much so that even her object was almost forgotten.

So engrossed was she that she failed to notice that her horse had suddenly become very alert. His large, low-bred ears, that weathercock of the horseman, were pricked up, and he looked inquiringly from side to side as he picked his way. Once he gave a short, suppressed whinny.

The girl's perplexity, however, was strong upon her. She did not hear it, or, if she did, it conveyed nothing to her. Her brows were puckered, and she gazed only ahead. Had she paused she must have heard that which had drawn her horse's attention. But she kept on, struggling with the maze about her, and so heard no sound of the breaking brush upon either side of her.

She was more than half-way to the bridge, when, to her intense relief, she saw daylight ahead through the overshadowing foliage. She pushed on urgently, and sighed her relief; it was a clearing. That opening meant more to her than she would have admitted. To see the sky again, to breathe air that was fresh, free from the redolence of the forest underlay, was all she desired.

The clearing was fringed with a low, thorny brush, which, as she came to it, caught her skirt, and forced her to draw rein, and stoop to release it.

While thus occupied her broncho threw up his head and gave a tremendous neigh. The sound startled her, as these things will startle the strongest when all is profoundly silent. But what followed was more startling still. Not one, but half a dozen echoes at least responded, and, with a thrill, the girl sat up. The next moment she had spurred her horse and charged, regardless of the thorns, into the midst of the clearing.

As she came a wave of horror swept over her. Simultaneous with her entry a mounted Indian appeared from the opposite side. Others appeared, each from a different direction, silent, but with automatic precision. To her right she saw them; to her left; and behind her, too. A deliberate ring of silent sentries had formed themselves about her, almost in the twinkling of an eye.

The girl's first terror was almost overwhelming, and her impulse was to shriek aloud. But the shock of that ghostly appearance passed, not because the danger appeared to lessen, but because her nerves were healthy, and she somehow possessed sympathy with the red men. Mechanically she noticed, too, that they were blanketed, as in peace. They had donned no feathers or paint. Nor could she see aught of any firearms. So her courage returned, but she did not attempt to move or speak.

She was not long left in doubt. With crude, dramatic effect Little Black Fox suddenly appeared from the adjacent woods. He rode into the ring on his black pony, sitting the sleek beast in that haughty manner which is given to the Indian alone, and which comes from the fact that he uses no saddle, and sits with the natural pose of a lithe figure that is always carried erect.

He wore no blanket. He was clad from head to foot resplendent in beaded buckskin, his long black hair flowing beneath his crown of feathers and falling upon his shoulders. His handsome face was unscarred by any barbaric markings such as many of his warriors displayed. He was fresh and young; his eyes were flashing with deep emotion, and lit up his dusky countenance with a smile that had nothing gentle in it. He was every inch a chief. Nor was there any mistaking the barbaric lover that looked out of his eyes.

Rosebud unconsciously drew herself up. There was no responsive smile upon her face. She knew there was mischief looming, and the woman in her was stirred to the depths. Young as she was she realized that that ring of sentries about her could mean but one thing. Now, when it was too late, she recalled Seth's many warnings, and bitterly repented her unutterable folly in ever going near this wild, untried young chieftain.

She kept silent. But the seconds that passed as the man rode up were trying. He rode to within six inches of her, and their horses stood head to tail. Then he spoke in his native Sioux tongue, which so lends itself to the expression of ardent passion.

"The sun has no brightness like the eyes of the paleface princess," he said, his proud face serious, and his eyes steady and flashing. There was almost a flush under the dusky skin of his cheeks. "The waters of the great lakes are deep, but the depth is as nothing to the blue of the princess's eyes. She is queen of her race, as Little Black Fox is king of his race. The king would wed the queen, whose eyes make little the cloudless summer sky. He loves her, and is the earth beneath her feet. He loves her, and all his race shall be her servants. He loves her, and all that is his is hers. So there shall be everlasting peace with her people and his. His heart is swept with a passion which is like to the fiercest blizzard of the plain. But its blast is hot; hotter and swifter than the fiercest heats of earth. There is no peace for him without the white princess. He is ever at war. The body fights with the brain, and his heart is torn. So he would wed the princess."

Even in her extremity something of the real passion of this wild youth found a chord of sympathy in Rosebud's heart. His sincerity, his splendid personality, savage though he was, made her listen attentively. The woman in her was not insensible to his address, but the very truth of his passion roused her fears again to the topmost pitch. There was no mistaking those horsemen surrounding her. She gave one little helpless glance around at them that surely would have melted the heart of any white man. But the impassive faces held out no hope to her. She was at this man's mercy.

Now, oddly enough, when she might have been expected to cry out in her terror, her anger rose. That quick rising anger which Seth understood so well and smiled at. And she spoke without a shadow of fear in her tone. Her use of the Sioux tongue was not perfect, and her words gained force therefrom.

"The princess cannot wed the chief," she said. "It is not according to the law of the palefaces. Go—go back to your tepees, and the squaws of your race. Leave me to go in peace. I have to go back to my people."

There was a moment's pause, during which a dog's yelp might have been heard by any less occupied. The sound was such as is the yelp of a foxhound drawing a cover. The chief's face had changed its expression; his passion was subservient to his native ferocity, and his face displayed it.

"I have asked," he said, "I, Little Black Fox, who am chief. I have said come to me. The paleface girl treats me like any dog. So. I have done. The spirit of Big Wolf, my father, enters my body. Like him, who took the princess and held her for his son, I will take that for which I have asked. There shall be no peace with your race."

He raised an arm to seize her by the waist. The girl saw his intention, and a wild fear dilated her eyes. But she did not lose her head. She suddenly spurred her broncho with a little vicious stab. The animal, already on his mettle, charged forward desperately, taking the pony of the Indian facing it in the chest and throwing it back upon its haunches. But the chief was round like lightning. He saw nothing, heeded nothing but the possible escape of this white girl, and that he had no intention of permitting. Had he been less engrossed he would have seen a dog rush madly into the clearing, and, in the manner of a cattle dog, incontinently begin a savage assault on the heels of the Indians' ponies. No human intelligence could have conceived a more effective plan, for the braves were thrown into utter confusion.

Little Black Fox came up with the fugitive, and, leaning over, caught the girl in his strong young arms. He meant to lift her from the saddle, but he held her thus only for a bare second. There was the sharp crack of a revolver, and Rosebud felt his grasp relax. He sat up on his horse and looked about him fiercely, then he reeled and clutched his pony's mane, while Seth, shouting encouragement to the terrified girl, came at him from out of the woods.

He came with such a cry of rage and fury that his voice was almost unrecognizable. His face, usually so calm, was flaming. His smoking revolver was raised aloft and, as his horse charged into that of the wounded chief, it fell crashing on to the befeathered head, and the man went down like a log.

"You gol durned black heathen!" Seth cried. Then his rage died out before the greater emergency. "Ride, Rosebud! The woods, and turn left. Ride like hell!"

It was all he had time for. He turned again in time to empty another chamber of his gun into the stomach of an Indian, who came at him with an upraised axe. Then, as the man rolled from his horse, he saw that the rest had discarded their blankets—their wearing of which had probably saved him—and now meant battle to the death.

He fully realized that he had no chance of escape, but he meant to give them all he could before the end came. One Indian raised a queer old rifle at him, but he let it drop before it was discharged. Another bullet had found its billet in the pit of the man's stomach.

General, who had taken himself off when Rosebud departed, now returned to the scene. He came with his fierce, canine worrying just as the rest of the Indians charged their solitary adversary. His diversion helped to check their onslaught, but only for a second. They had abandoned their firearms in favor of their native weapons as they came.

Seth was powerless against such odds. There was no hope. His revolver cracked and more than one man fell, but they closed with him, and, as his last barrel was emptied, he felt the flesh of his left shoulder rip under the slashing blow of an axe. His horse reared and for the moment took him clear of the horde, and at the same instant, he heard the deep tones of Rube's voice shouting to him. The Indians heard it, too. They turned, and the fire of revolvers from this new direction greeted them. They could murder one man, but reinforcements were different. It was enough. As Rube and Charlie Rankin galloped into the clearing they broke and fled.

"Rosebud?" cried Rube in a voice of agonized suspense.

Seth had swung his horse round and led the way out of the clearing in the track the girl had taken.

"Come on!" he cried. And, in a moment, the battle ground was deserted by all but the wounded Indians.



CHAPTER XVII

THE LETTER FROM ENGLAND

"La, child, an' why did you go for to do it?"

Ma was bending over Seth, bathing the ugly flesh wound in his shoulder. Her old eyes were pathetically anxious behind her spectacles, but her touch was sure and steady. Her words were addressed to Rosebud, who was standing by with a handful of bandages. The girl made no reply, and her eyes were fixed on this result of her escapade. She was pale, and her young face looked drawn. The violet of her eyes was noticeably dull, and it was easy to see that she was struggling hard to keep tears back. She simply could not answer.

Seth took the task upon himself. He seemed to understand, although he was not looking her way.

"Don't worrit the gal, Ma," he said, in his gentle fashion, so that Rosebud felt like dropping the bandages and fleeing from the room. "Say, jest git right to it an' fix me up. I 'low ther's li'ble to be work doin' 'fore this night's out."

"God a-mussy, I hope not, Seth, boy!" the old woman said, with a deep intake of breath. But her busy fingers hastened. She tenderly laid the wool, saturated in carbolic oil, upon the gash. Seth bore it without flinching. "More'n six year," she added, taking the bandages from Rosebud and applying them with the skill of long experience, "an' we've had no trouble, thank God. But I knew it 'ud come sure. Rube had it in his eye."

"Wher's Rube now?" asked Seth, cutting her short.

"Doin' guard out front."

The bandage was adjusted, and Seth rose and was helped into his coat.

"Guess I'll git out to him."

He found it hard, for once, to sit in there with the womenfolk. His feeling was one common to men of action.

"You're feelin' easy?" Ma asked him anxiously, as he moved to the door.

"Dead right, Ma."

The old woman shook her head doubtfully, and Rosebud's troubled eyes followed him as he moved away. She had scarcely spoken since they returned to the house. Her brain was still in a whirl and she was conscious of a weak, but almost overpowering, inclination to tears. The one thing that stood out above all else in her thoughts was Seth's wound.

No one had questioned her; no one had blamed her. These simple people understood her feelings of the moment too well. Later they knew they would learn all about it. For the present there was plenty to be done.

Rube had been making preparations. Their plans needed no thinking out. Such an emergency as the present had always been foreseen, and so there was no confusion. Charlie Rankin had gone on to old Joe Smith, and that individual would be dispatched post-haste in the direction of the white tents that had been seen on the plains. For the rest the horses in the barn were ready harnessed, and Ma could be trusted to get together the household things ready for decamping. There was nothing to do but to keep a night-long watch.

Seth had crossed the passage, and was passing through the parlor, out of which the front door opened. Rosebud hesitated. Then with something almost like a rush she followed him. She was at his side in a moment, and her two small hands were clasping his rough, strong right hand.

"Seth," she whispered, tearfully. "I——"

"Don't, little Rosie!" the man interrupted, attempting to draw his hand gently from her grasp. "Guess ther' ain't no need to say anything. Mebbe I know."

But Seth had misinterpreted her action. He thought she meant to explain. She kept hold of his hand, and tears were in her lovely eyes as she looked up into his dark face, now little more than a shadow in the faint light that came from the passage.

"Oh, Seth, Seth, it was all my fault!" she cried, in her distress. "Your poor shoulder! Oh, what should I do if you were to die! Oh——" And the girl fell on her knees at his side and kissed the hand she was clinging to. The long threatened tears had come at last, and her voice was choked with sobs.

Seth had been unprepared for this outburst. It took him quite aback, and he felt a great lump rise in his throat. Unconsciously he almost roughly released his hand. But the next moment it was laid tenderly upon the bowed head.

"Git up, little gal," he said. And there was a world of tenderness in his voice. His effort at self-restraint was great, but his feelings found a certain amount of expression in spite of him, for he was stirred to the depths of his loyal heart. He was face to face with a scene such as he had never even pictured. His sense of duty was powerless just then before his deep, strong love for the girl. "Little Rosebud," he went on, and he struggled hard to make his words rough, "ther's things to do. Go right back to Ma an' help her. I must go out to Rube. He's doin' all the work, an' so is she."

The girl made no move to rise. Her sobs were heart-breaking. Seth turned sharply and left her where she was. He simply dared not stay there another moment.

Outside General was lying a few yards away from the house, crouched alertly, and gazing out prairiewards. He called the dog to him.

"Injuns, boy," he said, in a low tone. "S-seek 'em!"

The dog responded with a low growl, and then moved off out into the darkness, with the prowling gait of a puma stalking its prey.

"He'll keep us posted," Seth observed quietly to Rube.

"You kind o' understan' him."

"He understands Injuns," the dog's master returned significantly. No more was said for a while, and the two men peered out into the darkness with eyes trained to such watchfulness.

"'Bout them tents?" said Rube later on.

"They're the troops. The postmaster told me they were comin' hard."

"Kind o' handy."

It was very dark. The moon had not yet risen. Presently Seth fetched a chair. The older man watched him seat himself a little wearily.

"Hurt some?" he said.

"Jest a notion," Seth replied in his briefest manner.

"Say, you got around jest in time."

"Yup. Wanaha put me wise after I left here, so I came that aways. Say, this is jest the beginnin'."

"You think——"

"Ther's more comin'. Guess the troops 'll check it some. But—say, this feller's worse'n his father. Guess he's jest feelin' his feet. An' he's gettin' all the Pine Ridge lot with him—I located that as I came along."

They talked on for some time longer, in their slow, short way discussing their plans. The one topic they did not discuss was Rosebud. They tacitly ignored her share in the evening's work like men who knew that certain blame must attach to her and refused to bestow it.

The night dragged slowly on. Rube wanted Seth to go in and rest, but Seth sat in his chair with dogged persistence. So they shared the vigil.

Rube, by way of variation, occasionally visited the stables to see to the horses. And all the time the dog was out scouting with an almost human intelligence. After once being dispatched he did not appear again. Seth had brought him up to this Indian scouting, and the beast's natural animosity to the Indians made him a perfect guard.

The moon rose at midnight. There was no sign of disturbance on the Reservation. All was quiet and still. But then these men knew that the critical time had not yet arrived. Dawn would be the danger. And by dawn they both hoped that something might result from Charlie Rankin's journey.

Rube was sitting in a chair at Seth's side. The clock in the kitchen had just cuckooed three times. The old man's eyes were heavy with sleep, but he was still wide awake. Neither had spoken for some time. Suddenly Seth's right hand gripped the old man's arm.

"Listen!"

There was a faint, uneasy whine far out on the prairie. Then Seth's straining ears caught the sound of horses galloping. Rube sprang to his feet, and his hands went to the guns at his waist. But Seth checked him.

"Easy," he said. "Guess it ain't that. General only whined. He mostly snarls wicked for Injuns."

They listened again. And soon it became apparent that those approaching were coming out of the north.

"Charlie's located 'em." Seth's tone was quietly assuring, and old Rube sighed his relief.

Then the dog suddenly reappeared. He, too, seemed to understand that friends were approaching.

And so it proved. The night of long suspense was over. A few minutes later a squad of United States cavalry, in charge of a dapper, blue-coated lieutenant, rode up to the farm. And when they arrived Seth was there by himself to receive them.

"Rube Sampson's farm?" inquired the lieutenant, as he swung from his steaming horse.

"Right." Seth shook hands with the man.

"Trouble over there," observed the other, indicating the Reservation with a nod of the head.

"Yup. Come right in. Guess your boys had best make their plugs snug in the barn. Come right in, and I'll rouse Ma."

Those last two hours before morning were the hardest part of all to Rube and Seth, for, in the parlor, they had to detail all the events of the preceding day to Lieutenant Barrow and his sergeant. And neither of them was good at explaining.

Breakfast was partaken of; after which, since the soldiers had accepted all responsibility, Ma packed her men-folk off to bed. Seth had not seen a bed since Friday night, and this was Tuesday.

The neighborhood of the farm, and, in fact, all along the north side of the river presented an unusual sight when Seth and Rube reappeared at noon. Two regiments of United States cavalry had taken up their position ready for any emergency.

The midday meal was a little late, so that Seth's shoulder might be properly dressed. And when at last the family sat down to it, it threatened to be more than usually silent. All were weary, and the women overwrought. Ma was the only one who made any attempt to rouse the drooping spirits about her. The men knew that they were confronted with no ordinary Indian rising. There was something far more threatening to them personally.

As the meal dragged on Ma abandoned her efforts entirely, and a long silence ensued. Finally Rube pushed back his chair and rose from the table. Then it was that Seth spoke for the first time.

He looked from Rube to Ma. He was trying to look unconcerned, and even smiled.

"Say," he observed, "guess I was fergittin'. I got a bit of a letter from—England."

Rube dropped back into his chair, and his eyes were questioning. Ma was staring through her spectacles at her boy. She, too, was asking a mute question. But hers was merely a quiet curiosity, while Rube's, slow old Rube's, was prompted by Seth's manner, which, instinctively, he knew to be a false one.

Rosebud was patting General's head as he sat at her side. She continued her caressing, but her eyes, swift and eager but tenderly grave, watched Seth as he drew out the letter from his pocket and smoothed it upon the table. There was just the slightest tremor in her hand as it rested on the dog's head.

"Yup," Seth went on, with a great assumption of unconcern which deceived nobody. "It's a feller—jest one o' them law fellers. He's comin' right along to the farm. I 'low he must be nigh here now. He was goin' to git here Tuesday the 16th—that's to-day."

He was intent on the letter. Nor did he once raise his eyes while he was speaking. Now he turned the paper as though in search of some detail of interest.

"Ah," he went on. "Here it is. Says he's hit the trail o' some gal as was lost. Guesses he'd like to see—Rosebud, an' ask a few questions."

"Seth!"

Ma had risen, and somehow her chair overturned behind her. Her exclamation was a gasp. Rube stared; he had no words just then. Rosebud continued to caress the dog, who whined his pleasure at the unusual attention. At last she turned. For an instant her eyes met Seth's.

"May I read that letter, Seth?" she asked quietly.

"Sure." Seth rose from the table. "Rube," he said, "I'd take it friendly if you'd fill my pipe." Then he moved across to the window.

Rosebud looked up from reading the letter. She came round to him and handed it back.

"So my name's Marjorie Raynor?" she said with a queer smile.

Seth nodded.

"And all this money is what you once spoke about?"

Again came Seth's affirmation.

"And how long have you known—that I'm not Rosebud?"

"Got that bit of a letter Saturday."

"But you guessed it long before that—when we were out at the slough?"

"I'd a notion."

The girl glanced round. Ma's face was still in a condition of florid perplexity. Rube was quietly whittling a match with his tobacco knife. Rosebud's eyes were very soft as she looked from one to the other.

"And I'm to go away from—here?" she said at last, and her lips were trembling.

"Guess when a 'stray' comes along we mostly git it back home."

Seth found a lot to interest him in the blank wall of the barn outside the window.

"But it seems I'm a stray without a home. My father and mother must be dead."

"Ther's aunts an' things—an' the dollars."

The girl also surveyed the wall of the barn.

"Yes, I forgot the—dollars."

Suddenly she turned away. Just for a moment she seemed in some doubt of her own purpose. Then she walked over to Ma and put her arms about her neck and kissed her. Then she passed round to Rube and did the same. Finally she opened the door, and stood for a second looking at Seth's slim back.

"Farewell, friends. The heiress must prepare for her departure."

There was something harsh and hysterical about the laugh which accompanied her mocking farewell, but she was gone the next instant, and the door slammed behind her.

Ma stepped up to her boy, and forgetful of his wounded shoulder rested her hand upon it. Seth flinched and drew away; and the old woman was all sympathy at once.

"I'm real sorry, boy, I kind o' forgot."

"It's nothin', Ma; it jest hurts some."



CHAPTER XVIII

SETH'S DUTY ACCOMPLISHED

"It's a great country. It astonishes me at every turn, madam; but it's too stirring for me. One gets used to things, I know, but this," with a wave of the arm in the direction of the Reservations, "these hair-raising Indians! Bless me, and you live so close to them!"

The crisp-faced, gray-headed little lawyer smiled in a sharp, angular manner in Ma Sampson's direction. The farmwife, arrayed in her best mission-going clothes, was ensconced in her husband's large parlor chair, which was sizes too big for her, and smiled back at him through her glasses.

Mr. Charles Irvine, the junior partner of the firm of solicitors, Rodgers, Son, and Irvine, of London, had made his final statement with regard to Rosebud, and had now given himself up to leisure.

There had been no difficulty. Seth's letter had stated all the facts of which he had command. It had been handed on to these solicitors. And what he had told them had been sufficient to bring one of the partners out to investigate. Nor had it taken this practical student of human nature long to realize the honesty of these folk, just as it had needed but one glance of comparison between Rosebud and the portrait of Marjorie Raynor, taken a few weeks before her disappearance, and which he had brought with him, to do the rest. The likeness was magical. The girl had scarcely changed at all, and it was difficult to believe that six years had elapsed since the taking of that portrait. After a long discussion with Seth the lawyer made his final statement to the assembled family.

"You quite understand that this case must go through the courts," he said gravely. "There is considerable property involved. For you, young lady, a long and tedious process. However, the matter will be easier than if there were others fighting for the estate. There are no others, because the will is entirely in your favor, in case of your mother's death. You have some cousins, and an aunt or two, all prepared to welcome you cordially; they are in no way your opponents; they will be useful in the matter of identification. The only other relative is this lost uncle. In taking you back to England I assume sole responsibility. I am convinced myself, therefore I unhesitatingly undertake to escort you, and, if you care to accept our hospitality, will hand you over to the charge of Mrs. Irvine and my daughters. And should the case go against you, a contingency which I do not anticipate for one moment, I will see that you return to your happy home here in perfect safety. I hope I state my case clearly, Mr. Sampson, and you, Mr. Seth. I," and the little man tapped the bosom of his shirt, "will personally guarantee Miss—er—Marjorie Raynor's safety and comfort."

Mr. Irvine beamed in his angular fashion upon Rosebud, in a way that emphatically said, "There, by that I acknowledge your identity."

But this man who felt sure, that, at much discomfort to himself, he was bringing joy into a poor household, was grievously disappointed, for one and all received his assurances as though each were a matter for grief. Seth remained silent, and Rube had no comment to offer. Rosebud forgot even to thank him.

Ma alone rose to the occasion, and she only by a great effort. But when the rest had, on various pretexts, drifted out of the parlor, she managed to give the man of law a better understanding of things. She gave him an insight into their home-life, and hinted at the grief this parting would be to them all, even to Rosebud. And he, keen man of business that he was, encouraged her to talk until she had told him all, even down to the previous night's work on the banks of the White River. Like many women who trust rather to the heart than to the head, Ma had thus done for Rosebud what no purely business procedure could have done. She had enlisted this cool-headed but kindly lawyer's sympathies. And that goes far when a verdict has to be obtained.

In response to the lawyer's horrified realization of the dangerous adjacency of the Reservations, Ma laughed in her gentle, assured manner.

"Maybe it seems queer to you, Mr. Irvine, but it isn't to us. We are used to it. As my Rube always says, says he, 'When our time comes ther' ain't no kickin' goin' to be done. Meanwhiles we'll keep a smart eye, an' ther's allus someun lookin' on to see fair play.'"

The old woman's reply gave this man, who had never before visited any place wilder than a European capital, food for reflection. This was his first glimpse of pioneer life, and he warmed toward the spirit, the fortitude which actuated these people. But he made a mental resolve that the sooner Miss Raynor was removed from the danger zone the better.

There was little work done on the farm that day. When Seth had finished with the lawyer he abruptly took himself away and spent most of the day among the troops. For one thing, he could not stay in the home which was so soon to lose Rosebud. It was one matter for him to carry out the duty he conceived to be his, and another to stand by and receive in silence the self-inflicted chastisement it brought with it. So, with that quiet spirit of activity which was his by nature, and which served him well now, he took his share in the work of the troops, for which his knowledge and experience so fitted him. The most experienced officers were ready to listen to him, for Seth was as well known in those disturbed regions as any of the more popular scouts who have found their names heading columns in the American daily press.

After supper he and Rube devoted themselves to the chores of the farm, and it was while he was occupied in the barn, and Rube was attending to the milch cows in another building, that he received an unexpected visit. He was working slowly, his wounded shoulder handicapping him sorely, for he found difficulty in bedding down the horses with only one available hand. Hearing a light footstep coming down the passage between the double row of stalls, he purposely continued his work.

Rosebud, for it was she, paused at the foot of the stall in which he was working. He glanced round and greeted her casually. The girl stood there a second, then she turned away, and, procuring a fork, proceeded to bed down the stall next to him.

Seth protested at once. Rosebud had never been allowed to do anything like this. His objection came almost roughly, but the girl ignored it and went on working.

"Say, gal, quit right there," he said, in an authoritative manner.

Rosebud laughed. But the old spirit was no longer the same. The light-hearted mirth had gone. Indeed, Rosebud was a child no longer. She was a woman, and it would have surprised these folk to know how serious-minded the last two days had made her.

"Even a prisoner going to be hanged is allowed to amuse himself as he pleases during his last hours, Seth," she responded, pitching out the bedding from under the manger with wonderful dexterity.

Seth flushed, and his eyes were anxious. No physical danger could have brought such an expression to them. It was almost as if he doubted whether what he had done was right. It was the doubt which at times assails the strongest, the most decided. He seemed to be seeking a suitable response, but his habit of silence handicapped him. At last he said—

"But he's goin' to be hanged."

"And so am I." Rosebud fired her retort with all the force of her suppressed passion. Then she laughed again in that hollow fashion, and the straw flew from her fork. "At least I am going out of the world—my world, the world I love, the only world I know. And for what?"

Seth labored steadily. His tongue was terribly slow.

"Ther's your friends, and—the dollars."

"Friends—dollars?" she replied scornfully, while the horse she was bedding moved fearfully away from her fork. "You are always thinking of my dollars. What do I want with dollars? And I am not going to friends. I have no father and mother but Pa and Ma. I have no friends but those who have cared for me these last six years. Why has this little man come out here to disturb me? Because he knows that if the dollars are mine he will make money out of me. He knows that, and for a consideration he will be my friend. Oh, I hate him and the dollars!"

The tide of the girl's passion overwhelmed Seth, and he hardly knew what to say. He passed into another stall and Rosebud did the same. The man was beginning to realize the unsuspected depths of this girl's character, and that, perhaps, after all, there might have been another mode of treatment than his line of duty as he had conceived it. He found an answer at last.

"Say, if I'd located this thing and had done nothin'——" he began. And she caught him up at once.

"I'd have thanked you," she said.

But Seth saw the unreasonableness of her reply.

"Now, Rosebud," he said gently, "you're talkin' foolish. An' you know it. What I did was only right by you. I'd 'a' been a skunk to have acted different. I lit on the trail o' your folk, don't matter how, an' I had to see you righted, come what might. Now it's done. An' I don't see wher' the hangin' comes in. Guess you ken come an' see Ma later, when things get quiet agin. I don't take it she hates you a heap."

He spoke almost cheerfully, trying hard to disguise what he really felt. He knew that with this girl's going all the light would pass out of his life. He dared not speak in any other way or his resolve would melt before the tide of feeling which he was struggling to repress. He would have given something to find excuse to leave the barn, but he made no effort to do so.

When Rosebud answered him her manner had changed. Seth thought that it was due to the reasonableness of his own arguments, but then his knowledge of women was trifling. The girl had read something underlying the man's words which he had not intended to be there, and had no knowledge of having expressed. Where a woman's affections are concerned a man is a simple study, especially if he permits himself to enter into debate. Seth's strength at all times lay in his silence. He was too honest for his speech not to betray him.

"Yes, I know, Seth, you are right and I am wrong," she said, and her tone was half laughing and half crying, and wholly penitent. "That's just it, I am always wrong. I have done nothing but bring you trouble. I am no help to you at all. Even this fresh trouble with the Indians is my doing. And none of you ever blame me. And—and I don't want to go away. Oh, Seth, you don't know how I want to stay! And you're packing me off like a naughty child. I am not even asked if I want to go." She finished up with that quick change to resentment so characteristic of her.

The touch of resentment saved Seth. He found it possible to answer her, which he did with an assumption of calmness he in no way felt. It was a pathetic little face that looked up into his. The girl's anger had brought a flush to her cheeks, but her beautiful eyes were as tearful as an April sky.

"Guess we've all got to do a heap o' things we don't like, Rosie; a mighty big heap. An' seems to me the less we like 'em the more sure it is they're right for us to do. Some folks calls it 'duty.'"

"And you think it's my duty to go?"

Seth nodded.

"My duty, the same as it was your duty always to help me out when I got into some scrape?"

Without a thought Seth nodded again, and was at once answered by that hollow little laugh which he found so jarring.

"I hate duty! But, since I have had your splendid example before me for six years, it has forced on me the necessity of trying to be like you." The girl's sarcasm was harsh, but Seth ignored it.

As she went on her mood changed again. "I was thinking while that old man was talking so much," she said slowly, "how I shall miss Pa, and Ma, and old General. And I can't bear the idea of leaving even the horses and cattle, and the grain fields. I don't know whatever the little papooses at the Mission will do without me. I wonder if all the people who do their duty feel like that about things? They can't really, or they wouldn't want to do it, and would just be natural and—and human sometimes. Think of it, Seth, I'm going to leave all this beautiful sunshine for the fog of London just for the sake of duty. I begin to feel quite good. Then, you see, when I'm rich I shall have so much to do with my money—so many duties—that I shall have no time to think of White River Farm at all. And if I do happen to squeeze in a thought, perhaps just before I go to sleep at night, it'll be such a comfort to think everybody here is doing their duty. You see nothing else matters, does it?"

Seth took refuge in silence. The girl's words pained him, but he knew that it was only her grief at leaving, and he told himself that her bitterness would soon pass. The pleasure of traveling, of seeing new places, the excitement of her new position would change all that. Receiving no reply Rosebud went on, and her bitterness merged into an assumed brightness which quite deceived her companion.

"Yes," she continued, "after all it won't be so dreadful, will it? I can buy lots of nice things, and I shall have servants. And I can go all over the world. No more washing up. And there'll be parties and dances. And Mr. Irvine said something about estates. I suppose I'll have a country house—like people in books. Yes, and I'll marry some one with a title, and wear diamonds. Do you think somebody with a title would marry me, Seth?"

"Maybe, if you asked him."

"Oh!"

"Wal, you see it's only fine ladies gits asked by fellers as has titles."

The dense Seth felt easier in his mind at the girl's tone, and in his clumsy fashion was trying to join in the spirit of the thing.

"Thank you, I'll not ask any one to marry me."

Seth realized his mistake.

"Course not. I was jest foolin'."

"I know." Rosebud was smiling, and a dash of mischief was in her eyes as she went on—

"It would be awful if a girl had to ask some one to marry her, wouldn't it?"

"Sure."

Seth moved out into the passage; the last horse was bedded down, and they stood together leaning on their forks.

"The man would be a silly, wouldn't he?"

"A reg'lar hobo."

"What's a 'hobo,' Seth?"

"Why, jest a feller who ain't got no 'savee.'"

"'Savee' means 'sense,' doesn't it?" Rosebud's eyes were innocently inquiring, and they gazed blandly up into the man's face.

"Wal, not exac'ly. It's when a feller don't git a notion right, an' musses things up some." They were walking toward the barn door now. Seth was about to go up to the loft to throw down hay. "Same as when I got seein' after the Injuns when I ought to've stayed right here an' seen you didn't go sneakin' off by y'self down by the river," he added slyly, with one of his rare smiles.

The girl laughed and clapped her hands.

"Oh, Seth!" she cried, as she moved out to return to the house, "then you're a regular 'hobo.' What a joke!"

And she ran off, leaving the man mystified.

Rosebud and the lawyer left the following morning. Never had such good fortune caused so much grief. It was a tearful parting; Ma and Rosebud wept copiously, and Rube, too, was visibly affected. Seth avoided everybody as much as possible. He drove the conveyance into Beacon Crossing, but, as they were using the lawyer's hired "democrat," he occupied the driving-seat with the man who had brought the lawyer out to the farm. Thus it was he spoke little to Rosebud on the journey.

Later, at the depot, he found many things to occupy him and only time to say "good-bye" at the last moment, with the lawyer looking on.

The girl was on the platform at the end of the sleeping-car when Seth stepped up to make his farewell.

"Good-bye, little Rosebud," he said, in his quiet, slow manner. His eyes were wonderfully soft. "Maybe you'll write some?"

The girl nodded. Her violet eyes were suspiciously bright as she looked frankly up into his face.

"I hope we shall both be happy. We've done our duty, haven't we?" she asked, with a wistful little smile.

"Sure," replied Seth, with an ineffective attempt at lightness.

The girl still held his hand and almost imperceptibly drew nearer to him. Her face was lifted to him in a manner that few would have mistaken. But Seth gently withdrew his hand, and, as the train began to move, climbed down and dropped upon the low platform.

Rosebud turned away with a laugh, though her eyes filled with tears. She waved a handkerchief, and Seth's tall, slim figure was the last she beheld of Beacon Crossing. And when the train was sufficiently far away she kissed her hand in the direction of the solitary figure still doing sentry at the extremity of the platform. Then she went into the car and gave full vent to the tears she had struggled so long to repress.



CHAPTER XIX

SETH PLAYS A STRONG HAND

It would seem that the Agent's prompt action in summoning the aid of the troops had averted disaster. No trouble followed immediately on Seth's drastic treatment of Little Black Fox, and the majority of the settlers put this result down to the fact of the overawing effect of the cavalry. One or two held different opinions, and amongst these were the men of White River Farm. They were inclined to the belief that the wounding of the chief was the sole reason that the people remained quiet. Anyway, not a shot was fired, much to the satisfaction of the entire white population, and, after two weeks had passed, by slow degrees, a large proportion of the troops were withdrawn.

Then followed a government inquiry, at which Seth was the principal witness. It was a mere formality by which the affair was relegated to the history of the State. The government knew better than to punish the chief. After all, Little Black Fox was a king of his race, and, however much it might desire to be rid of the turbulent Sioux, it would be a dangerous thing to act with a high hand.

But the matter served as an excuse for one of those mistakes which so often have a far-reaching effect. There was an old fort close by the Pine Ridge Reservation, one of those ancient structures erected by old-time traders. It had long been untenanted, and had fallen into decay. The authorities decided to make it habitable, and turn it into a small military post, garrisoning it with a detachment of about one hundred cavalry.

It was a mistake. And every white man of experience in the district knew that it was so. Even the Agents of the two Reservations sounded a warning note. It is fatal to attempt to bluff the Indian. Bluff and back the bluff. But a handful of cavalry is no backing to any bluff. The older settlers shook their heads; the more timorous dared to hope; even old Roiheim, who would make profit by the adjacency of soldiers, would willingly have foregone the extra trade. Rube and Seth offered no comment outside their own house; but their opinion was worth considering.

"It won't hurt a heap this side of Christmas," Rube said, on learning the decision.

And Seth pointed his remark.

"No, not now, I guess. Mebbe spring 'll see things."

These two had struck at the heart of the thing. It was late summer, and history has long since proved that Indians never go out on the war-path with winter coming on. Besides, Little Black Fox was not likely to be well of his wound for months.

So the farmers went about their work again. Rube and Seth took in their crops, and devoted spare time to building operations. And the district of White River continued its unobtrusive prosperity.

The loss of Rosebud was no small matter to Ma Sampson's little household. But these folk were far too well inured to the hard life of the plains to voice their troubles. They sometimes spoke of her over their meals, but for the most part bore her silently in their thoughts. And the place she occupied with them was surely one that anybody might envy.

For Seth all the brightness of the last six years had gone out of his life, and he fell back on the almost stern devotion, which had always been his, toward the old people who had raised him. That, and the looking forward to the girl's letters from England practically made up his life. He never permitted himself the faintest hope that he would see her again. He had no thought of marriage with her. If nothing else prevented, her fortune was an impassable barrier. Besides he knew that she would be restored to that life—"high-life," was his word—to which she properly belonged. He never thought or hinted to himself that she would forget them, for he had no bitterness, and was much too loyal to think of her otherwise than as the most true-hearted girl. He simply believed he understood social distinctions thoroughly.

But if he were slow in matters of love, it was his only sloth. In action he was swift and thorough, and his perception in all matters pertaining to the plainsman's life was phenomenal.

It was this disposition for swift action which sent him one day, after the troops had withdrawn to their new post, and the plains had returned to their usual pastoral aspect, in search of Nevil Steyne. And it was significant that he knew just when and where to find his man.

He rode into a clearing in the woods down by the river. The spot was about a mile below the wagon bridge, where the pines grew black and ragged—a touch of the primordial in the midst of a younger growth. It was noon; a time when the plainsman knew he would find the wood-cutter at leisure, taking his midday meal, or lazing over a pipe. Nor were his calculations far out.

Nevil was stretched full length beside the smouldering embers on which his coffee billytin was steaming out fragrant odors that blended pleasantly with the resinous fragrance of these ancient woods.

He looked up at the sound of horse's hoofs, and there could be no doubt about the unfriendliness of his expression when he recognized his visitor. He dropped back again into his lounging attitude at once, and his action was itself one of studied discourtesy.

Seth did not appear to notice anything. He surveyed the clearing with a certain appreciation. The vast timbers he beheld seemed of much more consequence to him than the man who lived by their destruction. However, he rode straight over to the fire and dismounted.

"Howdy?" he said, while he loosened the cinches of his saddle.

"What's brought you around?" asked Nevil, ungraciously enough.

Seth turned toward the trees about him.

"Pretty tidy patch," he observed. "We're wantin' big timbers up at the farm. Mebbe you'd notion a contrac'?"

Nevil had noted the loosening of the cinches. He laughed shortly.

"I'm not taking contracts, thanks. But I'll sell you wood which I cut at my pleasure."

"Cord-wood?" Seth shook his head. "Guess we want timbers. Kind o' buildin' a corral around the farm."

"Making a fort of it?"

Nevil's blue eyes followed the upward curling wreath of smoke which dawdled on the still air above the fire.

"Yup."

"Fancy the Injuns are on the racket?"

"Wal, 'tain't what they're doin' now. But ther' ain't no tellin', an' we're slack since the harvest. I 'lows the notion's tol'ble. Mebbe they'll be quiet some—now Rosebud's gone."

There was a quiet emphasis on Seth's final speculation.

"I heard she'd gone away for a bit."

Nevil looked searchingly at this man whom he hated above all men.

"Gone for good," Seth said, with an admirable air of indifference.

"How?"

Nevil suddenly sat up. Seth noted the fact without even glancing in his direction.

"Wal, y' see she's got folks in England. And ther' is a heap o' dollars; an almighty heap. I reckon she'd be a millionairess in this country. Guess it takes a mighty heap o' bills to reckon a million in your country."

This expansiveness was so unusual in the man of the plains that Nevil understood at once he had come purposely to speak of Rosebud. He wondered why. This was the first he had heard of Rosebud's good fortune, and he wished to know more. The matter had been kept from everybody. Even Wanaha had been kept in ignorance of it.

Seth seated himself on a fallen tree-trunk, and now looked squarely into the wood-cutter's thin, mean face.

"Y' see it's kind o' curious. I got that gal from the Injuns more'n six years back, as you'll likely remember. Her folks, her father an' her ma, was killed south o' the Reservations. Guess they were kind o' big folk in your country. An' ther' was a feller come along awhiles back all the way from England to find her. He was a swell law feller; he'd hit her trail, an' when he comes along he said as she owned 'states in your country, a whole heap. Guess she's to be treated like a queen. Dollars? Gee! She ken buy most everything. I 'lows they ken do it slick in your country."

Seth paused to light his pipe. His manner was exquisitely simple. The narration of the story of the girl's good fortune appeared to give him the keenest pleasure. Nevil removed his pipe from his lips and sat chewing the end of his ragged moustache. There was an ugly look in his eyes as he contemplated the ashes of his fire. He might have been staring at the ashes of his own fortunes. However, he contrived a faint smile when he spoke.

"Then I s'pose you've found out her real name?"

"Sure. Marjorie Raynor. Her father was Colonel Landor Raynor."

"Ah."

"An' ther' ain't no question o' the dollars. She hain't no near folk 'cep' an uncle, Stephen Raynor, an' he don't figger anyways, 'cause the dollars are left to her by will. He only comes in, the lawyer feller says, if the gal was to die, or—or get killed."

Seth had become quite reflective; he seemed to find a curious pleasure in thus discussing the girl he loved with a man he at no time had any use for.

Nevil stared uneasily. A quick, furtive glance at Seth, who at that moment seemed to be watching his horse, gave an inkling of his passing thought. If a look could kill Seth would certainly have been a dead man.

"So the whole thing's a dead cinch for her?"

"Yup. Now."

Nevil gave a short laugh.

"You mean—that matter with Little Black Fox. But she brought it on herself. She encouraged him."

Seth was round on him in a twinkling.

"Maybe he was encouraged—but not by her."

"Who then?"

There was unmistakable derision in the wood-cutter's tone. Seth shrugged. A shadowy smile played round his lips, but his eyes were quite serious.

"That's it," he said, relapsing into his reflective manner, "the whole thing's mighty curious. Them law fellers in your country are smartish. They've located a deal. Don't jest know how. They figger that uncle feller is around either this State or Minnesota—likely this one, seein' the Colonel was comin' this aways when he got killed. We got yarnin', an' he was sayin' he thought o' huntin' out this uncle. I guessed ther' wa'an't much need, an' it might set him wantin' the dollars. The law feller said he wouldn't get 'em anyhow—'cep' the gal was dead. We kind o' left it at that. Y' see the whole thing for the uncle hung around that gal—bein' dead."

"And you think he might have had something——" Nevil's words came slowly, like a man who realizes the danger of saying too much.

"Wal, it don't seem possible, I guess. Them two was killed by the Injuns, sure. An' she—I guess she ain't never seen him."

A slight sigh escaped Nevil.

"That's so," he said deliberately.

"Howsum, I guess I'm goin' to look around for this feller. Y' see Rosebud's li'ble to like him. Mebbe he ain't well heeled for dollars, an' she's that tender-hearted she might—I've got his pictur'. Mebbe I'll show it around—eh, what's up?" Seth inquired in his blandest tone.

Nevil suddenly sat up and there was a desperate look in his eyes. But he controlled himself, and, with an effort, spoke indifferently.

"Nothing. I want another pipe."

"Ah." Seth fumbled through his pockets, talking the while. "The pictur' was took when he was most a boy. His hair was thick an' he hadn't no moustache nor nothin', which kind o' makes things hard. As I was sayin', I'm goin' to show it around some, an' maybe some one 'll rec'nize the feller. That's why I got yarnin' to you. Mebbe you ken locate him."

As he said the last word he drew a photograph from his pocket and thrust it into Nevil's hand.

The wood-cutter took it with a great assumption of indifference, and found himself looking down on a result of early photographic art. It was the picture of a very young man with an overshot mouth and a thin, narrow face. But, as Seth had said, he wore no moustache, and his hair was still thick.

Nevil looked long at that picture, and once or twice he licked his lips as though they were very dry. All the time Seth's steady eyes were upon his face, and the shadow of a smile was still about his lips.

At last Nevil looked up and Seth's eyes held his. For a moment the two men sat thus. Then the wood-cutter handed back the photograph and shifted his gaze.

"I've never seen the original of that about these parts," he said a little hoarsely.

"I didn't figger you had," Seth replied, rising and proceeding to tighten up the cinches of his saddle preparatory to departing. "The lawyer feller gave me that. Y' see it's an old pictur'. 'Tain't as fancy as they do 'em now. Mebbe I'll find him later on."

He had swung into his saddle. Nevil had also risen as though to proceed with his work.

"It might be a good thing for him, since Rosebud is so well disposed," Nevil laughed; he had almost recovered himself.

"That's so," observed Seth. "Or a mighty bad thing. Y' can't never tell how dollars 'll fix a man. Dollars has a heap to answer for."

And with this vague remark the plainsman rode slowly away.



CHAPTER XX

SETH PAYS

As the weeks crept by and the torrid heat toned down to the delightful temperature of the Indian summer, news began to reach White River Farm from England. After the first excitement of her arrival had worn off, Rosebud settled down to a regular correspondence.

Even her return to the scenes of her childhood in no way aided her memory. It was all new to her. As her letters often said, though she knew she was grown up, yet, as far as memory served her, she was still only six years old. Servants who had nursed her as a baby, who had cared for her as a child of ten, aunts who had lavished childish presents upon her, cousins who had played with her, they were all strangers, every one.

So she turned with her confidences to those she knew;—those old people on the prairie of Dakota, and that man who had been everything to her. To these she wrote by every mail, giving details of the progress of affairs, telling them of her new life, of her pleasures, her little worries, never forgetting that Ma and Pa were still her mother and father.

Thus they learned that the lawyer's prophecies had been fulfilled. Rosebud was in truth her father's heiress. The courts were satisfied, and she was burdened with heritage under certain conditions of the will. These conditions she did not state, probably a girlish oversight in the rush of events so swiftly passing round her.

The winter stole upon the plains; that hard, relentless winter which knows no yielding till spring drives it forth. First the fierce black frosts, then the snow, and later the shrieking blizzard, battling, tearing for possession of the field, carrying death in its breath for belated man and beast, and sweeping the snow into small mountains about the lonely prairie dwellings as though, in its bitter fury at the presence of man, it would bury them out of sight where its blast proved powerless to destroy them. Christmas and New Year were past, that time of peace and festivity which is kept up wherever man sojourns, be it in city or on the plains.

Through these dark months Seth and Rube worked steadily on building their stockade, hauling the logs, cutting, splitting, joining. The weather made no difference to them. The fiercest storm disturbed them no further than to cause them to set a life-line from house to barn, or to their work, wherever that might be. No blizzard could drive them within doors when work was to be done. This was the life they knew, they had always lived, and they accepted it uncomplainingly, just as they accepted the fruits of the earth in their season.

No warning sound came from the Indians. The settlers forgot the recent episode, forgot the past, which is the way of human nature, and lived in the present only, and looked forward happily to the future.

Seth and Rube minded their own affairs. They were never the ones to croak. But their vigilance never relaxed. Seth resumed his visits to the Reservation as unconcernedly as though no trouble had ever occurred. He went on with his Sunday work at the Mission, never altering his tactics by one iota. And in his silent way he learned all that interested him.

He learned of Little Black Fox's protracted recovery, his lately developed moroseness. He knew whenever a council of chiefs took place, and much of what passed on these occasions. The presence of Nevil Steyne at such meetings was a matter which never failed to interest him. He was rarely seen in the company of the Agent, yet a quiet understanding existed between them, and he frequently possessed news which only Parker could have imparted.

So it was clearly shown that whatever the general opinion of the settlers, Seth, and doubtless Rube also, had their own ideas on the calm of those winter months, and lost no opportunity of verifying them.

New Year found the ponderous stockade round the farm only a little more than half finished in spite of the greatest efforts. Rube had hoped for better results, but the logs had been slow in forthcoming. The few Indians who would work in the winter had been scarcer this year, and, in spite of the Agent, whose duty it was to encourage his charges in accepting and carrying out remunerative labor, the work had been very slow.

At Rube's suggestion it was finally decided to seek white labor in Beacon Crossing. It was more expensive, but it was more reliable. When once the new project had been put into full working order it was decided to abandon the Indian labor altogether.

With this object in view Seth went across to the Reservation to consult Parker. He was met by the Agent's sister. Her brother was out, but she expected him home to dinner, which would be in the course of half an hour.

"He went off with Jim Crow," the amiable spinster told her visitor. "Went off this morning early. He said he was going over to the Pine Ridge Agency. But he took Jim Crow with him, and hadn't any idea of going until the scout came."

Seth ensconsed himself in an armchair and propped his feet up on the steel bars of a huge wood stove.

"Ah," he said easily. "Guess there's a deal for him to do, come winter. With your permission I'll wait."

Miss Parker was all cordiality. No man, in her somewhat elderly eyes, was more welcome than Seth. The Agent's sister had once been heard to say, if there was a man to be compared with her brother in the whole country it was Seth. She only wondered he'd escaped being married out of hand by one of the town girls, as she characterized the women of Beacon Crossing. But then she was far more prejudiced in favor of Seth than her own sex.

"He'll be glad, Seth," she said at once; "James is always partial to a chat with you. You just make yourself comfortable right there. I've got a boil of beef and dumplings on, which I know you like. You'll stay and have food?"

"I take that real friendly," said Seth, smiling up into the plain, honest face before him. "Guess I'll have a pipe and a warm while you're fixin' things."

Somehow Miss Parker found herself retiring to her kitchen again before she had intended it.

During the next half hour the hostess found various excuses for invading the parlor where Seth was engaged in his promised occupation. She generally had some cheery, inconsequent remark to pass. Seth gave her little encouragement, but he was always polite. At last the dinner was served, and, sharp to time, Jimmy Parker returned. He came by himself, and blustered into the warm room bringing with him that brisk atmosphere of the outside cold which, in winter, always makes the inside of a house on the prairie strike one as a perfect haven of comfort. He greeted Seth cordially as he shook the frost from his fur-coat collar, and gently released his moustache from its coating of ice.

Seth deferred his business until after dinner. He never liked talking business before womenfolk. And Miss Parker, like most of her sex in the district, was likely to exaggerate the importance of any chance hint about the Indians dropped in her presence. So the boil of silverside and dumplings was discussed to the accompaniment of a casual conversation which was chiefly carried on by the Agent's sister. At length the two men found themselves alone, and their understanding of each other was exampled by the prompt inquiry of Parker.

"Well?" he questioned. Seth settled himself in his chair and, from force of habit, spread his hands out to the fire.

"We're finishing our job with white labor," he said. Then as an afterthought, "Y' see we want to git things fixed 'fore spring opens."

The Agent nodded.

"Just so," he said.

The beads on his moccasins had much interest for Seth at the moment.

"I'd never gamble a pile on Injuns' labor," he remarked indifferently. Parker laughed.

"No. It would be a dead loss—just now."

Seth looked round inquiringly.

"I was wondering when you would give them up," the Agent went on. "I've had a great deal of difficulty keeping them at it. And we're liable, I think, to have more."

The last was said very gravely.

"Kind o' how we've figgered right along?" Seth asked.

"Yes."

The two men relapsed into silence for a while, and smoked on. At last Seth spoke with the air of a man who has just finished reviewing matters of importance in his mind.

"We've taken in the well in fixin' that corral."

"Good. We've got no well here."

"No."

"I was over at Pine Ridge to-day."

"That's what your sister said."

"I went for two reasons. Jim Crow has smelt out preparations for Sun-dances. We can't locate where they are going to be held, or when. I went over to consult Jackson, and also to see how he's getting on over there. He's having the same trouble getting the Indians to look at any work. Little Black Fox is about again. Also he sees a heap too much of that white familiar of his, Nevil Steyne. By Jove, I wish we could fix something on that man and get the government to deport him. He's got a great sway over the chief. What the devil is his object?" Jimmy Parker's face flushed under his exasperation.

"I'd give a heap to git a cinch on him," Seth replied thoughtfully. "He's smart. His tracks are covered every time. Howsum, if things git doin' this spring, I've a notion we'll run him down mebbe—later."

The Agent was all interest.

"Have you discovered anything?"

"Wal—nothin' that counts your way. It's jest personal, 'tween him an' me."

The other laughed cheerfully.

"Couldn't be better," he exclaimed. "I'd sooner it depended on you than on the government."

Seth let the tribute pass.

"We must locate them Sun-dances," he said.

"Yes. We've got troops enough to stop them."

"Troops?—pshaw!"

Seth rose. Parker understood his last remark. The presence of troops had long since been discussed between them. The visitor moved toward the door, and the Agent went to his desk. At the door Seth turned as some thought occurred to him.

"Guess I'd not report anything yet. Not till the Sun-dances are located. I'll git around some." He slipped into his fur coat and turned up the storm collar.

Parker nodded.

"Keep a smart eye for yourself, Seth," he said. "Little Black Fox isn't likely to forget. Especially with Steyne around."

Seth smiled faintly.

"And Steyne 'll kind o' remember, sure." He passed out and left his sturdy friend wondering.

"I'd give something to know," that individual said to himself, when the sound of horse's hoofs had died out. "Seth's dead against Steyne, and I'd like to bet it's over Rosebud."

The object of the Agent's thoughts passed unconcernedly on his way. He branched off the ford trail intending to make for the bridge, below which his men were cutting the timbers for the corral. His way was remote from the chief encampment, and not a single Indian showed himself.

The skeleton woods that lined the trail gave a desolate air to the bleak, white prospect. The whole of that northern world offered little promise to the traveler, little inducement to leave the warmth of house or tepee.

As the horseman neared the bridge he paused to listen. Something of his attitude communicated itself to his horse. The animal's ears were laid back, and it seemed to be listening to some sound behind it. Whatever had attracted master and horse must have been very faint.

A moment later Seth let the horse walk on and the animal appeared content. But if the animal were so, its master was not. He turned several times as he approached the bridge, and scanned the crowding branches on each side of the snow-covered trail behind him.

Seth knew that he was followed. More, he knew that the watcher was clumsy, and had not the stealth of the Indian. At the bridge he faced about and sat waiting. The gravity of his face was relieved by a slight smile.

Suddenly the crack of a rifle rang out. The horseman's smile died abruptly. His horse reared, pawing the air, and he saw blood on the beast's shoulder. He saw that the flesh had been ripped by a glancing bullet, and the course of the wound showed him whence the shot had come.

He looked for the man who had fired, and, as he did so, another shot rang out. He reeled forward in his saddle, but straightened up almost at once, and his right hand flew to his revolver, while he tried to swing his horse about. But somehow he had lost power, and the horse was in a frenzy of terror. The next moment the beast was racing across the bridge in the direction of home.

The journey was made at a great pace. Seth was sitting bolt upright. His face was ashen, and his eyelids drooped in spite of his best efforts.

Rube was in the region of the kitchen door as he galloped up, and he called out a greeting.

The rider began to reply. But, at that moment, the horse propped and halted, and the reply was never finished. Seth rolled out of the saddle and fell to the ground like a log.



CHAPTER XXI

TWO HEADS IN CONSPIRACY

Seth was badly hit; so badly that it was impossible to say how long he might be confined to a sick-room. His left shoulder-blade had been broken by the bullet, which, striking under the arm, had glanced round his ribs, and made its way dangerously adjacent to the spine. Its path was marked by a shocking furrow of lacerated flesh. Though neither gave expression to the thought, both Ma and Rube marveled at the escape he had had, and even the doctor from Beacon Crossing, accustomed as he was to such matters, found food for grave reflection on the ways of Providence.

When the patient recovered consciousness he maintained an impenetrable silence on the subject of the attack made upon him. Parker and Hargreaves protested. The military authorities demanded explanation in vain. To all but the Agent Seth vouchsafed the curtest of replies, and to him he made only a slight concession.

"Guess this is my racket," he said, with just a touch of invalid peevishness. "Mebbe I'll see it thro' my own way—later."

Ma and Rube refrained from question. It was theirs to help, and they knew that if there was anything which Seth had to tell he would tell it in his own time.

But time passed on, and no explanation was forthcoming. Taking their meals together in the kitchen, or passing quiet evenings in the parlor while their patient slept up-stairs, Ma and Rube frequently discussed the matter, but their speculations led them nowhere. Still, as the sick man slowly progressed toward recovery, they were satisfied. It was all they asked.

Rube accepted the burden of the work thus thrust upon him in cheerful silence. There was something horse-like in his willingness for work. He just put forth a double exertion without one single thought of self.

Every week the English mail brought Ma a letter from Rosebud, and ever since Seth had taken up his abode in the sick-room the opening and reading of these long, girlish epistles had become a function reserved for his entertainment. It was a brief ray of sunshine in the gray monotony of his long imprisonment. On these occasions, generally Tuesdays, the entire evening would be spent with the invalid.

They were happy, single-hearted little gatherings. Ma was seated at the bedside in a great armchair before a table on which the letter was spread out. An additional lamp was requisitioned for the occasion, and her glasses were polished until they shone and gleamed in the yellow light. Seth was propped up, and Rube, large, silent, like a great reflective St. Bernard dog, reclined ponderously at the foot of the wooden bedstead. The reading proceeded with much halting and many corrections and rereadings, but with never an interruption from the attentive audience.

The men listened to the frivolous, inconsequent gossip of the girl, now thousands of miles away from them, with a seriousness, a delighted happiness that nothing else in their lives could have afforded them. Comment came afterward, and usually from Ma, the two men merely punctuating her remarks with affirmative or negative monosyllables.

It was on the receipt of one of these letters that Ma saw her way to a small scheme which had been slowly revolving itself in her brain ever since Seth was wounded. Seth had been in the habit of enclosing occasional short notes under cover of the old woman's more bulky and labored replies to the girl. Since his misadventure these, of course, had been discontinued, with the result that now, at last, Rosebud was asking for an explanation.

In reading the letter aloud Ma avoided that portion of it which referred to the matter. Her reason was obviously to keep her own plans from her boy's knowledge, but so clumsily did she skip to another part of the letter, that, all unconscious of it, she drew from her audience a sharp look of inquiry.

Nothing was said at the time, but the following day, at supper, when Ma and Rube were alone, the man, who had taken the whole day to consider the matter, spoke of it in the blunt fashion habitual to him.

"Guess ther' was suthin' in that letter you didn't read, Ma?" he said without preamble.

Ma looked up. Her bright eyes peered keenly through her spectacles into her husband's massive face.

"An' if ther' was?" she said interrogatively.

The old man shrugged.

"Guess I was wonderin'," he said, plying his knife and fork with some show of indifference.

A silence followed. Ma helped herself to more tea and refilled her husband's mug.

"Guess we'll have to tell the child," she said presently.

"Seems like."

A longer silence followed.

"She was jest askin' why Seth didn't write."

"I kind o' figgered suthin' o' that natur'. You'd best tell her."

Rube rested the ends of his knife and fork on the extremities of his plate and took a noisy draught from his huge mug of tea. A quiet smile lurked in the old woman's eyes.

"Rosebud's mighty impulsive," she observed slowly.

"Ef you mean she kind o' jumps at things, I take it that's how."

The old woman nodded, and a reflection of her smile twinkled in her husband's eyes as he gazed over at the little figure opposite him.

"Wal," said Rube, expansively, "it ain't fer me to tell you, Ma, but we've got our dooty. Guess I ain't a heap at writin' fancy notions, but mebbe I ken help some. Y' see it's you an' me. I 'lows Seth would hate to worrit Rosie wi' things, but as I said we've got our dooty, an' it seems——"

"Dooty?" Ma chuckled. "Say, Rube, we'll write to the girl, you an' me. An' we don't need to ask no by-your-leave of nobody. Not even Seth."

"Not even Seth."

The two conspirators eyed one another slyly, smiled with a quaint knowingness, and resumed their supper in silence.

A common thought, a common hope, held them. Neither would have spoken it openly, even though no one was there to overhear. Each felt that they were somehow taking advantage of Seth and, perhaps, not doing quite the right thing by Rosebud; but after all they were old, simple people who loved these two, and had never quite given up the hope of seeing them ultimately brought together.

The meal was finished, and half an hour later they were further working out their mild conspiracy in the parlor. Ma was the scribe, and was seated at the table surrounded by all the appurtenances of her business. Rube, in a great mental effort, was clouding the atmosphere with the reeking fumes of his pipe. The letter was a delicate matter, and its responsibility sat heavily on this man of the plains. Ma was less embarrassed; her woman's instinct helped her. Besides, since Rosebud had been away she had almost become used to writing letters.

"Say, Rube," she said, looking up after heading her note-paper, "how d' you think it'll fix her when she hears?"

Rube gazed at the twinkling eyes raised to his; he gave a chuckling grunt, and his words came with elephantine meaning.

"She'll be all of a muss-up at it."

Ma's smile broadened.

"What's makin' you laff, Ma?" the old man asked.

"Jest nuthin'. I was figgerin' if the gal could—if we could git her reply before spring opens."

"Seems likely—if the boat don't sink."

Ma put the end of her pen in her mouth and eyed her man. Rube scratched his head and smoked hard. Neither spoke. At last the woman jerked out an impatient inquiry.

"Well?" she exclaimed.

Rube removed his pipe from his lips with great deliberation and eased himself in his chair.

"You've located the name of the farm on top, an' the State, an' the date?" he inquired, by way of gaining time.

"Guess I ain't daft, Rube."

"No." The man spoke as though his answer were the result of deliberate thought. Then he cleared his throat, took a long final pull at his pipe, removed it from his mouth, held it poised in the manner of one who has something of importance to say, and sat bolt upright. "Then I guess we ken git right on." And having thus clearly marked their course he sat back and complacently surveyed his wife.

But the brilliancy of his suggestion was lost on Ma, and she urged him further.

"Well?"

"Wal—I'd jest say, 'Honored Lady,'" he suggested doubtfully.

"Mussy on the man, we're writin' to Rosebud!" exclaimed the old woman.

"Sure." Rube nodded patronizingly, but he seemed a little uncomfortable under his wife's stare of amazement. "But," he added, in a tone meant to clinch the argument, "she ain't 'Rosebud' no longer."

"Rubbish an' stuff! She's 'Rosebud'—jest 'Rosebud.' An' 'dearest Rosebud' at that, an' so I've got it," Ma said, hurriedly writing the words as she spoke. "Now," she went on, looking up, "you can git on wi' the notions to foller."

Again Rube cleared his throat. Ma watched him, chewing the end of her penholder the while. The man knocked his pipe out and slowly began to refill it. He looked out the window into the blackness of the winter night. His vast face was heavy with thought, and his shaggy gray brows were closely knit. As she watched, the old woman's bright eyes smiled. Her thoughts had gone back to their courting days. She thought of the two or three letters Rube had contrived to send her, which were still up-stairs in an old trunk containing her few treasures. She remembered that these letters had, in each case, begun with "Honored Lady." She wondered where he had obtained the notion which still remained with him after all these years.

Feeling the silence becoming irksome Rube moved uneasily.

"Y' see it's kind o' del'cate. Don't need handlin' rough," he said. "Seems you'd best go on like this. Mebbe you ken jest pop it down rough-like an' fix it after. 'Which it's my painful dooty an' pleasure——'"

"La, but you always was neat at fixin' words, Rube," Ma murmured, while she proceeded to write. "How's this?" she went on presently, reading what she had just written. "I'm sorry to have to tell you as Seth's got hurt pretty bad. He's mighty sick, an' liable to be abed come spring. Pore feller, he's patient as he always is, but he's all mussed-up an' broken shocking; shot in the side an' got bones smashed up. Howsum, he's goin' on all right, an' we hope for the best."

"I 'lows that's neat," Rube said, lighting his pipe. "'Tain't jest what I'd fancy. Sounds kind o' familiar. An' I guess it's li'ble to scare her some."

"Well?"

"Wal, I tho't we'd put it easy-like."

Ma looked a little scornful. Rube was certainly lacking in duplicity.

"Say, Rube, you ain't a bit smarter than when you courted me. I jest want that gal to think it's mighty bad."

"Eh?" Rube stared.

Ma was getting impatient.

"I guess you never could see a mile from your own nose, Rube; you're that dull an' slow wher' gals is concerned. I'll write this letter in my own way. You'd best go an' yarn with Seth. An' you needn't say nuthin' o' this to him. We'll git a quick answer from Rosebud, or I'm ter'ble slow 'bout some things, like you."

The cloud of responsibility suddenly lifted from the farmer's heavy features. He smiled his relief at his partner in conspiracy. He knew that in such a matter as the letter he was as much out of place as one of his own steers would be. Ma, he was convinced, was one of the cleverest of her sex, and if Seth and Rosebud were ever to be brought together again she would do it. So he rose, and, moving round to the back of his wife's chair, laid his great hand tenderly on her soft, gray hair.