CHAPTER V
A BIRTHDAY GIFT
Rosebud struggled through five long months of illness after her arrival atWhite River Farm. It was only the untiring care of Rube and his wife, andSeth, that pulled her through. The wound at the base of the skull hadaffected her brain as well as body, and, until the last moment when shefinally awoke to consciousness, her case seemed utterly without hope.
But when at last her convalescence came it was marvelously rapid. It wasnot until the good old housewife began to question her patient that thefull result of the cruel blow on her head was realized. Then it was foundthat she had no recollection of any past. She knew not who she was, hername, her age, even her nationality. She had a hazy idea of Indians,which, as she grew stronger, became more pronounced, until she declaredthat she must have lived among Indians all her life.
It was this last that roused Seth to a sense of what he conceived to behis duty. And with that deliberateness which always characterized him, heset about it at once. From the beginning, after his first great burst ofpitying sorrow for the little waif, when he had clasped her in his armsand almost fiercely claimed her for his own, his treasure trove, he hadrealized that she belonged to some other world than his own. This thoughtstayed with him. It slumbered during the child's long illness, but rousedto active life when he discovered that she had no knowledge of herself.Therefore he set about inquiries. He must find out to whom she belongedand restore her to her people.
There was no one missing for two hundred miles round Beacon Crossingexcept the Jasons. It was impossible that the Indians could have gonefarther afield, for they had not been out twenty-four hours when Rosebudwas rescued. So his search for the child's friends proved unavailing.
Still, from that day on he remained loyal to her. Any clue, however frail,was never too slight for him to hunt to its source. He owed it to her torestore her to her own, whatever regret it might cost him to lose her. Hewas not the man to shirk a painful duty, certainly not where hisaffections were concerned.
During the six years, while Rosebud was growing to womanhood, Seth's handswere very full. Those wonderful violet eyes belonged to no milk and water"miss." From the very beginning the girl proved herself spirited andwilful. Not in any vicious way. A "madcap" best describes her. She had nothought of consequences; only the delight of the moment, the excitementand risk. These were the things that plunged her into girlish scrapesfrom which it fell to the lot of Seth to extricate her. All her littleescapades were in themselves healthy enough, but they were rarely withouta smack of physical danger.
She began when she learned to ride, a matter which of course devolved uponSeth.
Once she could sit a wild, half-tamed broncho her career in the directionof accident became checkered. Once, after a day's search for her, Sethbrought her home insensible. She had been thrown from her horse, an animalas wildly wilful as herself.
A little private target practice with a revolver resulted in the laming ofa cow, and the killing of a chicken, and in nearly terminating Rube'scareer, when he ran out of the house to ascertain the meaning of thefiring. Once she was nearly drowned in the White River, while bathing withthe Indian children after service at the Mission. She was never free fromthe result of childish recklessness. And this feature of her charactergrew with her, though her achievements moderated as the years passed.
It was by these wild means that she endeared herself to the folks on thefarm. Seth's love grew apace. He made no attempt to deceive himself. Heloved her as a child, and that love changed only in its nature when shebecame a woman. He made no attempt to check it. He knew she was not forhim; never could be. He, a rough, half-educated plainsman; she, a girl whodisplayed, even in her most reckless moods, that indelible stamp whichmarked the disparity between the social worlds to which they belonged. Hewas convinced, without disparaging himself, that to attempt to win herwould be an outrage, an imposition on her. Worse, it would be ranklydishonest.
So the man said nothing. All that lay within his heart he kept hidden farout of sight. No chance word or weak moment should reveal it. No oneshould ever know, least of all Rosebud.
But in all this Seth reckoned without his host. Such glorious eyes, such acharming face as Rosebud possessed were not likely to belong to a girldevoid of the instincts of her sex. As she grew up her perspectivechanged. She saw things in a different light. Seth no longer appealed toher as a sort of uncle, or even father. She saw in him a young man ofmedium good looks, a strong, fine figure. A man who had no idea of themeaning of the word fear; a man who had a way of saying and doing thingswhich often made her angry, but always made her glad that he said and didthem. Furthermore, she soon learned that he was only twenty-eight.Therefore, she resented many things which she had hitherto accepted assatisfactory. She made up her wilful mind that it didn't please her tocall him "Daddy" Seth any longer.
Those six years brought another change; a change in the life of thewood-cutter of White River. He still lived in his log hut, but he hadtaken to himself a wife, the beautiful orphaned daughter of Big Wolf, andsister of the reigning chief, Little Black Fox. Whatever may have beenNevil Steyne's position before, he was completely ostracized by hisfellows now, that is by all but the folk at White River Farm. Men nolonger suggested that he had "taken the blanket"; they openly assertedit.
The reason of Nevil Steyne's toleration by the White River Farm people wascurious. It was for Rosebud's sake; Rosebud and Wanaha, the wife of therenegade wood-cutter. The latter was different from the rest of her race.She was almost civilized, a woman of strong, honest character in spite ofher upbringing. And between Rosebud and this squaw a strong friendship hadsprung up. Kindly Rube and his wife could not find it in their hearts tointerfere, and even Seth made no attempt to check it. He looked on andwondered without approval; and wonder with him quickly turned into keenobservation.
And it is with this strange friendship that we have to deal now.
Inside the log hut on the White River, Wanaha was standing before a smalliron cook-stove preparing her husband's food. It was the strangest sightimaginable to see her cooking in European fashion. Yet she did it in nouncertain manner. She learned it all because she loved her white husband,just as she learned to speak English, and to dress after the manner ofwhite women. She went further. With the assistance of the missionary andRosebud she learned to read and sew, and to care for a house. And all thislabor of a great love brought her the crowning glory of legitimatewifehood with a renegade white man, and the care of a dingy home that nowhite girl would have faced. But she was happy. Happy beyond all herwildest dreams in the smoke-begrimed tepee of her father.
Nevil Steyne had just returned from Beacon Crossing, whither he had goneto sell a load of cord-wood, and to ask for mail at the post-office.Strange as it may seem, this man still received letters from England. Butto-day he had returned with only a packet of newspapers.
He entered the hut without notice or greeting for Wanaha, who, in trueIndian fashion, waited by the cook-stove for her lord to speak first.
He passed over to the bedstead which occupied the far end of the room, andsat himself down to a perusal of his papers. He was undoubtedlypreoccupied and not intentionally unkind to the woman.
Wanaha went steadily on with her work. For her this was quite as it shouldbe. He would speak presently. She was satisfied.
Presently the man flung his papers aside, and the woman's deep eyes methis as he looked across at her.
"Well, Wana," he said, "I've sold the wood and got orders for six morecords. Business is booming."
The man spoke in English. Yet he spoke Wanaha's tongue as fluently as shedid herself. Here again the curious submissive nature of the woman wasexampled. He must speak his own tongue. It was not right that he should beforced to use hers.
"I am much happy," she said simply. Then her woman's thought rose superiorto greater issues. "You will eat?" she went on.
"Yes, Wana. I'm hungry--very."
"So." The woman's eyes smiled into his, and she
eagerly set the food on atable made of packing cases.
Steyne began at once. He was thoughtful while he ate. But after a while helooked up, and there was a peculiar gleam in his blue eyes as they restedon the warm, rich features of his willing slave.
"Pretty poor sort of place--this," he said. "It's not good enough for you,my Wana."
The woman had seated herself on a low stool near the table. It was one ofher few remaining savage instincts she would not give up. It was notfitting that she should eat with him.
"How would you like a house, a big house, like--White River Farm?" he wenton, as though he were thinking aloud. "And hundreds, thousands, of steersand cows? And buggies to ride in? And farm machinery? And--and plenty offine clothes to wear, like--like Rosebud?"
The woman shook her head and indicated her humble belongings.
"This--very good. Very much good. See, you are here. I want you."
The man flushed and laughed a little awkwardly. But he was well pleased.
"Oh, we're happy enough. You and I, my Wana. But--we'll see."
Wanaha made no comment; and when his meat was finished she set a dish ofbuckwheat cakes and syrup before him.
He devoured them hungrily, and the woman's eyes grew soft with delight athis evident pleasure.
At last his thoughtfulness passed, and he put an abrupt question.
"Where's your brother, now?"
"Little Black Fox is by his tepee. He goes hunting with another sun.Yes?"
"I must go and see him this afternoon."
Steyne pushed his plate away, and proceeded to fill his pipe.
"Yes?"
The expressive eyes of the woman had changed again. His announcementseemed to give her little pleasure.
"Yes, I have things to pow-wow with him."
"Ah. Rosebud? Always Rosebud?"
The man laughed.
"My Wana does not like Little Black Fox to think of Rosebud, eh?"
Wanaha was silent for a while. Then she spoke in a low tone.
"Little Black Fox is not wise. He is very fierce. No, I love my brother,but Rosebud must not be his squaw. I love Rosebud, too."
The blue eyes of the man suddenly became very hard.
"Big Wolf captured Rosebud, and would have kept her for your brother.Therefore she is his by right of war. Indian war. This Seth kills yourfather. He says so. He takes Rosebud. Is it for him to marry her? Yourbrother does not think so."
Wanaha's face was troubled. "It was in war. You said yourself. My brothercould not hold her from the white man. Then his right is gone.Besides----"
"Besides----?"
"A chief may not marry a white girl."
"You married a white man."
"It is different."
There was silence for some time while Wanaha cleared away the plates.Presently, as she was bending over the cook-stove, she spoke again. Andshe kept her face turned from her husband while she spoke.
"You want Rosebud for my brother. Why?"
"I?" Nevil laughed uneasily. Wanaha had a way of putting things verydirectly. "I don't care either way."
"Yet you pow-wow with him? You say 'yes' when he talks of Rosebud?"
It was the man's turn to look away, and by doing so he hid a deep cunningin his eyes.
"Oh, that's because Little Black Fox is not an easy man. He isunreasonable. It is no use arguing with him. Besides, they will see henever gets Rosebud." He nodded in the direction of White River Farm.
"I have said he is very fierce. He has many braves. One never knows. Mybrother longs for the war-path. He would kill Seth. For Seth killed ourfather. One never knows. It is better you say to him, 'Rosebud is white.The braves want no white squaw.'"
But the man had had enough of the discussion, and began to whistle. It washard to understand how he had captured the loyal heart of this duskyprincess. He was neither good-looking nor of a taking manner. Hisappearance was dirty, unkempt. His fair hair, very thin and getting grayat the crown, was long and uncombed, and his moustache was ragged andgrossly stained. Yet she loved him with a devotion which had made herwilling to renounce her people for him if necessary, and this means farmore in a savage than it does amongst the white races.
Steyne put on his greasy slouch hat and swung out of the house. Wanahaknew that what she had said was right, Nevil Steyne encouraged LittleBlack Fox. She wondered, and was apprehensive. Nevertheless, she went onwith her work. The royal blood of her race was strong in her. She hadmuch of the stoicism which is, perhaps, the most pronounced feature of herpeople. It was no good saying more than she had said. If she saw necessityshe would do, and not talk.
She was still in the midst of her work when a sound caught her ear whichsurely no one else could have heard. In response she went to the door. Arider, still half a mile away, was approaching. She went back to herwashing-up, smiling. She had recognized the rider even at that distance.Therefore she was in nowise surprised when, a few minutes later, she hearda bright, girlish voice hailing her from without.
"Wana, Wana!" The tone was delightfully imperious. "Why don't you havesome place to tie a horse to?"
It was Rosebud. Wanaha had expected her, for it was the anniversary of hercoming to White River Farm, and the day Ma Sampson had allotted for herbirthday.
Wanaha went out to meet her friend. This greeting had been made a hundredtimes, on the occasion of every visit Rosebud made to the woman's humblehome. It was a little joke between them, for there was a large iron hookhigh up on the wall, just out of the girl's reach, set there for thepurpose of tying up a horse. The squaw took the girl's reins from herhands, and hitched them to the hook.
"Welcome," she said in her deep voice, and held out a hand to be shakenas white folk shake hands, not in the way Indians do it.
"What is it I must say to you?" she went on, in a puzzled way. "Oh, Iknow. 'Much happy return.' That is how you tell me the last time youcome."
The squaw's great black eyes wore their wonderful soft look as they gazeddown upon her visitor. It was a strange contrast they made as they stoodthere in the full light of the summer afternoon sun.
Both were extremely handsome of figure, though the Indian woman was morenatural and several inches taller. But their faces were opposite in everydetail. The squaw was dark, with clear velvety skin, and eyes black andlarge and deeply luminous; she had a broad, intelligent forehead overwhich her straight black hair fell from a natural centre parting, and wascaught back from her face at about the level of her mouth with two bows ofdeep red braid. Her features might have been chiseled by a sculptor, theywere so perfectly symmetrical, so accurately proportioned. And there weretimes, too, when, even to the eyes of a white man, her color ratherenhanced her beauty; and this was when her slow smile crept over herface.
Rosebud had no classical regularity of feature, but she had what isbetter. Her face was a series of expressions, changing with almost everymoment as her swift-passing moods urged her. One feature she possessedthat utterly eclipsed anything the stately beauty of the other couldclaim. She had large, lustrous violet eyes that seemed like wells ofever-changing color. They never looked at you with the same shade in theirdepths twice. They were eyes that madden by reason of their inconsistency.They dwarfed in beauty every other feature in the girl's face. She waspretty in an irregular manner, but one never noticed anything in her facewhen her eyes were visible. These, and her masses of golden hair, whichflowed loosely about her head in thick, rope-like curls, were her greatclaims to beauty.
Now, as she stood smiling up into the dark face above her, she looked whatshe was; a girl in the flush of early womanhood, a prairie girl, wild asthe flowers which grow hidden in the lank grass of the plains, as waywardas the breezes which sweep them from every point of the compass.
"Mayn't I come in?" asked Rosebud, as the woman made no move to let herpass.
Wanaha turned with some haste. "Surely," she said. "I was thinking. Whatyou call 'dreaming.'"
She eagerly put a stool for the girl to sit upon. But Rosebud pr
eferredthe table.
"Well, Wana," said the girl, playfully, "you said you wanted meparticularly to-day, so, at great inconvenience to myself, and mother, Ihave come. If it isn't important you'll get into grave trouble. I wasgoing to help Seth hoe the potatoes, but----"
"Poor Seth." Wanaha had caught something of the other's infectious mood.
"I don't think he needs any pity, either," said Rosebud, impulsively."Seth's sometimes too much of a good thing. He said I ought to learn tohoe. And I don't think hoeing's very nice for one thing; besides, healways gets angry if I cut out any of the plants. He can just do ithimself."
"Seth's a good man. He killed my father; but he is good, I think."
"Yes." For the moment Rosebud had become grave. "I wonder what wouldhave----" She broke off and looked searchingly into her friend's face."Wana," she went on abruptly, "why did you send for me to-day? I can'tstay. I really can't, I must go back and help Seth, or he'll be soangry."
Rosebud quite ignored her own contradictions, but Wanaha didn't.
"No, and it is not good to make Seth angry. He--what-you-call--he verygood by you. See, I say come to me. You come, and I have--ah--ah," shebroke off in a bewildered search for a word. "No--that not it. So, I know.Birthday pre--sent."
Wanaha gave a triumphant glance into Rosebud's laughing face and went to acupboard, also made of packing cases, and brought forth a pair ofmoose-hide moccasins, perfectly beaded and trimmed with black fox fur. Shehad made them with her own hands for her little friend, a labor of loveinto which she had put the most exquisite work of which she was capable.
Rosebud's delight was unfeigned. The shoes were perfect. The leather waslike the finest kid. It was a present worthy of the giver. She held outher hands for them, but the Indian laughed and shook her head.
"No," she said playfully. "No, you white woman! Your folk not carry thingsso," and she held the tiny shoes out at arm's length. "You put paperround, so." She picked up one of her husband's newspapers and wrapped thepresent into a clumsy parcel. "There," she exclaimed, handing it to thegirl, "I wish you much happy!"
As she put the parcel into the outstretched hands, Rosebud sprang from thetable and flung her arms round the giver's neck, and kissed her heartily.
"You're the dandiest thing in the world, Wana," she cried impulsively,"and I love you."
The Watchers of the Plains: A Tale of the Western Prairies Page 5