But Seth, understanding so much as he did of the life on that prairie farm, and the overshadowing threat which was always with them, had yet lost sight of the significance of the extreme grayness of this woman’s hair. Still her bright energy and uncomplaining nature might well have lulled all fears, and diverted attention from the one feature which betrayed her ceaseless anxiety.
“I kind o’ tho’t sech work was for young fingers, Ma,” Seth observed, indicating the stockings.
“Ah, Seth, boy, I hated to darn when I was young an’ flighty.”
The man smiled. His accusations had been made to ears that would not hear. He knew this woman’s generous heart.
“I reckon Rosebud’ll take to it later on,” he said quietly.
“When she’s married.”
“Ye-es.”
Seth watched the needle pass through and through the wool on its rippling way. And his thoughts were of a speculative nature.
“She’s a grown woman now,” said Mrs. Sampson, after a while.
“That’s so.”
“An’ she’ll be thinkin’ of ’beaus,’ or I’m no prophet.”
“Time enough, Ma.”
“Time? I guess she’s goin’ on eighteen. Maybe you don’t know a deal o’ gals, boy.”
The bright face looked up. One swift glance at her companion and she was bending over her work again.
“I had ’beaus’ enough, I reckon, when I was eighteen. Makes me laff when I think o’ Rube. He’s always been like what he is now. Jest quiet an’ slow. I came nigh marryin’ a feller who’s got a swell horse ranch way up in Canada, through Rube bein’ slow. Guess Rube was the man for me, though, all through. But, you see, I couldn’t ask him to marry me. Mussy on us, he was slow!”
“Did you have to help him out, Ma?”
“Help him? Did you ever know a gal who didn’t help her ’beau’ out? Boy, when a gal gets fixed on a man he’s got a job if he’s goin’ to get clear. Unless he’s like my Rube—ter’ble slow.”
“That’s how you’re sizin’ me now,” said Seth, with a short laugh.
Ma Sampson worked on assiduously.
“Maybe you’re slow in some things, Seth,” she ventured, after a moment’s thought.
“See here, Ma, I’ve always reckoned we’d get yarnin’ like this some day. It ’ud please you an’ Rube for me to marry Rosebud. Wal, you an’ me’s mostly given to talkin’ plain. An’ I tell you right here that Rosebud ain’t for the likes o’ me. Don’t you think I’m makin’ out myself a poor sort o’ cuss. ’Tain’t that. You know, an’ I know, Rosebud belongs to mighty good folk. Wal, before ther’s any thought of me an’ Rosebud, we’re goin’ to locate those friends. It’s only honest, Ma, and as such I know you’ll understand. Guess we don’t need to say any more.”
Mrs. Sampson had ceased working, and sat peering at her boy through her large spectacles. Seth’s look was very determined, and she understood him well.
She shook her head.
“Guess you’re reckoning out your side.” She laughed slyly and went on darning. “Maybe Rosebud won’t thank you a heap when you find those friends. They haven’t made much fuss to find her.”
“No, Ma. An’ that’s just it.”
“How?” The darning suddenly dropped into Mrs. Sampson’s lap.
“Maybe they were killed by the Injuns.”
“You’re guessin’.”
“Maybe I am. But——”
“What do you know, boy?” The old woman was all agog with excitement.
“Not a great deal, Ma,” Seth said, with one of his shadowy smiles. “But what I do makes me want to write a letter. And a long one. An’ that sort of thing ain’t easy with me. You see, I’m ‘ter’ble slow.’”
Seth’s manner was very gentle, but very decided, and Ma Sampson did not need much explanation. She quietly stood up and gathered her belongings together.
“You get right to it, boy. What you do is right for me. I’ll say no more. As my Rube says, ther’ ain’t nothin’ like livin’ honest. An’ so I says. But if that letter’s goin’ to lose you Rosebud, I’d take it friendly of Providence if it would kind o’ interfere some. I’ll go an’ sit with Rube, an’ you can write your letter.”
At last Seth turned to his letter in earnest. He first pulled out a piece of newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it. Then he laid it on the table, and carefully read the long paragraph marked by four blue crosses. He wanted to make no mistake. As he had said himself, letter-writing wasn’t easy to him. He read thoughtfully and slowly.
“The Estate of the Lost Colonel Raynor
“Once more we are reminded of the mysterious disappearance of that distinguished cavalry officer, Colonel Landor Raynor. This reminder comes in the form of the legal proceedings relating to his estate.
“For the benefit of our readers, and also in the gallant officer’s own interests, we give here a recapitulation of the events surrounding his sudden disappearance.
“On May 18th, 18—, Colonel Raynor returned from service in Egypt, on six months’ leave, and rented a shooting-box in the Highlands. Hardly had he settled down when he suddenly declared his intention of crossing the Atlantic for a big game shoot in the Rockies. This purpose he carried out within four days of his announcement, accompanied by Mrs. Raynor and their little daughter Marjorie, aged eleven, a golden-haired little beauty with the most perfect violet eyes, which is a very rare and distinguishing feature amongst women. It has been clearly proved that the party arrived safely in New York, and proceeded on their way to the Rockies. Since that time nothing has been heard of any of the three.
“There is no definite pronouncement as to the administration of Colonel Raynor’s estate. He owns large property, valued roughly at nearly a quarter of a million sterling. It has come to light that he leaves a will behind him, but whether this will be executed or not remains to be seen. There are no near relations, except the colonel’s brother, Stephen, who was disinherited by their father in favor of the colonel, and who, it is believed, left this country at the time, and went to the United States. His whereabouts are also unknown, in spite of advertisement during the last six years.
“We publish these details, even at this late hour, in the faint hope that some light may yet be thrown on the mystery which enshrouds the fate of the gallant colonel and his family, or, at least, that they may assist in discovering the whereabouts of his brother. Theories have been put forward. But the suggestion which seems most feasible comes from the New York police. They think he must have met with some accident in the obscurer mountains, for he was a daring climber, and that, unaccompanied as they were by any servants, his wife and daughter, left helpless, were unable to get back to civilization. There is a chance that misfortune of some other character overtook him, but of what nature it is impossible to estimate. It has been asserted by one of the officials at the railway station at Omaha that a party alighted from a transcontinental train there answering the description of Colonel Raynor’s party. These people are supposed to have stayed the night at a hotel, and then left by a train going north. Inquiry, however, has thrown no further light in this direction, and so the police have fallen back on their original theory.”
Seth laid the cutting aside, and thoughtfully chewed the end of his pen. There were many things he had to think of, but, curiously enough, the letter he had to compose did not present the chief item. Nor did Rosebud even. He thought chiefly of that railway official, and the story which the police had so easily set aside. He thought of that, and he thought of the Indians, who now more than ever seemed to form part of his life.
Finally he took a fresh piece of paper and headed it differently. He had changed his mind. He originally intended to write to the New York police. Now he addressed himself to the Editor of the ——, London, England. And his letter was just the sort of letter one might have expected from such a man, direct, plain, but eminently exact.
As he finally sealed it in its envelope there was no satisfaction in the
expression of his face. He drew out his pipe and filled it and lit it, and smoked with his teeth clenching hard on the mouthpiece. He sat and smoked on long after Rube had looked in and bade him good-night, and Ma had come in for a good-night kiss, and Rosebud had called out her nightly farewell. It was not until the lamp burnt low and began to smell that he stole silently up to his bed. But, whatever thought had kept him up to this hour, he slept soundly, for he was a healthy-minded man.
* * *
CHAPTER XII
CROSS PURPOSES
Seth was out haying. It was noon, and his dinner hour. He and his old collie dog, General, were taking their leisure on the slope of Red Willow slough, while the horses, relieved of their bits and traces, were nibbling at the succulent roots of the grass over which the mower had already passed.
General possessed a sense of duty. His master was apparently sleeping, with his prairie hat drawn over his face. The dog crouched at his feet, struggling hard to keep his eyes open, and remain alert while the other rested from his labors. But the sun was hot, the scent of the grass overpowering, and it was difficult.
At last the man roused and sat up. The dog sprang to his feet. His ears were pricked, and he raced off across the slough. As he went, the sound of wheels became distinctly audible. Rosebud, seated in a buckboard, and driving the old farm mare, Hesper, appeared on the opposite side of the slough. She was bringing Seth his dinner.
A moment later the girl drew rein and sprang out of the vehicle. The heat in no way weighed upon her spirits. She looked as fresh and cool in her white linen dress and sun-hat as if it were an early spring day. Her laughing face was in marked contrast to the man’s dark, serious countenance. Her dazzling eyes seemed to be endowed with something of the brilliancy of the sunlight that was so intensely pouring down upon them.
“Oh, Seth, I’m so sorry!” she cried, in anything but a penitent tone, “but just as I was starting Wana came up with a note for you, and I’m afraid we stopped and talked, and you know what a dozy old mare Hesper is, and she just went slower than ever, and I hadn’t the heart to whack her, she’s such a dear, tame old thing, and so I’m ever so late, and I’m afraid your dinner’s all spoiled, and you’ll be horribly angry.”
But Seth displayed no anger; he only held out his hand.
“An’ the note?”
Rosebud thought for a moment. “Whatever did I do with it?” she said, looking about her on the ground. Seth watched her a little anxiously.
“Who was it from?” he asked.
“Oh, just the old Agent. I don’t suppose it was important, but I know I put it somewhere.”
“Guess so.”
Seth lifted the dinner-box out of the buckboard. Suddenly Rosebud’s face cleared.
“That’s it, Seth. I put it in there. In with the dinner. Oh, and, Seth, I got Ma to let me bring my dinner out, so we can have a picnic, you and I, and General.”
Seth was bending over the box.
“Then I guess your dinner’s kind o’ spoiled too,” he said.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter so long as yours isn’t. You see it’s my own fault, and serves me right. If it’s very nasty we can give it all to General; so it won’t be wasted.”
“No, it won’t be wasted.”
Rosebud watched her companion remove the things from the box, and wondered if he were glad or sorry that she was going to have her dinner with him. She had been wildly delighted at the thought of springing this surprise on him, but now she felt doubtful, and a certain shyness kept her usually busy tongue silent. She would have given much to know what Seth thought. That was just where she found the man so unsatisfactory. She never did know what he really thought about anything.
Seth found the note, and put it in his pocket. Now he set their meal on the newly cut grass. Rosebud, with a thoughtfulness hardly to be expected of her, turned Hesper loose. Then she sat down beside General and put the tin dishes straight, according to her fancy. In silence she helped Seth to a liberal portion of lukewarm stew, and cut the bread. Then she helped the dog, and, finally, herself.
“Ma’s a dear!” she suddenly exclaimed, when the silence had become irksome to her. “She’s making me a new dress. It’s a secret, and I’m not supposed to know.”
“Ah! An’ how d’ you find out?”
“Oh, I asked Pa,” Rosebud laughed. “I knew it was something for me. So when he went to look at the new litter of piggies this morning I went with him, and just asked him. I promised not to give him away. Isn’t she a dear?”
“Sure. Guess you like dress fixin’s.”
“Love them.”
“Most gals do, I reckon.”
“Well, you see, Seth, most girls love to look nice. Mrs. Rankin, even, says that she’d give the world to get hold of a good dressmaker, and she’s married. Do you know even Wana likes pretty things, and that’s just what I’d like to talk to you about. You see, I’ve got twenty dollars saved, and I just thought I would get Wana a nice dress, like white people wear. I mean a good one. Do you know what store I could send to in Sioux City, or Omaha, or even New York?”
“I ain’t much knowledge o’ stores an’ things. But I ’lows it’s a good notion.”
The man’s brown eyes looked over at the girl as she plied her knife and fork.
“Maybe,” he went on, a moment later, “ther’ ain’t no need to spend them twenty dollars. I’ve got some. Say, you talk to Ma an’ fix the letter an’ I’ll mail it.”
The girl looked up. Seth’s kindness had banished the ready laugh for the moment. If her tongue remained silent her eyes spoke. But Seth was concerned with his food and saw nothing. Rosebud did not even tender thanks. She felt that she could not speak thanks at that moment. Her immediate inclination was a childish one, but the grown woman in her checked it. A year ago she would have acted differently. At last Seth broke the silence.
“Say, Rosebud,” he said. “How’d you like a heap o’ dollars?”
But the girl’s serious mood had not yet passed. She held out her plate to General, and replied, without looking at her companion.
“That depends,” she said. “You see, I wouldn’t like to marry a man with lots of money. Girls who do are never happy. Ma said so. The only other way to have money is by being clever, and writing, or painting, or play-acting. And I’m not clever, and don’t want to be. Then there are girls who inherit money, but——”
“That’s jest it,” broke in Seth.
“Just what?” Rosebud turned from the dog and eyed her companion curiously.
“Why, s’pose it happened you inherited them dollars?”
“But I’m not likely to.”
“That’s so. But we know your folks must a’ been rich by your silk fixin’s. Guess you ain’t thought o’ your folks.”
The girl’s sunburnt face took on a confident little smile as she looked out from under the wide brim of her hat.
“Oh, yes, I have. I’ve thought a lot. Where are they, and why don’t they come out and look for me? I can’t remember them, though I try hard. Every time I try I go back to Indians—always Indians. I know I’m not an Indian,” she finished up naïvely.
“No.” Seth lit his pipe. “Guess if we did find ’em you’d have to quit the farm.”
There was a short silence.
“Seth, you’re always looking for them, I know. Why do you look for them? I don’t want them.” Rosebud was patting the broad back of General. “Do you know, sometimes I think you want to be rid of me. I’m a trouble to you, I know.”
“’Tain’t that exactly.”
Seth’s reply sounded different to what he intended. It sounded to the girl as if he really was seeking her parents to be rid of her. And his manner was so deliberate, so short. She scrambled to her feet without a word, and began to gather up the dishes. Seth smoked on for a moment or two. But as Rosebud showed no sign of continuing the conversation he, too, rose in silence, and went over to Hesper and hitched her to the buckboard. Then he came back and carried the d
inner-box to the vehicle, while Rosebud mounted to the driving-seat.
“Seth,” she said, and her face was slightly flushed, and a little sparkle of resentment was in her eyes, “when you find them I’ll go away. I never looked at it as you do. Yes, I think I should like that heap of dollars.”
Seth smiled slowly. But he didn’t quite understand her answer.
“Wal, you see, Rosebud, I’m glad you take it that aways. You see it’s better you should go. Yes, much better.”
His thoughts had turned on the Reservations, that one direction in which they ever seemed to turn. Rosebud was thinking in another direction. Seth wanted to be rid of her, and was meanly cloaking his desire under the guise of her worldly welfare. The angry flush deepened, and she sat very erect with her head held high as she drove off. Nor did she turn for her parting shot.
“I hope you’ll find them; I want to go,” she said.
Seth made no answer. He watched her until the vehicle dropped down behind the brow of the farther slope. The girl’s attitude was as dignified as she could make it while she remained in view. After that it was different. And Seth failed to realize that he had not made his meaning plain. He saw that Rosebud was angry, but he did not pause to consider the cause of her anger.
He stood where she had left him for some time. He found his task harder than ever he had thought it would be. But his duty lay straight before him, and, with all his might, he would have hurried on his letter to England if he could. He knew he could see far ahead in the life of his little world as it affected himself and those he loved. He might be a dull-witted lover, but he was keen and swift to scent danger here on the plains; and that was what he had already done. Cost him what it might, Rosebud must be protected, and this protection meant her removal.
The Watchers of the Plains Page 9