The Watchers of the Plains

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  “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.”

  * * *
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  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 w
as 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.