The Watchers of the Plains

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  Evidently Seth had held his tongue. Though he wondered a little uneasily at the reason, he was quick to see his advantage and the possibilities opening before him. He had passed from the stage when he was content to avail himself of chance opportunities. Now he would seek them—he would make opportunities.

  “And so you have come back to us again,” he said, after greeting the girl, while Wanaha smiled with her deep black eyes upon them from the table beyond the stove.

  “Couldn’t stay away,” the girl responded lightly. “The prairie’s in my bones.”

  Rosebud had never liked Nevil. To her there was something fish-like in those pale eyes and overshot jaw, but just now everybody connected with the old life was welcome. They chatted for a while, and presently, as Wanaha began to put the food on the table, the girl rose to depart.

  “It’s time I was getting home,” she said reluctantly. “I’m not sure that they know where I am, so I mustn’t stay away too long—after the scrape I got into months ago. I should like to go across to the Reservation, but I’ve already promised not to go there alone. Seth warned me against it, and after what has passed I know he’s right. But I would like to see Miss Parker, and dear old Mr. Hargreaves. However, I must wait.”

  Nevil crossed over to the table. He looked serious, but his blue eyes shone.

  “Seth’s quite right. You mustn’t go alone. Little Black Fox is about again, you know. And—and the people are very restless just now.”

  “That’s what he said. And I nearly frightened auntie to death telling her she’d get scalped, and nonsense like that.”

  Nevil laughed in response.

  “If you’d like to go——” he began doubtfully.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I only meant I’ve got to go across directly after dinner. I could accompany you. No one will interfere with you while I am there.”

  Nevil turned to his food with apparent indifference. Wanaha stood patiently by. Rosebud was tempted. She wanted to see the Reservation again with that strange longing which all people of impulse have for revisiting the scenes of old associations. Always she was possessed by that curious fascination for the Indian country which was something stronger than mere association, something that had to do with the long illness she had passed through nearly seven years ago.

  Nevil waited. He knew by the delay of her answer that she would accept his invitation, and he wanted her to go over to the Reservation.

  “Are you sure I shan’t be in the way? Sure I’m not troubling you?”

  Nevil smiled.

  “By no means. Just let me have my dinner, and I’ll be ready. I’ve half a dozen cords of wood to haul into Beacon, and I have to go and borrow ponies for the work. The roads are so bad just now that my own ponies couldn’t do it by themselves.”

  Rosebud’s scruples thus being quieted she returned to her seat on the bed, and they talked on while the man ate his dinner. She watched the almost slavish devotion of Wanaha with interest and sympathy, but her feelings were all for the tall, beautiful woman. For the man she had no respect. She tolerated him because of her friend only.

  An hour later they were on the Reservation. And they had come by way of the ford. Rosebud was all interest, and everything else was forgotten, even her dislike of Nevil, as they made their way past Little Black Fox’s house, and through the encampment of which it was the centre. She was still more delighted when her companion paused and spoke to some of the Indians idling about there. She was free to watch the squaws, and the papooses she loved so well. The little savages were running wild about the tepees, dodging amongst the trailers and poles, or frolicking with the half-starved currish camp dogs. The air was busy with shrieks of delight, and frequently through it all could be detected the note of small ferocity, native to these little red-skinned creatures.

  It was all so familiar to her, so homely, so different from that other life she had just left. The past few months were utterly forgotten; she was back in her old world again. Back in the only world she really knew and loved.

  It came as no sort of surprise to her, when, in the midst of this scene, the great chief himself appeared. He came alone, without ceremony or attendants. He stood in the midst of the clearing—tall, commanding, and as handsome as ever. His dusky face was wreathed in a proud, half disdainful smile. He did not attempt to draw near, and, except for a haughty inclination of the head, made no sign.

  Rosebud had no suspicion. She had no thought of the man with her. She was far too interested in all she saw to wonder how the chief came to be in the midst of the clearing just as she was passing through it.

  On the far side of the camp a path led to the Agency. Its course was tortuous, winding in the shape of the letter S. It was at the second curve that an unexpected, and to Nevil, at least, unwelcome meeting occurred.

  Seth, mounted on his own tough broncho, was standing close against the backing of brush which lined the way. He had every appearance of having been awaiting their coming. Nevil’s furtive eyes turned hither and thither with the quick glance of a man who prefers a safe retreat to a bold encounter.

  Rosebud looked serious, and thought of the scolding that might be forthcoming. Then she laughed and urged her horse quickly forward.

  “Why, Seth——” she cried. But she broke off abruptly. The rest of what she was about to say died out of her mind. Seth was not even looking at her. His eyes were on Nevil Steyne in a hard, cold stare. Physically weak as he was there could be no mistaking the utter hatred conveyed in that look.

  Rosebud had drawn up beside him. For once she was at a loss, helpless. Nevil was some ten yards in rear of her. There was a moment’s silence after the girl’s greeting, then Seth said quite sharply—

  “You stay right here.”

  He urged his horse forward and went to meet Nevil. The girl was very anxious, hardly knowing why. She heard Seth’s voice low but commanding. His words were lost upon her, but their effect was plain enough. Nevil first smiled contemptuously, then he paled and finally turned his horse about, and slowly returned the way he had come.

  Then, and not until then, Rosebud observed that Seth was grasping the butt of his revolver.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIV

  ROSEBUD’S FORTUNE

  Something of the old spirit seemed to have gone out of Rosebud when Seth rode back to her. A strange fascination held her; and now, as he came up, she had no thought of questioning him, no desire. She was ready to obey. She watched the emaciated figure as it drew near with eyes that told a story which only he could have misinterpreted. She was ready for a scolding, a scolding which she felt she merited. But Seth made no attempt to blame her. And this very fact made her wish that he would.

  “Say, Rosie, gal, I guess we’ll be gettin’ back,” he said, in a manner which suggested that they had been out together merely, and that it was time for returning.

  “Yes, Seth.”

  There was unusual humility in the reply. It may have been that the girl remembered that scene in the woods so many months ago. Perhaps the scene she had just witnessed had told her something that no explanations could have made so clear. Seth was always the dominating factor in their intercourse, but this outward submission was quite foreign to the girl.

  They rode off together, the man’s horse leading slightly. Neither spoke for a while, but Rosebud noticed that almost imperceptibly they had branched off and were heading for the bridge by unfrequented by-paths which frequently demanded their riding in Indian-file.

  Seth displayed no haste and no inclination to talk, and the silence soon began to jar on the girl. It was one thing for her to give ready obedience, but to be led like some culprit marching to execution was something which roused her out of her docility. At the first opportunity she ranged her horse alongside her companion’s and asserted her presence.

  “I want you to answer me a question, Seth,” she said quietly. “How did you get wounded?”

  The man’s face never relaxed a muscl
e, but there was a dryness in the tone of his reply.

  “Guess some bussock of a feller got monkeyin’ with a gun an’ didn’t know a heap.”

  Rosebud favored him with a little knowing smile. They were still amidst the broken woodlands, and she was quick to observe her companion’s swift-moving eyes as they flashed this way and that in their ceaseless watchfulness.

  “I’m not to be cheated. Some one shot at you who meant—business.”

  “Guess I ain’t aware jest how he figgered, Rosie.” A smile accompanied Seth’s words this time.

  “Well, who did it?”

  “I never seen him; so I can’t rightly say.”

  “But you guess?”

  “I ain’t good at guessin’.”

  The girl laughed.

  “Very well, I won’t bother you.”

  Then after a little silence the man spoke again.

  “Those letters of yours was mortal fine,” he said. “Seems to me I could most find my way around London, with its stores an’ nigglin’ trails. It’s a tol’ble city. A mighty good eddication, travelin’.”

  “I suppose it is.” Rosebud seemed to have lost her desire for conversation.

  “Makes you think some,” Seth went on, heedless of the girl’s abstraction. “Makes you feel as the sun don’t jest rise and set on your own p’tickler patch o’ ploughin’. Makes you feel you’re kind o’ like a grain o’ wheat at seedin’ time. I allow a man don’t amount to a heap noways.”

  Rosebud turned on him with a bright smile in her wonderful eyes.

  “That depends, Seth. I should say a man is as he chooses to make himself. I met a lot of men in England; some of them were much better than others. Some were extremely nice.”

  “Ah.” Seth turned his earnest eyes on the girl’s face. He lost the significance of the mischievous down-turning of the corners of her mouth. “I guess them gilt-edge folk are a dandy lot. Y’ see them ’lords’ an’ such, they’ve got to be pretty nigh the mark.”

  “Why, yes, I suppose they have.”

  There was another brief pause while the man’s eyes glanced keenly about.

  “Maybe you mixed a deal with them sort o’ folk,” he went on presently.

  “Oh, yes.” The violet eyes were again alight.

  “Pretty tidy sort o’ fellers, eh?”

  “Rather. I liked one or two very much—very much indeed. There was Bob—Bob Vinceps, you know—he was a splendid fellow. He was awfully nice to me. Took auntie and me everywhere. I wonder how he’s getting on. I must see if there’s a letter from him at Beacon. He asked me if he might write. And wasn’t it nice of him, Seth? He came all the way from London to Liverpool to see me, I mean us, off. It’s a long way—a dreadful long way.”

  “Ah, mebbe when I go into Beacon Crossing I’ll fetch that letter out for you, Rosie.”

  But Seth’s simple-heartedness—Rosebud called it “stupidity,”—was too much. The girl’s smile vanished in a second and she answered sharply.

  “Thanks, I’ll get my own letters.” Then she went on demurely. “You see if there happened to be a letter from Bob I shouldn’t like auntie to see it. She is very—very—well, she mightn’t like it.”

  “How?”

  Seth looked squarely into the face beside him.

  “She thinks—well, you see, she says I’m very young, and—and——”

  “Ah, I tho’t mebbe ther’s suthin’ agin him. You see, Rosie, ther’ mustn’t be anythin’ agin the man you marry. He’s got to be a jo-dandy clear thro’. I——”

  “But I’m not going to marry Lord Vinceps, you silly, at least—I don’t think so. Besides,” as an afterthought, “it’s nothing to you who I marry.”

  “Wal, no. Mebbe that’s so, only ef you’d get hitched, as the sayin’ is, to some mule-headed son of a gun that wa’n’t squar’ by you, I’d git around an’ drop him in his tracks, ef I had to cross the water to do it.”

  Rosebud listened with a queer stirring at her heart, yet she could not repress the impatience she felt at the calm matter-of-fact manner in which the threat was made. The one redeeming point about it was that she knew one of Seth’s quiet assurances to be far more certain, far more deadly, than anybody’s else wildest spoken threats. However, she laughed as she answered him.

  “Well, you won’t have to cross the ocean to find the man I marry. I’m not going to England again, except, perhaps, on a business visit. I intend to stay here, unless Pa and Ma turn me out.”

  Seth caught his breath. For a second his whole face lit up.

  “Say, I didn’t jest take you right,” he said. “You’re goin’ to stay right here?”

  Rosebud gave a joyous little nod. She had stirred Seth out of his usual calm. There was no mistaking the light in his hollow eyes. He made no movement, he spoke as quietly as ever, but the girl saw something in his eyes that set her heart beating like a steam hammer. The next moment she was chilled as though she had received a cold douche.

  “Wal, I’m sorry,” he went on imperturbably. “Real sorry. Which I mean lookin’ at it reas’nable. ’Tain’t right. You belong ther’. Ther’s your folk an’ your property, an’ the dollars. You jest ought to fix up wi’ some high soundin’ feller——”

  “Seth, mind your own business!”

  Rosebud’s exasperation broke all bounds. If a look could have withered him Seth would have shriveled to bare bones. The next moment the girl’s lips trembled and two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. She urged her horse ahead of her companion and kept that lead until they had crossed the bridge. Seth’s eyes, busy in every other direction, had failed to witness her distress, just as he failed to take any heed of her words.

  “You see, Rosie, ther’s a heap o’ trouble comin’ along here,” he said presently, when he had drawn level.

  “Yes,” the girl replied, without turning her head; “and I’m going to stay for it. Auntie can go back when she likes, but this is my home, and—Seth, why do you always want to be rid of me?”

  Seth remained silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a voice that was a little unsteady.

  “I don’t want to be rid of you, Rosie. No; I’m jest thinkin’ of you,” he added.

  The old impulsive Rosebud was uppermost in an instant. She turned on him, and reached out a hand which he took in both of his.

  “Seth, you are a dear, and I’m sorry for being so rude to you. It’s always been like this, hasn’t it? You’ve always thought of me, for me. I wish, sometimes, you wouldn’t think—for me.”

  She withdrew her hand, and, touching her horse with her heel, galloped on toward the farm, leaving Seth to come on behind. She gave him no chance of overtaking her this time.

  Supper-time brought a lively scene with it. Rosebud, for some unexplained reason, was in a more than usually contradictory mood. Mrs. Rickards had thoroughly enjoyed her day in spite of the sloppy condition of everything outside the house. She was a woman who took a deep interest in life. She was worldly and practical in all matters which she considered to be the business of a woman’s life, but her mental vision was not bounded by such a horizon.

  Everything interested her, provided her personal comfort was not too much disturbed. The farm was strange, new, and as such was welcome, but Ma Sampson was a study which fascinated her. She was in the best of spirits when the little family gathered for the evening meal. This had been much elaborated by Ma in her visitors’ honor.

  At this repast came her first real chance of observing Seth. She studied him for some time in silence while the others talked. Then she joined in the conversation herself, and quickly contrived to twist it into the direction she required.

  They were laughing over Rosebud’s attempt to scare her cousin with her threat of the Indians.

  “You see, auntie,” the girl said roguishly, “you are a ’tenderfoot.’ It is always the privilege of ’old hands’ to ridicule newcomers. In your world there is little for you to learn. In ours you must be duly initiated.”

  “In
my world?” Mrs. Rickards smiled and raised her eyebrows. She had a pleasant smile which lit up her round fat face till she looked the picture of hearty good-nature. And she was on the whole decidedly good-natured. Only her good-nature never ran away with her. “My dear, why not your world also? This is not your world any longer.”

  Ma smiled down upon the teapot, while the men waited expectantly. With all their simplicity, these people understood Rosebud as far as it was possible to understand her. Without appearing too keen, each watched the violet eyes as they opened wide and wondering by upon the cousin.

  “Why, auntie! I—I don’t understand.”

  “You belong to the same world as I do. Dakota no longer claims you.”

  “You mean—England.” Rosebud laughed; and at least three people understood that laugh.

  Mrs. Rickards turned to Ma.

  “You know, Mrs. Sampson, Rosebud has never yet regarded her position seriously. She is curiously situated—but pleasantly, if she will only enter into the spirit of her father’s will. Has she told you about it?”

  Ma shook her head. The men went on with their meal in silence. At this point the subject of her aunt’s talk broke in.

  “Go on, auntie, you tell the story. You are the prosecution, I am the defendant, and these are the judges. I’ll have my say last, so fire ahead.” There was a look of determination in the girl’s eyes as she laughingly challenged her aunt.

  Mrs. Rickards smiled indulgently.

  “Very well, my dear; but for goodness’ sake don’t be so slangy. Now Mrs. Sampson and—gentlemen of the jury. Is that right, Rosie?” The girl nodded, and her aunt went on. “You must quite understand I am entirely disinterested in Rosie’s affairs. My only interest is that I have found it possible to—er—tolerate this madcap, and she has found it possible to put up with me; in fact I am her nominal guardian—by mutual choice.”