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.

“You git right to it, Ma,” he said. “We ain’t got no chick of our own. Ther’s jest Seth to foller us, an’ if you ken help him out in this thing, same as you once helped me out, you’re doin’ a real fine thing. The boy ain’t happy wi’out Rosebud, an’ ain’t never like to be. You fix it, an’ I’ll buy you a noo buggy. Guess I’ll go to Seth.”

Ma looked up at the gigantic man, and the tender look she gave him belied the practical brusqueness of her words.

“Don’t you git talkin’ foolish. Ther’ was a time when I’d ’a’ liked you to talk foolish, but you couldn’t do it then, you were that slow. Git right along. I’ll fix this letter, an’ read it to you when it’s done.”

Rube passed out of the room, gurgling a deep-throated chuckle, while his wife went steadily on with the all-important matter in hand.