The Watchers of the Plains: A Tale of the Western Prairies

CHAPTER XXII
ROSEBUD’S ANSWER

It was a dazzling morning nearly five weeks after the dispatching of Ma Sampson’s letter to Rosebud. The heralds of spring, the warm, southern breezes, which brought trailing flights of geese and wild duck winging northward, and turned the pallor of the snow to a dirty drab hue, like a soiled white dress, had already swept across the plains. The sunlight was fiercely blinding. Even the plainsman is wary at this time of the year, for the perils of snow-blindness are as real to him as to the “tenderfoot.”

There had been no reply from Rosebud. Two more letters from her reached the farm, but they had been written before the letter, which Rube helped to compose, had been received. Since then no word had come from the girl. Ma was satisfied, and accepted her silence with equanimity, but for appearances’ sake assumed an attitude of complaint. Rube said nothing; he had no subtlety in these matters. Seth was quite in the dark. He never complained, but he was distressed at this sudden and unaccountable desertion.

Seth’s wound and broken shoulder had healed. He had been up a week, but this was his first day out of the house. Now he stood staring out with shaded eyes in the direction of the Reservations. During the past week he had received visits from many of the neighboring settlers. Parker, particularly, had been his frequent companion. He had learned all that it was possible for him to learn by hearsay of the things which most interested him; but, even so, he felt that he had much time to make up, much to learn that could come only from his own observation.

Now, on this his first day out in the open, he found himself feeling very weak, a thin, pale shadow of his former self. Curiously enough he had little inclination for anything. He simply stood gazing upon the scene before him, drinking in deep draughts of the pure, bracing, spring air. Though his thoughts should have been with those matters which concerned the welfare of the homestead, they were thousands of miles away, somewhere in a London of his own imagination, among people he had never seen, looking on at a life and pleasures of which he had no knowledge of, and through it all he was struggling to understand how it was Rosebud had come to forget them all so utterly, and so suddenly.

He tried to make allowances, to point out to himself the obligations of the girl’s new life. He excused her at every point; yet, when it was all done, when he had proved to himself the utter impossibility of her keeping up a weekly correspondence, he was dissatisfied, disappointed. There was something behind it all, some reason which he could not fathom.

In the midst of these reflections he was joined by Rube. The old man was smoking his after-breakfast pipe.

“She’s openin’,” he said, indicating the brown patches of earth already showing through the snow. Seth nodded.

They were standing just outside the great stockade which had been completed during Seth’s long illness. There were only the gates waiting to be hung upon their vast iron hinges.

After the old man’s opening remark a long silence fell. Seth’s thoughts ran on unchecked in spite of the other’s presence. Rube smoked and watched the lean figure beside him out of the corners of his eyes. He was speculating, too, but his thought was of their own immediate surroundings. Now that Seth was about again he felt that it would be good to talk with him. He knew there was much to consider. Though perhaps he lacked something of the younger man’s keen Indian knowledge he lacked nothing in experience, and experience told him that the winter, after what had gone before, had been, but for the one significant incident of Seth’s wound, very, very quiet – too quiet.

“Say, boy,” the old man went on, some minutes later, “guess you ain’t yarned a heap ’bout your shootin’ racket?”

Seth was suddenly brought back to his surroundings. His eyes thoughtfully settled on the distant line of woodland that marked the river and the Reservation. He answered readily enough.

“That shootin’ don’t affect nothin’ – nothin’ but me,” he said with meaning.

“I thought Little – ”

Seth shook his head. He took Rube’s meaning at once.

“That’s to come, I guess,” he said gravely.

Rube suddenly looked away down the trail in the direction of Beacon Crossing. His quick ears had caught an unusual sound. It was a “Coo-ee,” but so thin and faint that it came to him like the cry of some small bird. Seth heard it, too, and he turned and gazed over the rotting sleigh track which spring was fast rendering impassable. There was nothing in sight. Just the gray expanse of melting snow, dismal, uninteresting even in the flooding sunlight.

Rube turned back to the gateway of the stockade. His pipe was finished and he had work to do. Seth was evidently in no mood for talk.

“I’d git around and breathe good air fer awhiles,” he said kindly, “y’ ain’t goin’ to git strong of a sudden, Seth.”

“Guess I’ll ride this afternoon. Hello!”

The cry reached them again, louder, still high-pitched and shrill, but nearer. Away down the trail a figure in black furs was moving toward them.

Both men watched the object with the keenest interest. It was a mere speck on the gray horizon, but it was plainly human, and evidently wishful to draw their attention.

“Some’un wantin’ us?” said Rube in a puzzled tone.

“Seems.” Seth was intent upon the figure.

Another “Coo-ee” rang out, and Rube responded with his deep guttural voice. And, in answer, the bundle of furs raised two arms and waved them beckoningly.

Rube moved along the trail. Without knowing quite why, but roused to a certain curiosity, he was going to meet the newcomer. Seth followed him.

Seth’s gait was slower than the older man’s, and he soon dropped behind. Suddenly he saw Rube stop and turn, beckoning him on. When he came up the old man pointed down the road.

“It’s a woman,” he said, and there was a curious look in his eyes.

The muffled figure was more than a hundred and fifty yards away, but still laboriously stumbling along the snow-bound trail toward them.

Before Seth could find a reply another “Coo-ee” reached them, followed quickly by some words that were blurred by the distance. Seth started. The voice had a curiously familiar sound. He glanced at Rube, and the old man’s face wore a look of grinning incredulity.

“Sounds like – ” Seth began to speak but broke off.

“Gee! Come on!” cried Rube, in a boisterous tone. “It’s Rosebud!”

The two men hastened forward. Rube’s announcement seemed incredible. How could it be Rosebud – and on foot? The surface of the trail gave way under their feet at almost every step. But they were undeterred. Slush or ice, deep snow or floundering in water holes, it made no difference. It was a race for that muffled figure, and Rube was an easy winner. When Seth came up he found the bundle of furs in the bear-like embrace of the older man. It was Rosebud!

Questions raced through Seth’s brain as he looked on, panting with the exertion his enfeebled frame had been put to. How? Why? What was the meaning of it all? But his questions remained unspoken. Nor was he left in doubt long. Rosebud laughing, her wonderful eyes dancing with an inexpressible delight, released herself and turned to Seth. Immediately her face fell as she looked on the shadow of a man standing before her.

“Why, Seth,” she cried, in a tone of great pity and alarm that deceived even Rube, “what’s the matter that you look so ill?” She turned swiftly and flashed a meaning look into Rube’s eyes. “What is it? Quick! Oh, you two sillies, tell me! Seth, you’ve been ill, and you never told me!”

Slow of wit, utterly devoid of subterfuge as Rube was, for once he grasped the situation.

“Why, gal, it’s jest nothin’. Seth’s been mighty sick, but he’s right enough now, ain’t you, Seth, boy?”

“Sure.”

Seth had nothing to add, but he held out his hand, and the girl seized it in both of hers, while her eyes darkened to an expression which these men failed to interpret, but which Ma Sampson could have read aright. Seth cleared his throat, and his dark eyes gazed beyond the girl and down the trail.

“How’d you come, Rosie?” he asked practically. “You ain’t traipsed from Beacon?”

Suddenly the girl’s laugh rang out. It was the old irresponsible laugh that had always been the joy of these men’s hearts, and it brought a responsive smile to their faces now.

“Oh, I forgot,” she cried. “The delight of seeing you two dears put it out of my silly head. Why, we drove out from Beacon, and the wagon’s stuck in a hollow away back, and my cousin, I call her ’aunt,’ and her maid, and all the luggage are mired on the road, calling down I don’t know what terrible curses upon the country and its people, and our teamster in particular. So I just left them to it and came right on to get help. Auntie was horrified at my going, you know. Said I’d get rheumatic fever and pneumonia, and threatened to take me back home if I went, and I told her she couldn’t unless I got help to move the wagon, and so here I am.”

Rube’s great face had never ceased to beam, and now, as the girl paused for breath, he turned for home.

“Guess I’ll jest get the team out. Gee!” And he went off at a great gait.

Seth looked gravely at the girl’s laughing face.

“Guess you’d best come on home. Mebbe your feet are wet.”

Thus, after months of parting, despite the changed conditions of the girl’s life, the old order was resumed. Rosebud accepted Seth’s domination as though it was his perfect right. Without one word or thought of protest she walked at his side. In silence he helped her over the broken trail to the home she had so long known and still claimed. Once only was that silence broken. It was when the girl beheld the fortified appearance of the farm. She put her question in a low, slightly awed tone.

“What’s all this for, Seth?” she asked. She knew, but she felt that she must ask.

“Them logs?” The man responded indifferently.

“Yes, that stockade.”

“Oh, jest nothin’. Y’ see we need a bit o’ fence-like.”

Rosebud looked at him from out of the corners of her eyes as she trudged at his side.

“I’m glad I came, Seth. I’m just in time. Poor auntie!”

The next moment her arms were around Ma Sampson’s neck, hugging the old woman, who had heard of the girl’s arrival from Rube and had come out to meet her.

“La sakes, come right in at once, Rosie, gal!” she exclaimed, when she was permitted a chance of speech. And laughing and chattering in the very wildest delight, Rosebud led the way and romped into the house.

In the dear familiar kitchen, after the girl had gazed at the various simple furnishings she had so long known and loved, she poured out her tale, the reason of her coming, with a blissful disregard for truth. Ma took her cue and listened to the wonderful fabrication the girl piled up for her astonished ears, and more particularly Seth’s. Apparently the one thing that had not entered into her madcap considerations was Seth’s illness.

Just as her story came to an end, and the sound of wheels outside warned them of the arrival of the wagon, Rosebud turned upon Seth with something of her old wilful impetuosity.

“And now, Seth,” she said, her eyes dancing with audacity and mischief, “you’re a sick man and all that, so there’s every excuse for you, but you haven’t said you’re glad to see me.”

Seth smiled thoughtfully as he gazed on the fair, trim-figured woman challenging him. He noted with a man’s pleasure the perfectly fitting tailor-made traveling costume, the beautifully arranged hair, the delightful Parisian hat. He looked into the animated face, the only thing about her that seemed to be as of old. Though he saw that her outward appearance was changed, even improved, he knew that that was all. It was the same Rosebud, the same old spirit, honest, fearless, warm-hearted, loving, that looked out of her wondrous eyes, and he felt his pulses stir and something like a lump rose in his throat as he answered her.

“Wal, little gal, I guess you don’t need me to tell you. Pleased! that don’t cut no meanin’. Yet I’m kind o’ sorry too. Y’ see ther’s things – ”

Ma interrupted him.

“He’s right, Rosebud dear, it’s a bad time.”

The girl’s reply came with a laugh full of careless mischief and confidence.

“Poor auntie!” Then she became suddenly serious. “They’re outside,” she went on. “Let us go and bring her in.”

A moment later Ma found herself greeting Rosebud’s second cousin and chaperone. Mrs. Rickards was an elderly lady, stout, florid, and fashionably dressed, who had never been further afield in her life than the Europe of society.

Her greeting was an effort. She was struggling to conceal a natural anger and resentment against the inconvenience of their journey from Beacon Crossing, and the final undignified catastrophe of the wagon sticking fast in the slush and mud on the trail, and against Rosebud in particular, under a polite attempt at cordiality. She would probably have succeeded in recovering her natural good-humored composure but for the girl herself, who, in the midst of the good creature’s expostulations, put the final touch to her mischief. Mrs. Rickards had turned solicitously upon her charge with an admonitory finger raised in her direction.

“And as for Rosie, – she insists on being called Rosebud still, Mrs. Sampson – after her tramp through all that dreadful snow and slush she must be utterly done up,” she said kindly.

“Done up, auntie? Tired?” the girl said, with a little scornful laugh. “Don’t you believe it. Why the fun’s only just beginning, isn’t it, Seth? Do you know, auntie dear, the Indians are getting troublesome; they’re going out on the war-path. Aren’t they, Seth? And we’re just in time to get scalped.”

But Seth had no responsive smile for the girl’s sally. His face was grave enough as he turned to the horrified woman.

“Ma’am,” he said, in that slow drawling fashion which gave so much gravity and dignity to his speech, “I’ll take it kindly if you won’t gamble a heap on this little gal’s nonsense. I’ve known her some few years, an’ I guess she’s nigh the worst savage in these parts – which, I guess, says a deal.”

Seth’s rebuke lost nothing of its sharpness by reason of the gentle manner in which it was spoken. Rosebud felt its full force keenly. She flushed to the roots of her hair and her eyes were bright with resentment. She pouted her displeasure and, without a word, abruptly left the room.

Ma and Mrs. Rickards – the latter’s composure quite restored by Seth’s reassurance – looked after her. Both smiled.

Seth remained grave. The girl’s mischief had brought home to him the full responsibility which devolved upon Rube and himself.

Truly it was the old Rosebud who had returned to White River Farm.

CHAPTER XXIII
LOVE’S PROGRESS

It was the night of Rosebud’s arrival. Seth and Rube were just leaving the barn. The long day’s work was done. Seth had been out all the afternoon riding. Although his ride was nominally in pursuit of health and strength, he had by no means been idle. Now he was bodily weary, and at the door of the barn he sat down on the corn-bin. Rube, pausing to prepare his pipe, saw, by the flickering light of the stable lantern, that his companion’s face was ghastly pale.

“Feelin’ kind o’ mean?” he suggested with gruff sympathy.

“Meaner’n a yaller dawg.”

There was anxiety in the older man’s deep-set eyes as he noted the flicker of a smile which accompanied the reply.

“There ain’t nothin’ fresh?” Rube pursued, as the other remained silent.

“Wal, no, ’cep’ Rosebud’s got back.”

“How?”

Seth shrugged.

“Guess it means a heap,” he said, and paused. Then a faint flush slowly spread over his thin, drawn face. “Nothin’ could ’a’ happened along now wuss than Rosie’s gettin’ around,” he went on with intense feeling. “Can’t you see, Rube?” He reached out and laid an emphatic hand on his companion’s arm. “Can’t you see what’s goin’ to come? Ther’s trouble comin’ sure. Trouble for us all. Trouble for that gal. The news is around the Reservation now. It’ll reach Black Fox ’fore to-morrow mornin’, an’ then – Pshaw! Rube, I love that gal. She’s more to me than even you an’ Ma; she’s more to me than life. I can’t never marry her, seein’ how things are, but that don’t cut no figger. But I’m goin’ to see after her whatever happens. Ther’ ain’t no help comin’. Them few soldier-fellers don’t amount to a heap o’ beans. The Injuns ’ll chaw ’em up if they notion it. An’ I’m like a dead man, Rube – jest a hulk. God, Rube, if harm comes to that pore gal – Pshaw!”

Seth’s outburst was so unusual that Rube stared in silent amazement. It seemed as if his bodily weakness had utterly broken down the stern self-repression usually his. It was as though with the weakening of muscle had come a collapse of his wonderful self-reliance, and against his will he was driven to seek support.

Rube removed his pipe from his mouth. His slow moving brain was hard at work. His sympathy was not easy for him to express.

“Guess it ain’t easy, Seth, boy,” he said judicially, at last. “Them things never come easy if a man’s a man. I’ve felt the same in the old days, ’fore Ma an’ me got hitched. Y’ see the Injuns wus wuss them days – a sight. Guess I jest sat tight.”

Though so gently spoken, the old man’s words had instant effect. Already Seth was ashamed of his weakness. He knew, no one better, the strenuous life of single-hearted courage this old man had lived.

“I’m kind o’ sorry I spoke, Rube. But I ain’t jest thinkin’ o’ myself.”

“I know, boy. You’re jest worritin’ ’cause you’re sick. I know you. You an’ me are goin’ to set tight. Your eye ’ll be on the gal; guess I’ll figger on Ma. These sort o’ troubles jest come and go. I’ve seen ’em before. So’ve you. It’s the gal that makes the diff’rence fer you. Say, lad,” Rube laid a kindly hand on the sick man’s drooping shoulders, and his manner became lighter, and there was a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, “when I’d located that I wanted Ma fer wife I jest up an’ sez so. I ’lows the job wa’n’t easy. I’d a heap sooner ’a’ let daylight into the carkises of a dozen Injuns. Y’ see wimmin’s li’ble to fool you some. When they knows you’re fixed on ’em they jest makes you hate yourself fer a foolhead. It’s in the natur’ of ’em. They’re most like young fillies ’fore they’re broke – I sez it wi’out disrespec’. Y’ see a wummin ain’t got a roarin’ time of it in this world. An’ jest about when a man gets fixed on ’em is their real fancy time, an’ they ain’t slow to take all ther’ is comin’. An’ I sez they’re dead right. An’ jest when you’re bustin’ to tell ’em how you’re feelin’ – an’ ain’t got the savee – they’re jest bustin’ to hear that same. An’ that’s how I got figgerin’ after awhiles, an’ so I ups an’ has it out squar’. Y’ see,” he finished, with an air of pride which brought a smile to Seth’s face, “I kind o’ swep’ Ma off her feet.”

The younger man had no reply to make. His mind went back to Ma’s version of Rube’s courtship. Rube, thoroughly enjoying his task of rousing the other’s drooping spirits, went on, carried away by his own enthusiasm.

“Say, why has Rosie come back, boy, I’d like to know.”

“She said as she couldn’t endure a city no longer. She wanted the plains, the Injuns, Ma, you, an’ the farm.”

“Pshaw – boy! Plains! Farm! Injuns! Ha, ha! Say, Seth, you ain’t smart, not wuth a cent. She come back ’cos she’s jest bustin’ to hear what you darsen’t tell her. She’s come back ’cos she’s a wummin, an’ couldn’t stay away when you wus sick an’ wounded to death. I know. I ain’t bin married fer five an’ twenty year an’ more wi’out gittin’ to the bottom o’ female natur’ – I – ”

“But she didn’t know I was sick, Rube.”

“Eh?”

Rube stood aghast at what he had said. Seth’s remark had, in his own way of thinking, “struck him all of a heap.” He realized in a flash where his blundering had led him. He had run past himself in his enthusiasm, and given Ma’s little scheme away, and, for the moment, the enormity of his offence robbed him of the power of speech. However, he pulled himself together with an effort.

“Guess I wus chawin’ more’n I could swaller,” he said ruefully. “Ma allus did say my head wus mostly mutton, an’ I kind o’ figger she has a power o’ wisdom. An’ it wus a dead secret – ’tween her an’ me. Say, Seth, boy, you won’t give me away? Y’ see Ma’s mighty easy, but she’s got a way wi’ her, Ma has.”

The old man’s distress was painfully comical. The perspiration stood out on his rugged forehead in large beads, and his kindly eyes were full of a great trouble. Seth’s next remark came in the form of an uncompromising question.

“Then Ma wrote an’ told her?”

“Why, yes, if it comes to that I guess she must have.”

Seth rose wearily from his seat, and ranged his lean figure beside the old man’s bulk. “All right, dad,” he said, in his quiet, sober way. “I’m glad you’ve told me. But it don’t alter nothin’, I guess. Meanwhile I’ll git round, an’ quit whinin’.”

The arrival of Rosebud’s cousin and her maid somewhat disorganized the Sampsons’ simple household. Rosebud’s love of mischief was traceable in this incongruous descent upon the farm. Her own coming was a matter which no obstacle would have stayed. Ma’s letter had nearly broken her heart, and her anxiety was absolutely pitiable until the actual start had been made.

That Seth was ill – wounded – and she had not known from the first, had distracted her, and her mind was made up before she had finished reading the letter. Her obligations to her new life were set aside without a second thought. What if there were invitations to social functions accepted? What if her cousin’s household were thrown into confusion by her going? These things were nothing to her; Seth might be dying, and her heart ached, and something very like terror urged her to hasten.

She had long since learned that Seth, and Seth alone, was all her world. Then the old mischievous leaning possessed her, and she resolved, willy-nilly, that Mrs. Rickards, whose love she had long since won, as she won everybody’s with whom she came into contact, should accompany her.

This old lady, used only to the very acme of comfort, had welcomed the idea of visiting Rosebud’s home in the wilds. Moreover, until the final stage of the journey, she thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was not until traveling from Beacon Crossing, and the camping out at the half-way house, that the roughness of the country was brought home to her. Then came the final miring of the wagon, and she reviled the whole proceeding.

But the ultimate arrival at the farm, and the meeting with its homely folk, soon restored her equanimity. She at once warmed to Ma, whose gentle practical disposition displayed such a wealth of true womanliness as to be quite irresistible, and, in the confidence of her bedchamber, which she shared with Rosebud, she imparted her favorable impressions. She assured the girl she no longer wondered that she, Rosebud, with everything that money could purchase, still longed to return to the shelter of the love which these rough frontier-folk so surely lavished upon her.

“But, my dear,” she added, as a warning proviso, and with a touch of worldliness which her own life in England had made almost part of her nature, “though Mrs. Sampson is so deliciously simple and good, and Mr. Sampson is such an exquisite rough diamond, this Seth, whose trouble has brought us out here, with such undignified haste, is not the man to make the fuss about that you have been doing all the journey. He’s a fine man, or will be when he recovers from his illness, I have no doubt; but, after all, I feel it my duty by your dead father to warn you that I think you are much too concerned about him for a girl in your position.”

“What on earth do you mean, auntie?” Rosebud exclaimed, pausing in the process of brushing out her obstinately curling hair. “What position have I but that which these dear people have helped me to – that Seth, himself, has made for me? I owe all I have, or am at this moment, to Seth. He saved me from a fate too terrible to contemplate. He has saved my life, not once, but half a dozen times; he found me my father’s fortune, or the fortune which father has left for me when I marry. You are more unkind than ever I thought you could be. You wait, auntie, you may yet learn to – to appreciate Seth as I do. You see I know – you don’t. You’re good, and wise, and all that; but you don’t know – Seth.”

“And it’s very evident that you think you do, dear,” Mrs. Rickards said, wearily rolling over and snuggling down amidst the snowy sheets of the soft feather-bed.

“There is no question of thinking,” Rosebud smiled mischievously into the looking-glass in the direction of her relative. “And if Seth were to ask me I would marry him to-morrow – there. Yes, and I’d make him get a special license to avoid unnecessary delay.”

Of a sudden Mrs. Rickards started up in bed. For one moment she severely eyed the girl’s laughing face. Then her anger died out, and she dropped back on the pillow.

“For the moment I thought you meant it,” she said.

“And so I do,” was the girl’s swift retort. “But there,” as a horrified exclamation came from the bed, “he won’t ask me, auntie,” the girl went on, with a dash of angry impatience in her voice, “so you needn’t worry. Seth has a sense of honor which I call quixotic, and one that might reasonably shame the impecunious fortune-hunters I’ve met since I have lived in England. No, I’m afraid if I were to marry Seth it wouldn’t be his doing.”

“This Seth said you were a savage – and he’s right.”

With this parting shot Mrs. Rickards turned over, and, a moment later, was comfortably asleep, as her heavy breathing indicated. Rosebud remained a long time at the dressing-table, but her hair didn’t trouble her. Her head was bowed on her arms, and she was quietly weeping. Nor could she have explained her tears. They were the result of a blending of both joy and sorrow. Joy at returning to the farm and at finding Seth on the highroad to recovery; and sorrow – who shall attempt to probe the depths of this maiden’s heart?

The day following Rosebud’s return was a momentous one. True to her impulsive character the girl, unknown to anybody, saddled her own mare and rode off on a visit to Wanaha. Seth was away from the farm, or he would probably have stopped her. Rube knew nothing of her going, and Ma had her time too much occupied with Mrs. Rickards and her maid to attend to anything but her household duties. So Rosebud was left to her own devices, which, as might have been expected, led her to do the one thing least desirable.

Wanaha was overjoyed at the girl’s return. The good Indian woman had experienced a very real sense of loss, when, without even a farewell, Rosebud suddenly departed from their midst. Added to this Wanaha had had a pretty bad time with her husband after the affair in the river woods. Abnormally shrewd where all others were concerned, she was utterly blind in her husband’s favor. His temper suddenly soured with Rosebud’s going, and the loyal wife suffered in consequence. Yet she failed to appreciate the significance of the change.

There was no suspicion in her mind of the manner in which she had foiled his plans, or even of the nature of them. The attempt to kidnap the white girl she put down to the enterprise of her brother’s fierce, lawless nature, and as having nothing whatever to do with her husband. In fact she still believed it was of that very danger which Nevil had wanted to warn Rosebud.

Now, when the girl suddenly burst in upon her, Wanaha was overjoyed, for she thought she had surely left the prairie world forever. They spent the best part of the morning together. Then Nevil came in for his dinner. When he beheld the girl, fair and deliciously fresh in her old prairie habit, sitting on the bed in the hut, a wave of devilish joy swept over him. He already knew that she had returned to the farm – how, it would have been impossible to say – but that she should still come to his shack seemed incredible.

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.