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

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXI

  TWO HEADS IN CONSPIRACY

  Seth was badly hit; so badly that it was impossible to say how long hemight be confined to a sick-room. His left shoulder-blade had been brokenby 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 bya shocking furrow of lacerated flesh. Though neither gave expression tothe thought, both Ma and Rube marveled at the escape he had had, and eventhe 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 impenetrablesilence on the subject of the attack made upon him. Parker and Hargreavesprotested. The military authorities demanded explanation in vain. To allbut the Agent Seth vouchsafed the curtest of replies, and to him he madeonly a slight concession.

  "Guess this is my racket," he said, with just a touch of invalidpeevishness. "Mebbe I'll see it thro' my own way--later."

  Ma and Rube refrained from question. It was theirs to help, and they knewthat if there was anything which Seth had to tell he would tell it in hisown time.

  But time passed on, and no explanation was forthcoming. Taking their mealstogether in the kitchen, or passing quiet evenings in the parlor whiletheir patient slept up-stairs, Ma and Rube frequently discussed thematter, but their speculations led them nowhere. Still, as the sick manslowly progressed toward recovery, they were satisfied. It was all theyasked.

  Rube accepted the burden of the work thus thrust upon him in cheerfulsilence. There was something horse-like in his willingness for work. Hejust put forth a double exertion without one single thought of self.

  Every week the English mail brought Ma a letter from Rosebud, and eversince Seth had taken up his abode in the sick-room the opening and readingof these long, girlish epistles had become a function reserved for hisentertainment. It was a brief ray of sunshine in the gray monotony of hislong imprisonment. On these occasions, generally Tuesdays, the entireevening would be spent with the invalid.

  They were happy, single-hearted little gatherings. Ma was seated at thebedside in a great armchair before a table on which the letter was spreadout. An additional lamp was requisitioned for the occasion, and herglasses 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. Thereading 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, nowthousands of miles away from them, with a seriousness, a delightedhappiness that nothing else in their lives could have afforded them.Comment came afterward, and usually from Ma, the two men merelypunctuating her remarks with affirmative or negative monosyllables.

  It was on the receipt of one of these letters that Ma saw her way to asmall scheme which had been slowly revolving itself in her brain eversince Seth was wounded. Seth had been in the habit of enclosing occasionalshort notes under cover of the old woman's more bulky and labored repliesto the girl. Since his misadventure these, of course, had beendiscontinued, with the result that now, at last, Rosebud was asking for anexplanation.

  In reading the letter aloud Ma avoided that portion of it which referredto the matter. Her reason was obviously to keep her own plans from herboy's knowledge, but so clumsily did she skip to another part of theletter, that, all unconscious of it, she drew from her audience a sharplook of inquiry.

  Nothing was said at the time, but the following day, at supper, when Maand Rube were alone, the man, who had taken the whole day to consider thematter, spoke of it in the blunt fashion habitual to him.

  "Guess ther' was suthin' in that letter you didn't read, Ma?" he saidwithout preamble.

  Ma looked up. Her bright eyes peered keenly through her spectacles intoher 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 showof indifference.

  A silence followed. Ma helped herself to more tea and refilled herhusband'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 plateand took a noisy draught from his huge mug of tea. A quiet smile lurked inthe 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 herhusband'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'vegot our dooty. Guess I ain't a heap at writin' fancy notions, but mebbe Iken help some. Y' see it's you an' me. I 'lows Seth would hate to worritRosie 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 quaintknowingness, and resumed their supper in silence.

  A common thought, a common hope, held them. Neither would have spoken itopenly, even though no one was there to overhear. Each felt that they weresomehow taking advantage of Seth and, perhaps, not doing quite the rightthing by Rosebud; but after all they were old, simple people who lovedthese two, and had never quite given up the hope of seeing them ultimatelybrought together.

  The meal was finished, and half an hour later they were further workingout their mild conspiracy in the parlor. Ma was the scribe, and was seatedat the table surrounded by all the appurtenances of her business. Rube, ina great mental effort, was clouding the atmosphere with the reeking fumesof his pipe. The letter was a delicate matter, and its responsibility satheavily on this man of the plains. Ma was less embarrassed; her woman'sinstinct helped her. Besides, since Rosebud had been away she had almostbecome 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 replybefore 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 scratchedhis head and smoked hard. Neither spoke. At last the woman jerked out animpatient inquiry.

  "Well?" she exclaimed.

  Rube removed his pipe from his lips with great deliberation and easedhimself 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 deliberatethought. 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 hassomething of importance to say, and sat bolt upright. "Then I guess we kengit right on." And having thus clearly marked their course he sat back andcomplacently surveyed his wife.

  But the brilliancy of his suggestion was lost on Ma, and she urged himfurther.

  "Well?"

  "Wal--I'd jest say, 'Honored Lady,'" he suggested doubtfully.

  "Mussy on the man, we're writin' to Rosebud!" exclaimed t
he old woman.

  "Sure." Rube nodded patronizingly, but he seemed a little uncomfortableunder his wife's stare of amazement. "But," he added, in a tone meant toclinch 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 shespoke. "Now," she went on, looking up, "you can git on wi' the notions tofoller."

  Again Rube cleared his throat. Ma watched him, chewing the end of herpenholder the while. The man knocked his pipe out and slowly began torefill it. He looked out the window into the blackness of the winternight. His vast face was heavy with thought, and his shaggy gray browswere 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 twoor three letters Rube had contrived to send her, which were stillup-stairs in an old trunk containing her few treasures. She rememberedthat these letters had, in each case, begun with "Honored Lady." Shewondered where he had obtained the notion which still remained with himafter 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. "Seemsyou'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, whileshe proceeded to write. "How's this?" she went on presently, reading whatshe had just written. "I'm sorry to have to tell you as Seth's got hurtpretty bad. He's mighty sick, an' liable to be abed come spring. Porefeller, he's patient as he always is, but he's all mussed-up an' brokenshocking; shot in the side an' got bones smashed up. Howsum, he's goin' onall right, an' we hope for the best."

  "I 'lows that's neat," Rube said, lighting his pipe. "'Tain't jest whatI'd fancy. Sounds kind o' familiar. An' I guess it's li'ble to scare hersome."

  "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 wantthat 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 thatdull an' slow wher' gals is concerned. I'll write this letter in my ownway. You'd best go an' yarn with Seth. An' you needn't say nuthin' o' thisto him. We'll git a quick answer from Rosebud, or I'm ter'ble slow 'boutsome things, like you."

  The cloud of responsibility suddenly lifted from the farmer's heavyfeatures. He smiled his relief at his partner in conspiracy. He knew thatin such a matter as the letter he was as much out of place as one of hisown steers would be. Ma, he was convinced, was one of the cleverest of hersex, and if Seth and Rosebud were ever to be brought together again shewould do it. So he rose, and, moving round to the back of his wife'schair, 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 boyain'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 beliedthe practical brusqueness of her words.

  "Don't you git talkin' foolish. Ther' was a time when I'd 'a' liked you totalk foolish, but you couldn't do it then, you were that slow. Git rightalong. 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 hiswife went steadily on with the all-important matter in hand.