The Watchers of the Plains

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  The touch of resentment saved Seth. He found it possible to answer her, which he did with an assumption of calmness he in no way felt. It was a pathetic little face that looked up into his. The girl’s anger had brought a flush to her cheeks, but her beautiful eyes were as tearful as an April sky.

  “Guess we’ve all got to do a heap o’ things we don’t like, Rosie; a mighty big heap. An’ seems to me the less we like ’em the more sure it is they’re right for us to do. Some folks calls it ’duty.’”

  “And you think it’s my duty to go?”

  Seth nodded.

  “My duty, the same as it was your duty always to help me out when I got into some scrape?”

  Without a thought Seth nodded again, and was at once answered by that hollow little laugh which he found so jarring.

  “I hate duty! But, since I have had your splendid example before me for six years, it has forced on me the necessity of trying to be like you.” The girl’s sarcasm was harsh, but Seth ignored it.

  As she went on her mood changed again. “I was thinking while that old man was talking so much,” she said slowly, “how I shall miss Pa, and Ma, and old General. And I can’t bear the idea of leaving even the horses and cattle, and the grain fields. I don’t know whatever the little papooses at the Mission will do without me. I wonder if all the people who do their duty feel like that about things? They can’t really, or they wouldn’t want to do it, and would just be natural and—and human sometimes. Think of it, Seth, I’m going to leave all this beautiful sunshine for the fog of London just for the sake of duty. I begin to feel quite good. Then, you see, when I’m rich I shall have so much to do with my money—so many duties—that I shall have no time to think of White River Farm at all. And if I do happen to squeeze in a thought, perhaps just before I go to sleep at night, it’ll be such a comfort to think everybody here is doing their duty. You see nothing else matters, does it?”

  Seth took refuge in silence. The girl’s words pained him, but he knew that it was only her grief at leaving, and he told himself that her bitterness would soon pass. The pleasure of traveling, of seeing new places, the excitement of her new position would change all that. Receiving no reply Rosebud went on, and her bitterness merged into an assumed brightness which quite deceived her companion.

  “Yes,” she continued, “after all it won’t be so dreadful, will it? I can buy lots of nice things, and I shall have servants. And I can go all over the world. No more washing up. And there’ll be parties and dances. And Mr. Irvine said something about estates. I suppose I’ll have a country house—like people in books. Yes, and I’ll marry some one with a title, and wear diamonds. Do you think somebody with a title would marry me, Seth?”

  “Maybe, if you asked him.”

  “Oh!”

  “Wal, you see it’s only fine ladies gits asked by fellers as has titles.”

  The dense Seth felt easier in his mind at the girl’s tone, and in his clumsy fashion was trying to join in the spirit of the thing.

  “Thank you, I’ll not ask any one to marry me.”

  Seth realized his mistake.

  “Course not. I was jest foolin’.”

  “I know.” Rosebud was smiling, and a dash of mischief was in her eyes as she went on—

  “It would be awful if a girl had to ask some one to marry her, wouldn’t it?”

  “Sure.”

  Seth moved out into the passage; the last horse was bedded down, and they stood together leaning on their forks.

  “The man would be a silly, wouldn’t he?”

  “A reg’lar hobo.”

  “What’s a ’hobo,’ Seth?”

  “Why, jest a feller who ain’t got no ‘savee.’”

  “‘Savee’ means ’sense,’ doesn’t it?” Rosebud’s eyes were innocently inquiring, and they gazed blandly up into the man’s face.

  “Wal, not exac’ly. It’s when a feller don’t git a notion right, an’ musses things up some.” They were walking toward the barn door now. Seth was about to go up to the loft to throw down hay. “Same as when I got seein’ after the Injuns when I ought to’ve stayed right here an’ seen you didn’t go sneakin’ off by y’self down by the river,” he added slyly, with one of his rare smiles.

  The girl laughed and clapped her hands.

  “Oh, Seth!” she cried, as she moved out to return to the house, “then you’re a regular ’hobo.’ What a joke!”

  And she ran off, leaving the man mystified.

  Rosebud and the lawyer left the following morning. Never had such good fortune caused so much grief. It was a tearful parting; Ma and Rosebud wept copiously, and Rube, too, was visibly affected. Seth avoided everybody as much as possible. He drove the conveyance into Beacon Crossing, but, as they were using the lawyer’s hired “democrat,” he occupied the driving-seat with the man who had brought the lawyer out to the farm. Thus it was he spoke little to Rosebud on the journey.

  Later, at the depot, he found many things to occupy him and only time to say “good-bye” at the last moment, with the lawyer looking on.

  The girl was on the platform at the end of the sleeping-car when Seth stepped up to make his farewell.

  “Good-bye, little Rosebud,” he said, in his quiet, slow manner. His eyes were wonderfully soft. “Maybe you’ll write some?”

  The girl nodded. Her violet eyes were suspiciously bright as she looked frankly up into his face.

  “I hope we shall both be happy. We’ve done our duty, haven’t we?” she asked, with a wistful little smile.

  “Sure,” replied Seth, with an ineffective attempt at lightness.

  The girl still held his hand and almost imperceptibly drew nearer to him. Her face was lifted to him in a manner that few would have mistaken. But Seth gently withdrew his hand, and, as the train began to move, climbed down and dropped upon the low platform.

  Rosebud turned away with a laugh, though her eyes filled with tears. She waved a handkerchief, and Seth’s tall, slim figure was the last she beheld of Beacon Crossing. And when the train was sufficiently far away she kissed her hand in the direction of the solitary figure still doing sentry at the extremity of the platform. Then she went into the car and gave full vent to the tears she had struggled so long to repress.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIX

  SETH PLAYS A STRONG HAND

  It would seem that the Agent’s prompt action in summoning the aid of the troops had averted disaster. No trouble followed immediately on Seth’s drastic treatment of Little Black Fox, and the majority of the settlers put this result down to the fact of the overawing effect of the cavalry. One or two held different opinions, and amongst these were the men of White River Farm. They were inclined to the belief that the wounding of the chief was the sole reason that the people remained quiet. Anyway, not a shot was fired, much to the satisfaction of the entire white population, and, after two weeks had passed, by slow degrees, a large proportion of the troops were withdrawn.

  Then followed a government inquiry, at which Seth was the principal witness. It was a mere formality by which the affair was relegated to the history of the State. The government knew better than to punish the chief. After all, Little Black Fox was a king of his race, and, however much it might desire to be rid of the turbulent Sioux, it would be a dangerous thing to act with a high hand.

  But the matter served as an excuse for one of those mistakes which so often have a far-reaching effect. There was an old fort close by the Pine Ridge Reservation, one of those ancient structures erected by old-time traders. It had long been untenanted, and had fallen into decay. The authorities decided to make it habitable, and turn it into a small military post, garrisoning it with a detachment of about one hundred cavalry.

  It was a mistake. And every white man of experience in the district knew that it was so. Even the Agents of the two Reservations sounded a warning note. It is fatal to attempt to bluff the Indian. Bluff and back the bluff. But a handful of cavalry is no backing to any bluff. The older settler
s shook their heads; the more timorous dared to hope; even old Roiheim, who would make profit by the adjacency of soldiers, would willingly have foregone the extra trade. Rube and Seth offered no comment outside their own house; but their opinion was worth considering.

  “It won’t hurt a heap this side of Christmas,” Rube said, on learning the decision.

  And Seth pointed his remark.

  “No, not now, I guess. Mebbe spring ’ll see things.”

  These two had struck at the heart of the thing. It was late summer, and history has long since proved that Indians never go out on the war-path with winter coming on. Besides, Little Black Fox was not likely to be well of his wound for months.

  So the farmers went about their work again. Rube and Seth took in their crops, and devoted spare time to building operations. And the district of White River continued its unobtrusive prosperity.

  The loss of Rosebud was no small matter to Ma Sampson’s little household. But these folk were far too well inured to the hard life of the plains to voice their troubles. They sometimes spoke of her over their meals, but for the most part bore her silently in their thoughts. And the place she occupied with them was surely one that anybody might envy.

  For Seth all the brightness of the last six years had gone out of his life, and he fell back on the almost stern devotion, which had always been his, toward the old people who had raised him. That, and the looking forward to the girl’s letters from England practically made up his life. He never permitted himself the faintest hope that he would see her again. He had no thought of marriage with her. If nothing else prevented, her fortune was an impassable barrier. Besides he knew that she would be restored to that life—“high-life,” was his word—to which she properly belonged. He never thought or hinted to himself that she would forget them, for he had no bitterness, and was much too loyal to think of her otherwise than as the most true-hearted girl. He simply believed he understood social distinctions thoroughly.

  But if he were slow in matters of love, it was his only sloth. In action he was swift and thorough, and his perception in all matters pertaining to the plainsman’s life was phenomenal.

  It was this disposition for swift action which sent him one day, after the troops had withdrawn to their new post, and the plains had returned to their usual pastoral aspect, in search of Nevil Steyne. And it was significant that he knew just when and where to find his man.

  He rode into a clearing in the woods down by the river. The spot was about a mile below the wagon bridge, where the pines grew black and ragged—a touch of the primordial in the midst of a younger growth. It was noon; a time when the plainsman knew he would find the wood-cutter at leisure, taking his midday meal, or lazing over a pipe. Nor were his calculations far out.

  Nevil was stretched full length beside the smouldering embers on which his coffee billytin was steaming out fragrant odors that blended pleasantly with the resinous fragrance of these ancient woods.

  He looked up at the sound of horse’s hoofs, and there could be no doubt about the unfriendliness of his expression when he recognized his visitor. He dropped back again into his lounging attitude at once, and his action was itself one of studied discourtesy.

  Seth did not appear to notice anything. He surveyed the clearing with a certain appreciation. The vast timbers he beheld seemed of much more consequence to him than the man who lived by their destruction. However, he rode straight over to the fire and dismounted.

  “Howdy?” he said, while he loosened the cinches of his saddle.

  “What’s brought you around?” asked Nevil, ungraciously enough.

  Seth turned toward the trees about him.

  “Pretty tidy patch,” he observed. “We’re wantin’ big timbers up at the farm. Mebbe you’d notion a contrac’?”

  Nevil had noted the loosening of the cinches. He laughed shortly.

  “I’m not taking contracts, thanks. But I’ll sell you wood which I cut at my pleasure.”

  “Cord-wood?” Seth shook his head. “Guess we want timbers. Kind o’ buildin’ a corral around the farm.”

  “Making a fort of it?”

  Nevil’s blue eyes followed the upward curling wreath of smoke which dawdled on the still air above the fire.

  “Yup.”

  “Fancy the Injuns are on the racket?”

  “Wal, ’tain’t what they’re doin’ now. But ther’ ain’t no tellin’, an’ we’re slack since the harvest. I ’lows the notion’s tol’ble. Mebbe they’ll be quiet some—now Rosebud’s gone.”

  There was a quiet emphasis on Seth’s final speculation.

  “I heard she’d gone away for a bit.”

  Nevil looked searchingly at this man whom he hated above all men.

  “Gone for good,” Seth said, with an admirable air of indifference.

  “How?”

  Nevil suddenly sat up. Seth noted the fact without even glancing in his direction.

  “Wal, y’ see she’s got folks in England. And ther’ is a heap o’ dollars; an almighty heap. I reckon she’d be a millionairess in this country. Guess it takes a mighty heap o’ bills to reckon a million in your country.”

  This expansiveness was so unusual in the man of the plains that Nevil understood at once he had come purposely to speak of Rosebud. He wondered why. This was the first he had heard of Rosebud’s good fortune, and he wished to know more. The matter had been kept from everybody. Even Wanaha had been kept in ignorance of it.

  Seth seated himself on a fallen tree-trunk, and now looked squarely into the wood-cutter’s thin, mean face.

  “Y’ see it’s kind o’ curious. I got that gal from the Injuns more’n six years back, as you’ll likely remember. Her folks, her father an’ her ma, was killed south o’ the Reservations. Guess they were kind o’ big folk in your country. An’ ther’ was a feller come along awhiles back all the way from England to find her. He was a swell law feller; he’d hit her trail, an’ when he comes along he said as she owned ’states in your country, a whole heap. Guess she’s to be treated like a queen. Dollars? Gee! She ken buy most everything. I ’lows they ken do it slick in your country.”

  Seth paused to light his pipe. His manner was exquisitely simple. The narration of the story of the girl’s good fortune appeared to give him the keenest pleasure. Nevil removed his pipe from his lips and sat chewing the end of his ragged moustache. There was an ugly look in his eyes as he contemplated the ashes of his fire. He might have been staring at the ashes of his own fortunes. However, he contrived a faint smile when he spoke.

  “Then I s’pose you’ve found out her real name?”

  “Sure. Marjorie Raynor. Her father was Colonel Landor Raynor.”

  “Ah.”

  “An’ ther’ ain’t no question o’ the dollars. She hain’t no near folk ’cep’ an uncle, Stephen Raynor, an’ he don’t figger anyways, ’cause the dollars are left to her by will. He only comes in, the lawyer feller says, if the gal was to die, or—or get killed.”

  Seth had become quite reflective; he seemed to find a curious pleasure in thus discussing the girl he loved with a man he at no time had any use for.

  Nevil stared uneasily. A quick, furtive glance at Seth, who at that moment seemed to be watching his horse, gave an inkling of his passing thought. If a look could kill Seth would certainly have been a dead man.

  “So the whole thing’s a dead cinch for her?”

  “Yup. Now.”

  Nevil gave a short laugh.

  “You mean—that matter with Little Black Fox. But she brought it on herself. She encouraged him.”

  Seth was round on him in a twinkling.

  “Maybe he was encouraged—but not by her.”

  “Who then?”

  There was unmistakable derision in the wood-cutter’s tone. Seth shrugged. A shadowy smile played round his lips, but his eyes were quite serious.

  “That’s it,” he said, relapsing into his reflective manner, “the whole thing’s mighty curious. Them law fellers in your countr
y are smartish. They’ve located a deal. Don’t jest know how. They figger that uncle feller is around either this State or Minnesota—likely this one, seein’ the Colonel was comin’ this aways when he got killed. We got yarnin’, an’ he was sayin’ he thought o’ huntin’ out this uncle. I guessed ther’ wa’an’t much need, an’ it might set him wantin’ the dollars. The law feller said he wouldn’t get ’em anyhow—’cep’ the gal was dead. We kind o’ left it at that. Y’ see the whole thing for the uncle hung around that gal—bein’ dead.”

  “And you think he might have had something——” Nevil’s words came slowly, like a man who realizes the danger of saying too much.

  “Wal, it don’t seem possible, I guess. Them two was killed by the Injuns, sure. An’ she—I guess she ain’t never seen him.”

  A slight sigh escaped Nevil.

  “That’s so,” he said deliberately.

  “Howsum, I guess I’m goin’ to look around for this feller. Y’ see Rosebud’s li’ble to like him. Mebbe he ain’t well heeled for dollars, an’ she’s that tender-hearted she might—I’ve got his pictur’. Mebbe I’ll show it around—eh, what’s up?” Seth inquired in his blandest tone.

  Nevil suddenly sat up and there was a desperate look in his eyes. But he controlled himself, and, with an effort, spoke indifferently.

  “Nothing. I want another pipe.”

  “Ah.” Seth fumbled through his pockets, talking the while. “The pictur’ was took when he was most a boy. His hair was thick an’ he hadn’t no moustache nor nothin’, which kind o’ makes things hard. As I was sayin’, I’m goin’ to show it around some, an’ maybe some one ’ll rec’nize the feller. That’s why I got yarnin’ to you. Mebbe you ken locate him.”

  As he said the last word he drew a photograph from his pocket and thrust it into Nevil’s hand.