The Watchers of the Plains Part 32

"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 furnis.h.i.+ngs 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 fas.h.i.+onably 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 rea.s.surance--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. G.o.d, 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 courts.h.i.+p. 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 da.r.s.en'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?"