SETH ATTEMPTS TO WRITE A LETTER
It is not usually a remarkable event in one's life, the writing of a
letter. In these days of telephone, however, it soon will be. In Seth's
case it nearly was so, but for a different reason. Seth could write, even
as he could read. But he was not handy at either. He abominated writing,
and preferred to read only that which Nature held out for his perusal.
However, after some days of deep consideration, he had decided to write a
letter. And, with characteristic thoroughness, he intended it to be very
long, and very explicit.
After supper one evening, when Rube had gone out for his evening smoke,
and that final prowl round necessary to see that all was prepared for the
morrow's work, and the stock comfortable for the night, and Ma Sampson and
Rosebud were busy washing up, and, in their department, also seeing things
straight for the night, Seth betook himself to the parlor, that haven of
modest comfort and horsehair, patchwork rugs and many ornaments, earthen
floor and low ceiling, and prepared for his task. He had no desire to
advertise the fact of that letter, so he selected this particular moment
when the others were occupied elsewhere.
His ink and paper were on the table before him, and his pen was poised
while he considered. Then the slow, heavy footfall of old Rube sounded
approaching through the kitchen. The scribe waited to hear him pass
up-stairs, or settle himself in an armchair in the kitchen. But the heavy
tread came on, and presently the old man's vast bulk blocked the doorway.
"Ah! Writin'?"
The deep tone was little better than a grunt.
Seth nodded, and gazed out of the window. The parlor window looked out in
the direction of the Reservation. If he intended to convey a hint it was
not taken. Old Rube had expected Seth to join him outside for their usual
smoke. That after-supper prowl had been their habit for years. He wanted
to talk to him.
"I was yarnin' with Jimmy Parker s'afternoon," said Rube.
Seth looked round.
The old man edged heavily round the table till he came to the high-backed,
rigid armchair that had always been his seat in this room.
"He says the crops there are good," he went on, indicating the Reservation
with a nod of his head toward the window.
"It'll be a good year all round, I guess," Seth admitted.
"Yes, I dare say it will be," was the answer.
Rube was intently packing his pipe, and the other waited. Rube's deep-set
eyes had lost their customary twinkle. The deliberation with which he was
packing his pipe had in it a suggestion of abstraction. Filling a pipe is
a process that wonderfully indicates the state of a man's mind.
"Jimmy's worried some. 'Bout the harvest, I guess," Rube said presently,
adjusting his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and testing the draw of it.
But his eyes were not raised to his companion's face.
"Injuns ain't workin' well?"
"Mebbe."
"They're a queer lot."
"Ye-es. I was kind o' figgerin'. We're mostly through hayin'."
"I've got another slough to cut."
"That's so. Down at the Red Willow bluff." The old man nodded.
"Yes," assented Seth. Then, "Wal?"
"After that, guess ther's mostly slack time till harvest. I thought,
mebbe, we could jest haul that lumber from Beacon Crossing. And cut the
logs. Parker give me the 'permit.' Seems to me we might do wuss."
"For the stockade?" suggested Seth.
"Yes."
"I've thought of that, too." The two men looked into each other's eyes.
And the old man nodded.
"Guess the gals wouldn't want to know," he said, rising and preparing to
depart.
"No--I don't think they would."
The hardy old pioneer towered mightily as he moved toward the door. In
spite of his years he displayed none of the uneasiness which his words
might have suggested. Nothing that frontier life could show him would be
new. At least, nothing that he could imagine. But then his imagination was
limited. Facts were facts with him; he could not gild them. Seth was
practical, too; but he also had imagination, which made him the cleverer
man of the two in the frontiersman's craft.
At the door Rube looked round.
"Guess you was goin' to write some?"
He passed out with a deep gurgle, as though the fact of Seth's writing was
something to afford amusement.
Seth turned to the paper and dipped his pen in the ink. Then he wiped it
clean on his coat sleeve and dipped it again. After that he headed his
paper with much precision. Then he paused, for he heard a light footstep
cross the passage between the parlor and the kitchen. He sighed in relief
as it started up-stairs. But his relief was short-lived. He knew that it
was Rosebud. He heard her stop. Then he heard her descend again. The next
moment she appeared in the doorway.
"What, Seth writing?" she exclaimed, her laughing eyes trying to look
seriously surprised. "I knew you were here by the smell of the smoke."
"Guess it was Rube's." Seth's face relaxed for a moment, then it returned
to its usual gravity.
"Then it must have been that pipe you gave him the other night," she
returned quick as thought.
Seth shook his head.
"Here it is," he said, and drew a pipe from his pocket. "He 'lowed he
hadn't no nigger blood in him."
"Too strong?"
"Wal--he said he had scruples."
Rosebud laughed, and came and perched herself on the edge of Seth's table.
He leant back in his chair and smiled up at her. Resignation was his only
refuge. Besides--
"So you're writing, Seth," the girl said, and her eyes had become really
serious. They were deep, deep now, the violet of them was almost black in
the evening light. "I wonder----"
Seth shook his head.
"Nobody yet," he said.
"You mean I'm to go away?" Rosebud smiled, but made no attempt to move.
"Guess I ain't in no hurry."
"Well, I'm glad of that. And you're not grumpy with me either, are you?
No?" as Seth shook his head. "That's all right, then, because I want to
talk to you."
"That's how I figgered."
"You're always figuring, Seth. You figure so much in your own quiet way
that I sometimes fancy you haven't time to look at things which don't
need calculating upon. I suppose living near Indians all your life makes
you look very much ahead. I wonder--what you see there. You and Rube."
"Guess you're side-tracked," Seth replied uneasily, and turning his
attention to the blank paper before him.
The girl's face took on a little smile. Her eyes shone again as she
contemplated the dark head of the man who was now unconscious of her gaze.
There was a tender look in them. The old madcap in her was taming. A
something looked out of her eyes now which certainly would not have been
there had the man chanced to look up. But he didn't. The whiteness of the
paper seemed to absorb all his keenest interest.
"I rather think you always fancy I'm side-tracked, Seth," the girl said at
last. "You don't think I have a serious thought in my foolish head."
Seth looked up now and smiled.
"Guess you've always been a child to me," he said. "An' kiddies ain't
bustin' with brain--generly. However, I don't reckon you're foolish. 'Cep'
when you git around that Reservation," he added thoughtfully.
There was a brief silence. The man avoided the violet eyes. He seemed
afraid to look at them. Rosebud's presence somehow made things hard for
him. Seth was a man whom long years of a life fraught with danger had
taught that careful thought must be backed up by steady determination.
There must be no wavering in any purpose. And this girl's presence made
him rebel against that purpose he had in his mind now.
"That has always been a trouble between us, hasn't it?" Rosebud said at
last. And her quiet manner drew her companion's quick attention. "But it
shan't be any more."
The man looked up now; this many-sided girl could still astonish him.
"You're quittin' the Reservation?" he said.
"Yes,--except the sewing and Sunday classes at the Mission," Rosebud
replied slowly. "But it's not on your account I'm doing it," she added
hastily, with a gleam of the old mischief in her eyes. "It's
because--Seth, why do the Indians hate you? Why does Little Black Fox hate
you?"
The man's inquiring eyes searched the bright earnest face looking down
upon him. His only reply was a shake of the head.
"I know," she went on. "It's on my account. You killed Little Black Fox's
father to save me."
"Not _to_ save you," Seth said. He was a stickler for facts. "_And_ saved
you."
"Oh, bother! Seth, you are stupid! It's on that account he hates you. And,
Seth, if I promise not to go to the Reservation without some one, will you
promise me not to go there without me? You see it's safer if there are
two."
Seth smiled at the naive simplicity of the suggestion. He did not detect
the guile at first. But it dawned on him presently and he smiled more. She
had said she was not going to visit the Reservation again.
"Who put these crazy notions into your head, Rosebud?" he asked.
"No one."
The girl's answer came very short. She didn't like being laughed at. And
she thought he was laughing at her now.
"Some one's said something," Seth persisted. "You see Little Black Fox has
hated me for six years. There is no more danger for me now than there was
when I shot Big Wolf. With you it's kind o' different. You see--you're
grown----"
"I see." Rosebud's resentment had passed. She understood her companion's
meaning. She had understood that she was "grown" before. Presently she
went on. "I've learned a lot in the last few days," she said quietly,
gazing a little wistfully out of the window. "But nobody has actually told
me anything. You see," with a shadowy smile, "I notice things near at
hand. I don't calculate ahead. I often talk to Little Black Fox. He is
easy to read. Much easier than you are, Seth," she finished up, with a
wise little nod.
"An' you've figgered out my danger?" Seth surveyed the trim figure
reposing with such unconscious grace upon the table. He could have feasted
his eyes upon it, but returned to a contemplation of his note-paper.
"Yes. Will you promise me, Seth--dear old Seth?"
The man shook his head. The wheedling tone was hard to resist.
"I can't do that," he said. "You see, Rosebud, ther's many things take me
there which must be done. Guess I git around after you at times. That
could be altered, eh?"
"I don't think you're kind, Seth!" The girl pouted her disappointment, but
there was some other feeling underlying her manner. The man looked up with
infinite kindness in his eyes, but he gave no sign of any other feeling.
"Little Rosebud," he said, "if ther's a creetur in this world I've a
notion to be kind to, I guess she ain't more'n a mile from me now. But, as
I said, ther's things that take me to the Reservation. Rube ken tell you.
So----"
The man broke off, and dipped his pen in the ink. Rosebud watched him,
and, for once in her wilful life, forgot that she had been refused
something, and consequently to be angry. She looked at the head bending
over the paper as the man inscribed, "Dear sirs," and that something which
had peeped out of her eyes earlier in their interview was again to be seen
there.
She reached out a hand as she slid from the table and smoothed the head of
dark hair with it.
"All right, Seth," she said gently. "We'll have no promises, but take care
of yourself, because you are my own old--'Daddy.'"
At the door she turned.
"You can write your letter now," she said, with a light laugh. The next
moment she was gone.