THE LETTER FROM ENGLAND
"La, child, an' why did you go for to do it?"
Ma was bending over Seth, bathing the ugly flesh wound in his shoulder.
Her old eyes were pathetically anxious behind her spectacles, but her
touch was sure and steady. Her words were addressed to Rosebud, who was
standing by with a handful of bandages. The girl made no reply, and her
eyes were fixed on this result of her escapade. She was pale, and her
young face looked drawn. The violet of her eyes was noticeably dull, and
it was easy to see that she was struggling hard to keep tears back. She
simply could not answer.
Seth took the task upon himself. He seemed to understand, although he was
not looking her way.
"Don't worrit the gal, Ma," he said, in his gentle fashion, so that
Rosebud felt like dropping the bandages and fleeing from the room. "Say,
jest git right to it an' fix me up. I 'low ther's li'ble to be work doin'
'fore this night's out."
"God a-mussy, I hope not, Seth, boy!" the old woman said, with a deep
intake of breath. But her busy fingers hastened. She tenderly laid the
wool, saturated in carbolic oil, upon the gash. Seth bore it without
flinching. "More'n six year," she added, taking the bandages from Rosebud
and applying them with the skill of long experience, "an' we've had no
trouble, thank God. But I knew it 'ud come sure. Rube had it in his eye."
"Wher's Rube now?" asked Seth, cutting her short.
"Doin' guard out front."
The bandage was adjusted, and Seth rose and was helped into his coat.
"Guess I'll git out to him."
He found it hard, for once, to sit in there with the womenfolk. His
feeling was one common to men of action.
"You're feelin' easy?" Ma asked him anxiously, as he moved to the door.
"Dead right, Ma."
The old woman shook her head doubtfully, and Rosebud's troubled eyes
followed him as he moved away. She had scarcely spoken since they returned
to the house. Her brain was still in a whirl and she was conscious of a
weak, but almost overpowering, inclination to tears. The one thing that
stood out above all else in her thoughts was Seth's wound.
No one had questioned her; no one had blamed her. These simple people
understood her feelings of the moment too well. Later they knew they would
learn all about it. For the present there was plenty to be done.
Rube had been making preparations. Their plans needed no thinking out.
Such an emergency as the present had always been foreseen, and so there
was no confusion. Charlie Rankin had gone on to old Joe Smith, and that
individual would be dispatched post-haste in the direction of the white
tents that had been seen on the plains. For the rest the horses in the
barn were ready harnessed, and Ma could be trusted to get together the
household things ready for decamping. There was nothing to do but to keep
a night-long watch.
Seth had crossed the passage, and was passing through the parlor, out of
which the front door opened. Rosebud hesitated. Then with something almost
like a rush she followed him. She was at his side in a moment, and her two
small hands were clasping his rough, strong right hand.
"Seth," she whispered, tearfully. "I----"
"Don't, little Rosie!" the man interrupted, attempting to draw his hand
gently from her grasp. "Guess ther' ain't no need to say anything. Mebbe I
know."
But Seth had misinterpreted her action. He thought she meant to explain.
She kept hold of his hand, and tears were in her lovely eyes as she looked
up into his dark face, now little more than a shadow in the faint light
that came from the passage.
"Oh, Seth, Seth, it was all my fault!" she cried, in her distress. "Your
poor shoulder! Oh, what should I do if you were to die! Oh----" And the
girl fell on her knees at his side and kissed the hand she was clinging
to. The long threatened tears had come at last, and her voice was choked
with sobs.
Seth had been unprepared for this outburst. It took him quite aback, and
he felt a great lump rise in his throat. Unconsciously he almost roughly
released his hand. But the next moment it was laid tenderly upon the bowed
head.
"Git up, little gal," he said. And there was a world of tenderness in his
voice. His effort at self-restraint was great, but his feelings found a
certain amount of expression in spite of him, for he was stirred to the
depths of his loyal heart. He was face to face with a scene such as he had
never even pictured. His sense of duty was powerless just then before his
deep, strong love for the girl. "Little Rosebud," he went on, and he
struggled hard to make his words rough, "ther's things to do. Go right
back to Ma an' help her. I must go out to Rube. He's doin' all the work,
an' so is she."
The girl made no move to rise. Her sobs were heart-breaking. Seth turned
sharply and left her where she was. He simply dared not stay there another
moment.
Outside General was lying a few yards away from the house, crouched
alertly, and gazing out prairiewards. He called the dog to him.
"Injuns, boy," he said, in a low tone. "S-seek 'em!"
The dog responded with a low growl, and then moved off out into the
darkness, with the prowling gait of a puma stalking its prey.
"He'll keep us posted," Seth observed quietly to Rube.
"You kind o' understan' him."
"He understands Injuns," the dog's master returned significantly. No more
was said for a while, and the two men peered out into the darkness with
eyes trained to such watchfulness.
"'Bout them tents?" said Rube later on.
"They're the troops. The postmaster told me they were comin' hard."
"Kind o' handy."
It was very dark. The moon had not yet risen. Presently Seth fetched a
chair. The older man watched him seat himself a little wearily.
"Hurt some?" he said.
"Jest a notion," Seth replied in his briefest manner.
"Say, you got around jest in time."
"Yup. Wanaha put me wise after I left here, so I came that aways. Say,
this is jest the beginnin'."
"You think----"
"Ther's more comin'. Guess the troops 'll check it some. But--say, this
feller's worse'n his father. Guess he's jest feelin' his feet. An' he's
gettin' all the Pine Ridge lot with him--I located that as I came along."
They talked on for some time longer, in their slow, short way discussing
their plans. The one topic they did not discuss was Rosebud. They tacitly
ignored her share in the evening's work like men who knew that certain
blame must attach to her and refused to bestow it.
The night dragged slowly on. Rube wanted Seth to go in and rest, but Seth
sat in his chair with dogged persistence. So they shared the vigil.
Rube, by way of variation, occasionally visited the stables to see to the
horses. And all the time the dog was out scouting with an almost human
intelligence. After once being dispatched he did not appear again. Seth
had brought him up to this Indian scouting, and the beast's natural
animosity to the Indians made him a perfect guard.
The moon rose at midnight. There was no sign of disturbance on the
Reservation. All was quiet and still. But then these men knew that the
critical time had not yet arrived. Dawn would be the danger. And by dawn
they both hoped that something might result from Charlie Rankin's
journey.
Rube was sitting in a chair at Seth's side. The clock in the kitchen had
just cuckooed three times. The old man's eyes were heavy with sleep, but
he was still wide awake. Neither had spoken for some time. Suddenly Seth's
right hand gripped the old man's arm.
"Listen!"
There was a faint, uneasy whine far out on the prairie. Then Seth's
straining ears caught the sound of horses galloping. Rube sprang to his
feet, and his hands went to the guns at his waist. But Seth checked him.
"Easy," he said. "Guess it ain't that. General only whined. He mostly
snarls wicked for Injuns."
They listened again. And soon it became apparent that those approaching
were coming out of the north.
"Charlie's located 'em." Seth's tone was quietly assuring, and old Rube
sighed his relief.
Then the dog suddenly reappeared. He, too, seemed to understand that
friends were approaching.
And so it proved. The night of long suspense was over. A few minutes later
a squad of United States cavalry, in charge of a dapper, blue-coated
lieutenant, rode up to the farm. And when they arrived Seth was there by
himself to receive them.
"Rube Sampson's farm?" inquired the lieutenant, as he swung from his
steaming horse.
"Right." Seth shook hands with the man.
"Trouble over there," observed the other, indicating the Reservation with
a nod of the head.
"Yup. Come right in. Guess your boys had best make their plugs snug in the
barn. Come right in, and I'll rouse Ma."
Those last two hours before morning were the hardest part of all to Rube
and Seth, for, in the parlor, they had to detail all the events of the
preceding day to Lieutenant Barrow and his sergeant. And neither of them
was good at explaining.
Breakfast was partaken of; after which, since the soldiers had accepted
all responsibility, Ma packed her men-folk off to bed. Seth had not seen a
bed since Friday night, and this was Tuesday.
The neighborhood of the farm, and, in fact, all along the north side of
the river presented an unusual sight when Seth and Rube reappeared at
noon. Two regiments of United States cavalry had taken up their position
ready for any emergency.
The midday meal was a little late, so that Seth's shoulder might be
properly dressed. And when at last the family sat down to it, it
threatened to be more than usually silent. All were weary, and the women
overwrought. Ma was the only one who made any attempt to rouse the
drooping spirits about her. The men knew that they were confronted with no
ordinary Indian rising. There was something far more threatening to them
personally.
As the meal dragged on Ma abandoned her efforts entirely, and a long
silence ensued. Finally Rube pushed back his chair and rose from the
table. Then it was that Seth spoke for the first time.
He looked from Rube to Ma. He was trying to look unconcerned, and even
smiled.
"Say," he observed, "guess I was fergittin'. I got a bit of a letter
from--England."
Rube dropped back into his chair, and his eyes were questioning. Ma was
staring through her spectacles at her boy. She, too, was asking a mute
question. But hers was merely a quiet curiosity, while Rube's, slow old
Rube's, was prompted by Seth's manner, which, instinctively, he knew to be
a false one.
Rosebud was patting General's head as he sat at her side. She continued
her caressing, but her eyes, swift and eager but tenderly grave, watched
Seth as he drew out the letter from his pocket and smoothed it upon the
table. There was just the slightest tremor in her hand as it rested on the
dog's head.
"Yup," Seth went on, with a great assumption of unconcern which deceived
nobody. "It's a feller--jest one o' them law fellers. He's comin' right
along to the farm. I 'low he must be nigh here now. He was goin' to git
here Tuesday the 16th--that's to-day."
He was intent on the letter. Nor did he once raise his eyes while he was
speaking. Now he turned the paper as though in search of some detail of
interest.
"Ah," he went on. "Here it is. Says he's hit the trail o' some gal as was
lost. Guesses he'd like to see--Rosebud, an' ask a few questions."
"Seth!"
Ma had risen, and somehow her chair overturned behind her. Her exclamation
was a gasp. Rube stared; he had no words just then. Rosebud continued to
caress the dog, who whined his pleasure at the unusual attention. At last
she turned. For an instant her eyes met Seth's.
"May I read that letter, Seth?" she asked quietly.
"Sure." Seth rose from the table. "Rube," he said, "I'd take it friendly
if you'd fill my pipe." Then he moved across to the window.
Rosebud looked up from reading the letter. She came round to him and
handed it back.
"So my name's Marjorie Raynor?" she said with a queer smile.
Seth nodded.
"And all this money is what you once spoke about?"
Again came Seth's affirmation.
"And how long have you known--that I'm not Rosebud?"
"Got that bit of a letter Saturday."
"But you guessed it long before that--when we were out at the slough?"
"I'd a notion."
The girl glanced round. Ma's face was still in a condition of florid
perplexity. Rube was quietly whittling a match with his tobacco knife.
Rosebud's eyes were very soft as she looked from one to the other.
"And I'm to go away from--here?" she said at last, and her lips were
trembling.
"Guess when a 'stray' comes along we mostly git it back home."
Seth found a lot to interest him in the blank wall of the barn outside the
window.
"But it seems I'm a stray without a home. My father and mother must be
dead."
"Ther's aunts an' things--an' the dollars."
The girl also surveyed the wall of the barn.
"Yes, I forgot the--dollars."
Suddenly she turned away. Just for a moment she seemed in some doubt of
her own purpose. Then she walked over to Ma and put her arms about her
neck and kissed her. Then she passed round to Rube and did the same.
Finally she opened the door, and stood for a second looking at Seth's slim
back.
"Farewell, friends. The heiress must prepare for her departure."
There was something harsh and hysterical about the laugh which accompanied
her mocking farewell, but she was gone the next instant, and the door
slammed behind her.
Ma stepped up to her boy, and forgetful of his wounded shoulder rested her
hand upon it. Seth flinched and drew away; and the old woman was all
sympathy at once.
"I'm real sorry, boy, I kind o' forgot."
"It's nothin', Ma; it jest hurts some."