"You're quittin' the Reservation?" he said.

"Yes,--except the sewing and Sunday cla.s.ses 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 nave 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 pa.s.sed. 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 n.o.body 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.

CHAPTER XI

THE LETTER WRITTEN

But Seth's trials were not yet over. The two interviews just pa.s.sed had given Ma Sampson sufficient time to complete her household duties. And now she entered her parlor, the pride of her home.

She came in quite unaware of Seth's presence there. But when she observed him at the table with his writing materials spread out before him, she paused.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "I didn't know you were writin', Seth!"

The man's patience seemed inexhaustible, for he smiled and shook his head.

"No, Ma," he said with truth.

The little old woman came round the table and occupied her husband's chair. If Seth were not writing, then she might as well avail herself of the opportunity which she had long wanted. She had no children of her own, and lavished all her motherly instincts upon this man. She was fond of Rosebud, but the girl occupied quite a secondary place in her heart. It is doubtful if any mother could have loved a son more than she loved Seth.

She had a basket of sewing with her which she set upon the table. Then she took from it a bundle of socks and stockings and began to overhaul them with a view to darning. Seth watched the slight figure bending over its work, and the bright eyes peering through the black-rimmed gla.s.ses which hooked over her ears. His look was one of deep affection. Surely Nature had made a mistake in not making them mother and son. Still, she had done the next best thing in invoking Fate's aid in bringing them together. Mrs.

Sampson looked no older than the day on which Rosebud had been brought to the house. As Seth had once told her, she would never grow old. She would just go on as she was, and, when the time came, she would pa.s.s away peacefully and quietly, not a day older than she had been when he first knew her.

But Seth, understanding so much as he did of the life on that prairie farm, and the overshadowing threat which was always with them, had yet lost sight of the significance of the extreme grayness of this woman's hair. Still her bright energy and uncomplaining nature might well have lulled all fears, and diverted attention from the one feature which betrayed her ceaseless anxiety.

"I kind o' tho't sech work was for young fingers, Ma," Seth observed, indicating the stockings.

"Ah, Seth, boy, I hated to darn when I was young an' flighty."

The man smiled. His accusations had been made to ears that would not hear. He knew this woman's generous heart.

"I reckon Rosebud'll take to it later on," he said quietly.

"When she's married."

"Ye-es."

Seth watched the needle pa.s.s through and through the wool on its rippling way. And his thoughts were of a speculative nature.

"She's a grown woman now," said Mrs. Sampson, after a while.

"That's so."

"An' she'll be thinkin' of 'beaus,' or I'm no prophet."

"Time enough, Ma."

"Time? I guess she's goin' on eighteen. Maybe you don't know a deal o'

gals, boy."

The bright face looked up. One swift glance at her companion and she was bending over her work again.

"I had 'beaus' enough, I reckon, when I was eighteen. Makes me laff when I think o' Rube. He's always been like what he is now. Jest quiet an' slow.