In the midst of these reflections he was joined by Rube. The old man was smoking his after-breakfast pipe.

"She's openin'," he said, indicating the brown patches of earth already showing through the snow. Seth nodded.

They were standing just outside the great stockade which had been completed during Seth's long illness. There were only the gates waiting to be hung upon their vast iron hinges.

After the old man's opening remark a long silence fell. Seth's thoughts ran on unchecked in spite of the other's presence. Rube smoked and watched the lean figure beside him out of the corners of his eyes. He was speculating, too, but his thought was of their own immediate surroundings.

Now that Seth was about again he felt that it would be good to talk with him. He knew there was much to consider. Though perhaps he lacked something of the younger man's keen Indian knowledge he lacked nothing in experience, and experience told him that the winter, after what had gone before, had been, but for the one significant incident of Seth's wound, very, very quiet--too quiet.

"Say, boy," the old man went on, some minutes later, "guess you ain't yarned a heap 'bout your shootin' racket?"

Seth was suddenly brought back to his surroundings. His eyes thoughtfully settled on the distant line of woodland that marked the river and the Reservation. He answered readily enough.

"That shootin' don't affect nothin'--nothin' but me," he said with meaning.

"I thought Little----"

Seth shook his head. He took Rube's meaning at once.

"That's to come, I guess," he said gravely.

Rube suddenly looked away down the trail in the direction of Beacon Crossing. His quick ears had caught an unusual sound. It was a "Coo-ee,"

but so thin and faint that it came to him like the cry of some small bird.

Seth heard it, too, and he turned and gazed over the rotting sleigh track which spring was fast rendering impa.s.sable. There was nothing in sight.

Just the gray expanse of melting snow, dismal, uninteresting even in the flooding sunlight.

Rube turned back to the gateway of the stockade. His pipe was finished and he had work to do. Seth was evidently in no mood for talk.

"I'd git around and breathe good air fer awhiles," he said kindly, "y'

ain't goin' to git strong of a sudden, Seth."

"Guess I'll ride this afternoon. h.e.l.lo!"

The cry reached them again, louder, still high-pitched and shrill, but nearer. Away down the trail a figure in black furs was moving toward them.

Both men watched the object with the keenest interest. It was a mere speck on the gray horizon, but it was plainly human, and evidently wishful to draw their attention.

"Some'un wantin' us?" said Rube in a puzzled tone.

"Seems." Seth was intent upon the figure.

Another "Coo-ee" rang out, and Rube responded with his deep guttural voice. And, in answer, the bundle of furs raised two arms and waved them beckoningly.

Rube moved along the trail. Without knowing quite why, but roused to a certain curiosity, he was going to meet the newcomer. Seth followed him.

Seth's gait was slower than the older man's, and he soon dropped behind.

Suddenly he saw Rube stop and turn, beckoning him on. When he came up the old man pointed down the road.

"It's a woman," he said, and there was a curious look in his eyes.

The m.u.f.fled figure was more than a hundred and fifty yards away, but still laboriously stumbling along the snow-bound trail toward them.

Before Seth could find a reply another "Coo-ee" reached them, followed quickly by some words that were blurred by the distance. Seth started. The voice had a curiously familiar sound. He glanced at Rube, and the old man's face wore a look of grinning incredulity.

"Sounds like----" Seth began to speak but broke off.

"Gee! Come on!" cried Rube, in a boisterous tone. "It's Rosebud!"

The two men hastened forward. Rube's announcement seemed incredible. How could it be Rosebud--and on foot? The surface of the trail gave way under their feet at almost every step. But they were undeterred. Slush or ice, deep snow or floundering in water holes, it made no difference. It was a race for that m.u.f.fled figure, and Rube was an easy winner. When Seth came up he found the bundle of furs in the bear-like embrace of the older man.

It was Rosebud!

Questions raced through Seth's brain as he looked on, panting with the exertion his enfeebled frame had been put to. How? Why? What was the meaning of it all? But his questions remained unspoken. Nor was he left in doubt long. Rosebud laughing, her wonderful eyes dancing with an inexpressible delight, released herself and turned to Seth. Immediately her face fell as she looked on the shadow of a man standing before her.

"Why, Seth," she cried, in a tone of great pity and alarm that deceived even Rube, "what's the matter that you look so ill?" She turned swiftly and flashed a meaning look into Rube's eyes. "What is it? Quick! Oh, you two sillies, tell me! Seth, you've been ill, and you never told me!"

Slow of wit, utterly devoid of subterfuge as Rube was, for once he grasped the situation.

"Why, gal, it's jest nothin'. Seth's been mighty sick, but he's right enough now, ain't you, Seth, boy?"

"Sure."

Seth had nothing to add, but he held out his hand, and the girl seized it in both of hers, while her eyes darkened to an expression which these men failed to interpret, but which Ma Sampson could have read aright. Seth cleared his throat, and his dark eyes gazed beyond the girl and down the trail.

"How'd you come, Rosie?" he asked practically. "You ain't traipsed from Beacon?"

Suddenly the girl's laugh rang out. It was the old irresponsible laugh that had always been the joy of these men's hearts, and it brought a responsive smile to their faces now.

"Oh, I forgot," she cried. "The delight of seeing you two dears put it out of my silly head. Why, we drove out from Beacon, and the wagon's stuck in a hollow away back, and my cousin, I call her 'aunt,' and her maid, and all the luggage are mired on the road, calling down I don't know what terrible curses upon the country and its people, and our teamster in particular. So I just left them to it and came right on to get help.

Auntie was horrified at my going, you know. Said I'd get rheumatic fever and pneumonia, and threatened to take me back home if I went, and I told her she couldn't unless I got help to move the wagon, and so here I am."

Rube's great face had never ceased to beam, and now, as the girl paused for breath, he turned for home.

"Guess I'll jest get the team out. Gee!" And he went off at a great gait.

Seth looked gravely at the girl's laughing face.

"Guess you'd best come on home. Mebbe your feet _are_ wet."

Thus, after months of parting, despite the changed conditions of the girl's life, the old order was resumed. Rosebud accepted Seth's domination as though it was his perfect right. Without one word or thought of protest she walked at his side. In silence he helped her over the broken trail to the home she had so long known and still claimed. Once only was that silence broken. It was when the girl beheld the fortified appearance of the farm. She put her question in a low, slightly awed tone.

"What's all this for, Seth?" she asked. She knew, but she felt that she must ask.

"Them logs?" The man responded indifferently.

"Yes, that stockade."

"Oh, jest nothin'. Y' see we need a bit o' fence-like."

Rosebud looked at him from out of the corners of her eyes as she trudged at his side.