On their arrival Seth handed the still unconscious child over to the wife of the hotel-keeper for an examination of her clothes. He did this at Dan Somers' suggestion, as being the most legal course to pursue, and waited with the sheriff and several others in the bar for the result.

Good news had greeted the fighting party on their return. The troops were already on the way to suppress the sudden and unaccountable Indian rising.

Eight hundred of the hard-riding United States cavalry had left the fort on receipt of the message from Beacon Crossing. The hotel-keeper imparted the news with keen appreciation; he had no desire for troublesome times.

Plainsmen had a knack of quitting his execrable drink when there was fighting to be done--and Louis Roiheim was an Israelite.

A silence fell upon the bar-room on the appearance of Julie Roiheim. She saw Seth, and beckoned him over to her.

"There are initials on the little one's clothing. M. R.," she said. And Seth nodded.

"Any name?" he asked.

The stout old woman shook her greasy head.

"But she's no ordinary child, Seth. Not by a lot. She belongs East, or my name's not Julie. That child is the girl of some millionaire in Noo York, or Philadelphy. She's got nothing on her but what is fine lawn and _real_ lace!"

"Ah!" murmured the plainsman, without any responsive enthusiasm, while his dark eyes watched the triumphant features of the woman to whom these things were of such consequence. "And has the Doc. got around?"

"He's fixin' her up," Julie Roiheim went on. "Oh, yes, you were right, she's alive, but he can't wake her up. He says if she's to be moved, it had best be at once."

"Good." Just for one brief instant Seth's thoughtful face lit up. He turned to old Louis. "Guess I'll borrow your buckboard," he went on. "I'll need it to take the kiddie out."

The hotel-keeper nodded, and just then Nevil Steyne, who at that moment had entered the bar, and had only gleaned part of the conversation, made his way over to where Seth was standing.

"Who is she?" he asked, fixing his cold blue eyes eagerly on the face of the man he was addressing.

"Don't know," said Seth shortly. Then as an afterthought, "Clothes marked M. R."

The blue eyes lowered before the other's steady gaze.

"Ah," murmured Nevil. Then he, too, paused. "Is she alive?" he asked at last. And there was something in his tone which suggested a dry throat.

"Yes, she is," replied Seth. "And," he said, with unusual expansiveness, "I guess she'll keep right on doing that same."

Seth had again betrayed himself.

Nevil seemed half inclined to say more. But Seth gave him no chance. He had no love for this man. He turned on his heel without excuse and left the hotel to attend to the preparation of the buckboard himself.

On his way home that afternoon, and all the next day, the Indians were in his thoughts only so far as this waif he had picked up was concerned. For the most part he was thinking of the child herself, and those to whom he was taking her. He pictured the delight with which his childless foster-parents would receive her. The bright-faced little woman whom he affectionately called "Ma"; the ma.s.sive old plainsman, Rube, with his gurgling chuckle, gruff voice and kindly heart. And his thoughts stirred in him an emotion he never would have admitted. He thought of the terrible lot he had saved this child from, for he knew only too well why she had been spared by the ruthless Big Wolf.

All through that long journey his watchfulness never relaxed. He looked to the comfort of his patient although she was still unconscious. He protected her face from the sun, and kept cool cloths upon her forehead, and drove only at a pace which spared the inanimate body unnecessary jolting. And it was all done with an eye upon the Reservations and horizon; with a hearing always acute on the prairie, rendered doubly so now, and with a loaded rifle across his knees.

It was dusk when he drove up to the farm. A certain relief came over him as he observed the peaceful cattle grazing adjacent to the corrals, the smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, and the great figure of Rube smoking reflectively in the kitchen doorway.

He did not stop to unhitch the horses, just hooking them to the corral fence. Then he lifted the child from the buckboard and bore her to the house.

Rube watched him curiously as he came with his burden. There was no greeting between these two. Both were usually silent men, but for different reasons. Conversation was a labor to Rube; a twinkling look of his deep-set eyes, and an expressive grunt generally contented him. Now he removed his pipe from his lips and stared in open-mouthed astonishment at the queer-looking bundle Seth was carrying.

"Gee!" he muttered. And made way for his foster son. Any questions that might have occurred to him were banished from his slow-moving thoughts.

Seth laid his charge upon the kitchen table, and Rube looked at the deathlike face, so icy, yet so beautiful. A great broad smile, not untouched with awe, spread over his bucolic features.

"Where's Ma?" asked Seth.

Rube indicated the ceiling with the stem of his pipe.

"Ma," cried Seth, through the doorway, up the narrow stairs which led to the rooms above. "Come right down. Guess I've kind o' got a present for you."

"That you, Seth?" called out a cheery voice from above.

"Guess so."

A moment later a little woman, with gray hair and a face that might have belonged to a woman of thirty, bustled into the room.

"Ah, Seth," she cried affectionately, "you jest set to it to spoil your old mother." Then her eyes fell on the figure on the kitchen table. "La sakes, boy, what's--what's this?" Then as she bent over the unconscious child. "Oh, the pore--pore little beauty!"

Rube turned away with a chuckle. His practical little wife had been astonished out of her wits. And the fact amused him immensely.

"It's a gal, Ma," said Seth. He too was smiling.

"Gracious, boy, guess I've got two eyes in my head!"

There was a long pause. Ma fingered the silken curls. Then she took one of the cold hands in hers and stroked it softly.

"Where--where did you git her?" she asked at last.

"The Injuns. I shot Big Wolf yesterday. They're on the war-path."

"Ah." The bright-eyed woman looked up at this tall foster son of hers.

"War-path--you shot Big Wolf?" cried Rube, now roused to unwonted speech.

"Then we'd best git busy."

"It's all right, father," Seth rea.s.sured him. "The troops are on the trail."

There was another considerable pause while all eyes were turned on the child. At last Mrs. Sampson looked up.

"Who is she?" she asked.

Seth shook his head.

"Don't know. Maybe she's yours--an' mine."

"Don't you know wher' she come from?"

Again Seth shook his head.

"An'--an' what's her name?"