The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine
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.
"I'm glad I came, Seth. I'm just in time. Poor auntie!"
The next moment her arms were around Ma Sampson's neck, hugging the old woman, who had heard of the girl's arrival from Rube and had come out to meet her.
"La sakes, come right in at once, Rosie, gal!" she exclaimed, when she was permitted a chance of speech. And laughing and chattering in the very wildest delight, Rosebud led the way and romped into the house.
In the dear familiar kitchen, after the girl had gazed at the various simple furnishings she had so long known and loved, she poured out her tale, the reason of her coming, with a blissful disregard for truth. Ma took her cue and listened to the wonderful fabrication the girl piled up for her astonished ears, and more particularly Seth's. Apparently the one thing that had not entered into her madcap considerations was Seth's illness.
Just as her story came to an end, and the sound of wheels outside warned them of the arrival of the wagon, Rosebud turned upon Seth with something of her old wilful impetuosity.
"And now, Seth," she said, her eyes dancing with audacity and mischief, "you're a sick man and all that, so there's every excuse for you, but you haven't said you're glad to see me."
Seth smiled thoughtfully as he gazed on the fair, trim-figured woman challenging him. He noted with a man's pleasure the perfectly fitting tailor-made traveling costume, the beautifully arranged hair, the delightful Parisian hat. He looked into the animated face, the only thing about her that seemed to be as of old. Though he saw that her outward appearance was changed, even improved, he knew that that was all. It was the same Rosebud, the same old spirit, honest, fearless, warm-hearted, loving, that looked out of her wondrous eyes, and he felt his pulses stir and something like a lump rose in his throat as he answered her.
"Wal, little gal, I guess you don't need me to tell you. Pleased! that don't cut no meanin'. Yet I'm kind o' sorry too. Y' see ther's things----"
Ma interrupted him.
"He's right, Rosebud dear, it's a bad time."
The girl's reply came with a laugh full of careless mischief and confidence.
"Poor auntie!" Then she became suddenly serious. "They're outside," she went on. "Let us go and bring her in."
A moment later Ma found herself greeting Rosebud's second cousin and chaperone. Mrs. Rickards was an elderly lady, stout, florid, and fashionably dressed, who had never been further afield in her life than the Europe of society.
Her greeting was an effort. She was struggling to conceal a natural anger and resentment against the inconvenience of their journey from Beacon Crossing, and the final undignified catastrophe of the wagon sticking fast in the slush and mud on the trail, and against Rosebud in particular, under a polite attempt at cordiality. She would probably have succeeded in recovering her natural good-humored composure but for the girl herself, who, in the midst of the good creature's expostulations, put the final touch to her mischief. Mrs. Rickards had turned solicitously upon her charge with an admonitory finger raised in her direction.
"And as for Rosie,--she insists on being called Rosebud still, Mrs. Sampson--after her tramp through all that dreadful snow and slush she must be utterly done up," she said kindly.
"Done up, auntie? Tired?" the girl said, with a little scornful laugh. "Don't you believe it. Why the fun's only just beginning, isn't it, Seth? Do you know, auntie dear, the Indians are getting troublesome; they're going out on the war-path. Aren't they, Seth? And we're just in time to get scalped."
But Seth had no responsive smile for the girl's sally. His face was grave enough as he turned to the horrified woman.
"Ma'am," he said, in that slow drawling fashion which gave so much gravity and dignity to his speech, "I'll take it kindly if you won't gamble a heap on this little gal's nonsense. I've known her some few years, an' I guess she's nigh the worst savage in these parts--which, I guess, says a deal."
Seth's rebuke lost nothing of its sharpness by reason of the gentle manner in which it was spoken. Rosebud felt its full force keenly. She flushed to the roots of her hair and her eyes were bright with resentment. She pouted her displeasure and, without a word, abruptly left the room.
Ma and Mrs. Rickards--the latter's composure quite restored by Seth's reassurance--looked after her. Both smiled.
Seth remained grave. The girl's mischief had brought home to him the full responsibility which devolved upon Rube and himself.
Truly it was the old Rosebud who had returned to White River Farm.
CHAPTER XXIII
LOVE'S PROGRESS
It was the night of Rosebud's arrival. Seth and Rube were just leaving the barn. The long day's work was done. Seth had been out all the afternoon riding. Although his ride was nominally in pursuit of health and strength, he had by no means been idle. Now he was bodily weary, and at the door of the barn he sat down on the corn-bin. Rube, pausing to prepare his pipe, saw, by the flickering light of the stable lantern, that his companion's face was ghastly pale.
"Feelin' kind o' mean?" he suggested with gruff sympathy,
"Meaner'n a yaller dawg."
There was anxiety in the older man's deep-set eyes as he noted the flicker of a smile which accompanied the reply.
"There ain't nothin' fresh?" Rube pursued, as the other remained silent.
"Wal, no, 'cep' Rosebud's got back."
"How?"
Seth shrugged.
"Guess it means a heap," he said, and paused. Then a faint flush slowly spread over his thin, drawn face. "Nothin' could 'a' happened along now wuss than Rosie's gettin' around," he went on with intense feeling. "Can't you see, Rube?" He reached out and laid an emphatic hand on his companion's arm. "Can't you see what's goin' to come? Ther's trouble comin' sure. Trouble for us all. Trouble for that gal. The news is around the Reservation now. It'll reach Black Fox 'fore to-morrow mornin', an' then----Pshaw! Rube, I love that gal. She's more to me than even you an' Ma; she's more to me than life. I can't never marry her, seein' how things are, but that don't cut no figger. But I'm goin' to see after her whatever happens. Ther' ain't no help comin'. Them few soldier-fellers don't amount to a heap o' beans. The Injuns 'll chaw 'em up if they notion it. An' I'm like a dead man, Rube--jest a hulk. God, Rube, if harm comes to that pore gal----Pshaw!"
Seth's outburst was so unusual that Rube stared in silent amazement. It seemed as if his bodily weakness had utterly broken down the stern self-repression usually his. It was as though with the weakening of muscle