The Watchers of the Plains: A Tale of the Western Prairies. Cullum Ridgwell
pre—sent.”
Wanaha gave a triumphant glance into Rosebud’s laughing face and went to a cupboard, also made of packing cases, and brought forth a pair of moose-hide moccasins, perfectly beaded and trimmed with black fox fur. She had made them with her own hands for her little friend, a labor of love into which she 68 had put the most exquisite work of which she was capable.
Rosebud’s delight was unfeigned. The shoes were perfect. The leather was like the finest kid. It was a present worthy of the giver. She held out her hands for them, but the Indian laughed and shook her head.
“No,” she said playfully. “No, you white woman! Your folk not carry things so,” and she held the tiny shoes out at arm’s length. “You put paper round, so.” She picked up one of her husband’s newspapers and wrapped the present into a clumsy parcel. “There,” she exclaimed, handing it to the girl, “I wish you much happy!”
As she put the parcel into the outstretched hands, Rosebud sprang from the table and flung her arms round the giver’s neck, and kissed her heartily.
“You’re the dandiest thing in the world, Wana,” she cried impulsively, “and I love you.”
69
CHAPTER VI
A NEWSPAPER
Seth was bending over his work among the potatoes. It was a large order, for there were more than five acres of it. Every time he stood erect to ease his back he scanned the distance in the direction of the White River. Each time he bent again over his hoe, it was with a dissatisfied look on his sunburnt face. He made up his mind that Rosebud was playing truant again. He cared nothing for the fact of the truancy, but the direction in which his eyes turned whenever he looked up displayed his real source of dissatisfaction. Rosebud had been out since the midday dinner, and he guessed where she was. The mosquitoes worried him to-day, which meant that his temper was ruffled.
Suddenly he paused. But this time he didn’t look round. He heard the sound of galloping hoofs racing across the prairie. Continuing his work, he roughly estimated the distance the rider was away.
He gave no sign at all until Rosebud’s voice called to him.
“Seth, I’ve come to help you hoe,” she said.
The man saw that the horse was standing pawing the ground among the potatoes. 70
“I take it friendly of you,” he said, eyeing the havoc the animal was creating. “Guess that horse o’ yours has intentions that aways too. They’re laud’ble, but misplaced.”
The girl checked the creature, and turned him off the patch. Then she quietly slid to the ground and removed her saddle and bridle, and drove him off out on the prairie for a roll.
“I’m so sorry, Seth! I’m afraid he’s made a mess of these plants.”
Rosebud stooped and tried to repair the damage her horse had done. She did not look in Seth’s direction, but her smiling face conveyed nothing of her regret. Presently she stood up and stepped gingerly along the furrows toward the man.
“Did you bring a hoe out for me?” she asked innocently.
But her companion was used to the wiles of this tyrant.
“Guess not,” he said quietly. “Didn’t reckon you’d get back that soon. Say, Rosebud, you’d best git out o’ those fixin’s if you’re going to git busy with a hoe. Ma has her notions.”
“Ye-es. Do you think I’m getting any better with a hoe?”
The eyes that looked up into Seth’s face were candidly inquiring. There was not a shadow of a smile on the man’s face when he answered.
“I’ve a notion you have few equals with a hoe.”
“I was afraid——” 71
“Ah, that’s always the way of folks wi’ real talent. Guess you’re an eddication with a hoe.”
Seth went on with his work until Rosebud spoke again. She was looking away out across the prairie, and her eyes were just a trifle troubled.
“Then I’d best get my things changed and—bring out a hoe. How many rows do you think I could do before tea?”
“That mostly depends on how many p’tater plants git in your way, I guess.”
The girl’s face suddenly wreathed itself in smiles.
“There, you’re laughing at me, and—well, I was going to help you, but now I shan’t. I’ve been down to see my Wanaha. Seth, you ought to have married her. She’s the sweetest creature—except Ma—I know. I think it’s a pity she married Nevil Steyne. He’s a queer fellow. I never know what to make of him. He’s kind to her, and he’s kind to me—which I’m not sure I like—but I somehow don’t like his eyes. They’re blue, and I don’t like blue eyes. And I don’t believe he ever washes. Do you?”
Seth replied without pausing in his work. He even seemed to put more force into it, for the hoe cut into the earth with a vicious ring. But he avoided her direct challenge.
“Guess I haven’t a heap of regard for no Injuns nor squaws. I’ve no call to. But I allow Wanaha’s a good woman.” 72
Just for a moment the girl’s face became very serious.
“I’m glad you say that, Seth. I knew you wouldn’t say anything else; you’re too generous. Wanaha is good. Do you know she goes to the Mission because she loves it? She helps us teach the little papooses because she believes in the ‘God of the white folks,’ she says. I know you don’t like me to see so much of her, but somehow I can’t help it. Seth, do you believe in foreboding?”
“Can’t say I’d gamble a heap that aways.”
“Well, I don’t know, but I believe it’s a good thing that Wanaha loves me—loves us all. She has such an influence over people.”
Seth looked up at last. The serious tone of the girl was unusual. But as he said nothing, and simply went on with his work, Rosebud continued.
“Sometimes I can’t understand you, Seth. I know, generally speaking, you have no cause to like Indians, while perhaps I have. You see, I have always known them. But you seem to have taken exception only to Little Black Fox and Wanaha as far as I am concerned. You let me teach the Mission children, you even teach them yourself, yet, while admitting Wanaha’s goodness, you get angry with me for seeing her. As for Little Black Fox, he is the chief. He’s a great warrior, and acknowledged by even the agent and missionary to be the best chief the Rosebuds have ever had. Quite different from his father.” 73
“Guess that’s so.”
“Then why—may I not talk to them? And, oh, Seth”—the girl’s eyes danced with mischief—“he is such a romantic fellow. You should hear him talk in English. He talks—well, he has much more poetry in him than you have.”
“Which is mostly a form of craziness,” observed Seth, quite unruffled.
“Well, I like craziness.”
“Ah!”
Seth’s occasional lapses into monosyllables annoyed Rosebud. She never understood them. Now there came a gleam of anger into her eyes, and their color seemed to have changed to a hard gray.
“Well, whether you like it or not, you needn’t be so ill-tempered about it.”
Seth