The Watchers of the Plains Part 48

"See!" he cried, his voice thick with fury. "Have your rights! I go. With the first streak of dawn I come again. Then I slay! Wanaha shall die by my hand, and then she has no right to the life of the white man!"

The first streak of dawn lit the eastern sky. The horses were grazing, tethered to their picket ropes within view of the log hut down by the river. The wagon stood in its place at the side of the building. There was no firelight to be seen within the building, no lamplight.

The circle of silent squatting figures still held their vigil.

As the daylight grew three figures emerged from the woods and moved silently to the door of the hut. They paused, listening, but no sound came from within. One, much taller than his companions, reached out and raised the latch. The door swung open. He paused again. Then he stepped across the threshold.

The new-born day cast a gray twilight over the interior. The man sniffed, like a beast of prey scenting the trail of blood. And that which came to his nostrils seemed to satisfy him, for he pa.s.sed within and strode to the bedside. He stood for a few moments gazing down at the figures of a man and a woman locked in each other's arms.

He looked long and earnestly upon the calm features of the faces so closely pressed together. There was no pity, no remorse in his heart, for life and death were matters which touched him not at all. War was as the breath of his nostrils.

Presently he moved away. There was nothing to keep him there. These two had pa.s.sed together to the sh.o.r.es of the Happy Hunting Ground. They had lived and died together. They would--perhaps--awake together. But not on the prairies of the West.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

THE CAPITULATION

"I'd like to know how it's all going to end."

Mrs. Rickards drew a deep sigh of perplexity and looked helplessly over at Ma, who was placidly knitting at her husband's bedside. The farmwife's bright face had lost nothing of its comeliness in spite of the anxieties through which she had so recently pa.s.sed. Her twinkling eyes shone cheerily through her gla.s.ses, and the ruddy freshness of her complexion was still fair to see. A line or two, perhaps, had deepened about her mouth, and the grayness of her hair may have become a shade whiter. But these things were hardly noticeable.

The change in Rosebud's aunt was far more p.r.o.nounced. She had taken to herself something of the atmosphere of the plains-folk in the few weeks of her stay at the farm. And the subtle change had improved her.

Rube was mending fast, and the two older women now spent all their spare time in his company.

Ma looked up from her work.

"Rube an' me have been discussin' it," she said. "Guess we've settled to leave the farm, an' buy a new place around some big city. I don't rightly know how the boy 'll take it. Y' see, Seth's mighty hard to change, an'

he's kind o' fixed on this place. Y' see, he's young, an' Rube an' me's had a longish spell. We'd be pleased to take it easy now. Eh, old man?"

Ma glanced affectionately at the mighty figure filling up the bed. The man nodded.

"Y' see, things don't seem hard till you see your old man's blood runnin'," she went on. "Then--well, I guess I ain't no more stummick fer fight. I'd be thankful to G.o.d A'mighty to end my days peaceful."

Mrs. Rickards nodded sympathetically.

"You're quite wise," she said. "It seems to me you've earned a rest. The courage and devotion of all you dear people out here have been a wonderful education to me. Do you know, Mrs. Sampson, I never knew what life really meant until I came amongst you all. The hope, and love, and sympathy on this prairie are something to marvel at. I can understand a young girl's desire to return to it after once having tasted it. Even for me it has its fascinations. The claims of civilization fall from one out here in a manner that makes me wonder. I don't know yet but that I shall remain for a while and see more of it."

Ma smiled and shook her head at the other's enthusiasm.

"There's a heap worth living for out here, I guess. But----"

"Yes. I know what you would say. A time comes when you want rest for mind and body. I wonder," Mrs. Rickards went on thoughtfully, "if Seth ever wants rest and peace? I don't think it. What a man!"

She relapsed into silent admiration of the man of whom she was speaking.

Ma noted her look. She understood the different place Seth now occupied in this woman's thoughts.

"But I was not thinking about the affairs of this farm and the Indians so much as something else," Mrs. Rickards went on presently, smiling from Ma to Rube and back again at Ma.

The farmwife laid her knitting aside. She understood the other's meaning, and this was the first mention of it between them. Even Rube had turned his head and his deep-set eyes were upon the "fine lady."

"Yes, I was thinking of Seth and Rosebud," she went on earnestly. "You know that Rosebud----"

Ma nodded.

"Seth's ter'ble slow," she said slyly.

"Do you think he's----"

"Sure." The two women looked straight into each other's eyes, which smiled as only old women's eyes can smile when they are speaking of that which is the greatest matter of their lives.

"I know how she regards him," Mrs. Rickards went on. "And I tell you frankly, Mrs. Sampson, I was cordially opposed to it--when I came here.

Even now I am not altogether sure it's right by the girl's dead father--but----"

"But----?" Ma's face was serious while she waited for the other to go on.

"But--but--well, if I was a girl, and could get such a man as Seth for a husband, I should be the proudest woman in the land."

"An' you'd be honored," put in Rube, speaking for the first time.

Mrs. Rickards laughingly nodded.

Ma sighed.

"Guess Seth has queer notions. Mighty queer. I 'low, knowin' him as I do, I could say right here that that boy 'ud ask her right off, only fer her friends an' her dollars. He's a foolhead, some."

Mrs. Rickards laughed again.

"In England these things are usually an inducement," she said significantly.

"Seth's a man," said Ma with some pride. "Seth's real honest, an'--an', far be it for me to say it, he's consequent a foolhead. What's dollars when folks love? Pshaw! me an' Rube didn't think o' no dollars."

"Guess we hadn't no dollars to think of, Ma," murmured Rube in a ponderous aside.

"Wal? An' if we had?" Ma smiled defiantly at her "old man."

"Wal, mebbe we'd 'a' tho't of 'em."

The farmwife turned away in pretended disgust.

"And you don't think anything will come of it?" suggested Mrs. Rickards, taking the opportunity of returning to the matter under discussion.

Ma's eyes twinkled.