It is not usually a remarkable event in one’s life, the writing of a letter. In these days of telephone, however, it soon will be. In Seth’s case it nearly was so, but for a different reason. Seth could write, even as he could read. But he was not handy at either. He abominated writing, and preferred to read only that which Nature held out for his perusal. However, after some days of deep consideration, he had decided to write a letter. And, with characteristic thoroughness, he intended it to be very long, and very explicit.

After supper one evening, when Rube had gone out for his evening smoke, and that final prowl round necessary to see that all was prepared for the morrow’s work, and the stock comfortable for the night, and Ma Sampson and Rosebud were busy washing up, and, in their department, also seeing things straight for the night, Seth betook himself to the parlor, that haven of modest comfort and horsehair, patchwork rugs and many ornaments, earthen floor and low ceiling, and prepared for his task. He had no desire to advertise the fact of that letter, so he selected this particular moment when the others were occupied elsewhere.

His ink and paper were on the table before him, and his pen was poised while he considered. Then the slow, heavy footfall of old Rube sounded approaching through the kitchen. The scribe waited to hear him pass up-stairs, or settle himself in an armchair in the kitchen. But the heavy tread came on, and presently the old man’s vast bulk blocked the doorway.

“Ah! Writin’?”

The deep tone was little better than a grunt.

Seth nodded, and gazed out of the window. The parlor window looked out in the direction of the Reservation. If he intended to convey a hint it was not taken. Old Rube had expected Seth to join him outside for their usual smoke. That after-supper prowl had been their habit for years. He wanted to talk to him.

“I was yarnin’ with Jimmy Parker s’afternoon,” said Rube.

Seth looked round.

The old man edged heavily round the table till he came to the high-backed, rigid armchair that had always been his seat in this room.

“He says the crops there are good,” he went on, indicating the Reservation with a nod of his head toward the window.

“It’ll be a good year all round, I guess,” Seth admitted.

“Yes, I dare say it will be,” was the answer.

Rube was intently packing his pipe, and the other waited. Rube’s deep-set eyes had lost their customary twinkle. The deliberation with which he was packing his pipe had in it a suggestion of abstraction. Filling a pipe is a process that wonderfully indicates the state of a man’s mind.

“Jimmy’s worried some. ‘Bout the harvest, I guess,” Rube said presently, adjusting his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and testing the draw of it. But his eyes were not raised to his companion’s face.

“Injuns ain’t workin’ well?”

“Mebbe.”

“They’re a queer lot.”

“Ye-es. I was kind o’ figgerin’. We’re mostly through hayin’.”

“I’ve got another slough to cut.”

“That’s so. Down at the Red Willow bluff.” The old man nodded.

“Yes,” assented Seth. Then, “Wal?”

“After that, guess ther’s mostly slack time till harvest. I thought, mebbe, we could jest haul that lumber from Beacon Crossing. And cut the logs. Parker give me the ’permit.’ Seems to me we might do wuss.”

“For the stockade?” suggested Seth.

“Yes.”

“I’ve thought of that, too.” The two men looked into each other’s eyes. And the old man nodded.

“Guess the gals wouldn’t want to know,” he said, rising and preparing to depart.

“No – I don’t think they would.”

The hardy old pioneer towered mightily as he moved toward the door. In spite of his years he displayed none of the uneasiness which his words might have suggested. Nothing that frontier life could show him would be new. At least, nothing that he could imagine. But then his imagination was limited. Facts were facts with him; he could not gild them. Seth was practical, too; but he also had imagination, which made him the cleverer man of the two in the frontiersman’s craft.

At the door Rube looked round.

“Guess you was goin’ to write some?”

He passed out with a deep gurgle, as though the fact of Seth’s writing was something to afford amusement.

Seth turned to the paper and dipped his pen in the ink. Then he wiped it clean on his coat sleeve and dipped it again. After that he headed his paper with much precision. Then he paused, for he heard a light footstep cross the passage between the parlor and the kitchen. He sighed in relief as it started up-stairs. But his relief was short-lived. He knew that it was Rosebud. He heard her stop. Then he heard her descend again. The next moment she appeared in the doorway.

“What, Seth writing?” she exclaimed, her laughing eyes trying to look seriously surprised. “I knew you were here by the smell of the smoke.”

“Guess it was Rube’s.” Seth’s face relaxed for a moment, then it returned to its usual gravity.

“Then it must have been that pipe you gave him the other night,” she returned quick as thought.

Seth shook his head.

“Here it is,” he said, and drew a pipe from his pocket. “He ’lowed he hadn’t no nigger blood in him.”

“Too strong?”

“Wal – he said he had scruples.”

Rosebud laughed, and came and perched herself on the edge of Seth’s table. He leant back in his chair and smiled up at her. Resignation was his only refuge. Besides —

“So you’re writing, Seth,” the girl said, and her eyes had become really serious. They were deep, deep now, the violet of them was almost black in the evening light. “I wonder – ”

Seth shook his head.

“Nobody yet,” he said.

“You mean I’m to go away?” Rosebud smiled, but made no attempt to move.

“Guess I ain’t in no hurry.”

“Well, I’m glad of that. And you’re not grumpy with me either, are you? No?” as Seth shook his head. “That’s all right, then, because I want to talk to you.”

“That’s how I figgered.”

“You’re always figuring, Seth. You figure so much in your own quiet way that I sometimes fancy you haven’t time to look at things which don’t need calculating upon. I suppose living near Indians all your life makes you look very much ahead. I wonder – what you see there. You and Rube.”

“Guess you’re side-tracked,” Seth replied uneasily, and turning his attention to the blank paper before him.

The girl’s face took on a little smile. Her eyes shone again as she contemplated the dark head of the man who was now unconscious of her gaze. There was a tender look in them. The old madcap in her was taming. A something looked out of her eyes now which certainly would not have been there had the man chanced to look up. But he didn’t. The whiteness of the paper seemed to absorb all his keenest interest.

“I rather think you always fancy I’m side-tracked, Seth,” the girl said at last. “You don’t think I have a serious thought in my foolish head.”

Seth looked up now and smiled.

“Guess you’ve always been a child to me,” he said. “An’ kiddies ain’t bustin’ with brain – generly. However, I don’t reckon you’re foolish. ’Cep’ when you git around that Reservation,” he added thoughtfully.

There was a brief silence. The man avoided the violet eyes. He seemed afraid to look at them. Rosebud’s presence somehow made things hard for him. Seth was a man whom long years of a life fraught with danger had taught that careful thought must be backed up by steady determination. There must be no wavering in any purpose. And this girl’s presence made him rebel against that purpose he had in his mind now.

“That has always been a trouble between us, hasn’t it?” Rosebud said at last. And her quiet manner drew her companion’s quick attention. “But it shan’t be any more.”

The man looked up now; this many-sided girl could still astonish him.

“You’re quittin’ the Reservation?” he said.

“Yes, – except the sewing and Sunday classes at the Mission,” Rosebud replied slowly. “But it’s not on your account I’m doing it,” she added hastily, with a gleam of the old mischief in her eyes. “It’s because – Seth, why do the Indians hate you? Why does Little Black Fox hate you?”

The man’s inquiring eyes searched the bright earnest face looking down upon him. His only reply was a shake of the head.

“I know,” she went on. “It’s on my account. You killed Little Black Fox’s father to save me.”

“Not to save you,” Seth said. He was a stickler for facts. “And saved you.”

“Oh, bother! Seth, you are stupid! It’s on that account he hates you. And, Seth, if I promise not to go to the Reservation without some one, will you promise me not to go there without me? You see it’s safer if there are two.”

Seth smiled at the naïve simplicity of the suggestion. He did not detect the guile at first. But it dawned on him presently and he smiled more. She had said she was not going to visit the Reservation again.

“Who put these crazy notions into your head, Rosebud?” he asked.

“No one.”

The girl’s answer came very short. She didn’t like being laughed at. And she thought he was laughing at her now.

“Some one’s said something,” Seth persisted. “You see Little Black Fox has hated me for six years. There is no more danger for me now than there was when I shot Big Wolf. With you it’s kind o’ different. You see – you’re grown – ”

“I see.” Rosebud’s resentment had passed. She understood her companion’s meaning. She had understood that she was “grown” before. Presently she went on. “I’ve learned a lot in the last few days,” she said quietly, gazing a little wistfully out of the window. “But nobody has actually told me anything. You see,” with a shadowy smile, “I notice things near at hand. I don’t calculate ahead. I often talk to Little Black Fox. He is easy to read. Much easier than you are, Seth,” she finished up, with a wise little nod.

“An’ you’ve figgered out my danger?” Seth surveyed the trim figure reposing with such unconscious grace upon the table. He could have feasted his eyes upon it, but returned to a contemplation of his note-paper.

“Yes. Will you promise me, Seth – dear old Seth?”

The man shook his head. The wheedling tone was hard to resist.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “You see, Rosebud, ther’s many things take me there which must be done. Guess I git around after you at times. That could be altered, eh?”

“I don’t think you’re kind, Seth!” The girl pouted her disappointment, but there was some other feeling underlying her manner. The man looked up with infinite kindness in his eyes, but he gave no sign of any other feeling.

“Little Rosebud,” he said, “if ther’s a creetur in this world I’ve a notion to be kind to, I guess she ain’t more’n a mile from me now. But, as I said, ther’s things that take me to the Reservation. Rube ken tell you. So – ”

The man broke off, and dipped his pen in the ink. Rosebud watched him, and, for once in her wilful life, forgot that she had been refused something, and consequently to be angry. She looked at the head bending over the paper as the man inscribed, “Dear sirs,” and that something which had peeped out of her eyes earlier in their interview was again to be seen there.

She reached out a hand as she slid from the table and smoothed the head of dark hair with it.

“All right, Seth,” she said gently. “We’ll have no promises, but take care of yourself, because you are my own old – ‘Daddy.’”

At the door she turned.

“You can write your letter now,” she said, with a light laugh. The next moment she was gone.

CHAPTER XI
THE LETTER WRITTEN

But Seth’s trials were not yet over. The two interviews just passed had given Ma Sampson sufficient time to complete her household duties. And now she entered her parlor, the pride of her home.

She came in quite unaware of Seth’s presence there. But when she observed him at the table with his writing materials spread out before him, she paused.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were writin’, Seth!”

The man’s patience seemed inexhaustible, for he smiled and shook his head.

“No, Ma,” he said with truth.

The little old woman came round the table and occupied her husband’s chair. If Seth were not writing, then she might as well avail herself of the opportunity which she had long wanted. She had no children of her own, and lavished all her motherly instincts upon this man. She was fond of Rosebud, but the girl occupied quite a secondary place in her heart. It is doubtful if any mother could have loved a son more than she loved Seth.

She had a basket of sewing with her which she set upon the table. Then she took from it a bundle of socks and stockings and began to overhaul them with a view to darning. Seth watched the slight figure bending over its work, and the bright eyes peering through the black-rimmed glasses which hooked over her ears. His look was one of deep affection. Surely Nature had made a mistake in not making them mother and son. Still, she had done the next best thing in invoking Fate’s aid in bringing them together. Mrs. Sampson looked no older than the day on which Rosebud had been brought to the house. As Seth had once told her, she would never grow old. She would just go on as she was, and, when the time came, she would pass away peacefully and quietly, not a day older than she had been when he first knew her.

But Seth, understanding so much as he did of the life on that prairie farm, and the overshadowing threat which was always with them, had yet lost sight of the significance of the extreme grayness of this woman’s hair. Still her bright energy and uncomplaining nature might well have lulled all fears, and diverted attention from the one feature which betrayed her ceaseless anxiety.

“I kind o’ tho’t sech work was for young fingers, Ma,” Seth observed, indicating the stockings.

“Ah, Seth, boy, I hated to darn when I was young an’ flighty.”

The man smiled. His accusations had been made to ears that would not hear. He knew this woman’s generous heart.

“I reckon Rosebud’ll take to it later on,” he said quietly.

“When she’s married.”

“Ye-es.”

Seth watched the needle pass through and through the wool on its rippling way. And his thoughts were of a speculative nature.

“She’s a grown woman now,” said Mrs. Sampson, after a while.

“That’s so.”

“An’ she’ll be thinkin’ of ’beaus,’ or I’m no prophet.”

“Time enough, Ma.”

“Time? I guess she’s goin’ on eighteen. Maybe you don’t know a deal o’ gals, boy.”

The bright face looked up. One swift glance at her companion and she was bending over her work again.

“I had ’beaus’ enough, I reckon, when I was eighteen. Makes me laff when I think o’ Rube. He’s always been like what he is now. Jest quiet an’ slow. I came nigh marryin’ a feller who’s got a swell horse ranch way up in Canada, through Rube bein’ slow. Guess Rube was the man for me, though, all through. But, you see, I couldn’t ask him to marry me. Mussy on us, he was slow!”

“Did you have to help him out, Ma?”

“Help him? Did you ever know a gal who didn’t help her ’beau’ out? Boy, when a gal gets fixed on a man he’s got a job if he’s goin’ to get clear. Unless he’s like my Rube – ter’ble slow.”

“That’s how you’re sizin’ me now,” said Seth, with a short laugh.

Ma Sampson worked on assiduously.

“Maybe you’re slow in some things, Seth,” she ventured, after a moment’s thought.

“See here, Ma, I’ve always reckoned we’d get yarnin’ like this some day. It ’ud please you an’ Rube for me to marry Rosebud. Wal, you an’ me’s mostly given to talkin’ plain. An’ I tell you right here that Rosebud ain’t for the likes o’ me. Don’t you think I’m makin’ out myself a poor sort o’ cuss. ’Tain’t that. You know, an’ I know, Rosebud belongs to mighty good folk. Wal, before ther’s any thought of me an’ Rosebud, we’re goin’ to locate those friends. It’s only honest, Ma, and as such I know you’ll understand. Guess we don’t need to say any more.”

Mrs. Sampson had ceased working, and sat peering at her boy through her large spectacles. Seth’s look was very determined, and she understood him well.

She shook her head.

“Guess you’re reckoning out your side.” She laughed slyly and went on darning. “Maybe Rosebud won’t thank you a heap when you find those friends. They haven’t made much fuss to find her.”

“No, Ma. An’ that’s just it.”

“How?” The darning suddenly dropped into Mrs. Sampson’s lap.

“Maybe they were killed by the Injuns.”

“You’re guessin’.”

“Maybe I am. But – ”

“What do you know, boy?” The old woman was all agog with excitement.

“Not a great deal, Ma,” Seth said, with one of his shadowy smiles. “But what I do makes me want to write a letter. And a long one. An’ that sort of thing ain’t easy with me. You see, I’m ‘ter’ble slow.’”

Seth’s manner was very gentle, but very decided, and Ma Sampson did not need much explanation. She quietly stood up and gathered her belongings together.

“You get right to it, boy. What you do is right for me. I’ll say no more. As my Rube says, ther’ ain’t nothin’ like livin’ honest. An’ so I says. But if that letter’s goin’ to lose you Rosebud, I’d take it friendly of Providence if it would kind o’ interfere some. I’ll go an’ sit with Rube, an’ you can write your letter.”

At last Seth turned to his letter in earnest. He first pulled out a piece of newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it. Then he laid it on the table, and carefully read the long paragraph marked by four blue crosses. He wanted to make no mistake. As he had said himself, letter-writing wasn’t easy to him. He read thoughtfully and slowly.

“The Estate of the Lost Colonel Raynor

“Once more we are reminded of the mysterious disappearance of that distinguished cavalry officer, Colonel Landor Raynor. This reminder comes in the form of the legal proceedings relating to his estate.

“For the benefit of our readers, and also in the gallant officer’s own interests, we give here a recapitulation of the events surrounding his sudden disappearance.

“On May 18th, 18 – , Colonel Raynor returned from service in Egypt, on six months’ leave, and rented a shooting-box in the Highlands. Hardly had he settled down when he suddenly declared his intention of crossing the Atlantic for a big game shoot in the Rockies. This purpose he carried out within four days of his announcement, accompanied by Mrs. Raynor and their little daughter Marjorie, aged eleven, a golden-haired little beauty with the most perfect violet eyes, which is a very rare and distinguishing feature amongst women. It has been clearly proved that the party arrived safely in New York, and proceeded on their way to the Rockies. Since that time nothing has been heard of any of the three.

“There is no definite pronouncement as to the administration of Colonel Raynor’s estate. He owns large property, valued roughly at nearly a quarter of a million sterling. It has come to light that he leaves a will behind him, but whether this will be executed or not remains to be seen. There are no near relations, except the colonel’s brother, Stephen, who was disinherited by their father in favor of the colonel, and who, it is believed, left this country at the time, and went to the United States. His whereabouts are also unknown, in spite of advertisement during the last six years.

“We publish these details, even at this late hour, in the faint hope that some light may yet be thrown on the mystery which enshrouds the fate of the gallant colonel and his family, or, at least, that they may assist in discovering the whereabouts of his brother. Theories have been put forward. But the suggestion which seems most feasible comes from the New York police. They think he must have met with some accident in the obscurer mountains, for he was a daring climber, and that, unaccompanied as they were by any servants, his wife and daughter, left helpless, were unable to get back to civilization. There is a chance that misfortune of some other character overtook him, but of what nature it is impossible to estimate. It has been asserted by one of the officials at the railway station at Omaha that a party alighted from a transcontinental train there answering the description of Colonel Raynor’s party. These people are supposed to have stayed the night at a hotel, and then left by a train going north. Inquiry, however, has thrown no further light in this direction, and so the police have fallen back on their original theory.”

Seth laid the cutting aside, and thoughtfully chewed the end of his pen. There were many things he had to think of, but, curiously enough, the letter he had to compose did not present the chief item. Nor did Rosebud even. He thought chiefly of that railway official, and the story which the police had so easily set aside. He thought of that, and he thought of the Indians, who now more than ever seemed to form part of his life.

Finally he took a fresh piece of paper and headed it differently. He had changed his mind. He originally intended to write to the New York police. Now he addressed himself to the Editor of the – , London, England. And his letter was just the sort of letter one might have expected from such a man, direct, plain, but eminently exact.

As he finally sealed it in its envelope there was no satisfaction in the expression of his face. He drew out his pipe and filled it and lit it, and smoked with his teeth clenching hard on the mouthpiece. He sat and smoked on long after Rube had looked in and bade him good-night, and Ma had come in for a good-night kiss, and Rosebud had called out her nightly farewell. It was not until the lamp burnt low and began to smell that he stole silently up to his bed. But, whatever thought had kept him up to this hour, he slept soundly, for he was a healthy-minded man.