The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine
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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
"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