The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine
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even glancing in his direction.
"Wal, y' see she's got folks in England. And ther' is a heap o' dollars; an almighty heap. I reckon she'd be a millionairess in this country. Guess it takes a mighty heap o' bills to reckon a million in your country."
This expansiveness was so unusual in the man of the plains that Nevil understood at once he had come purposely to speak of Rosebud. He wondered why. This was the first he had heard of Rosebud's good fortune, and he wished to know more. The matter had been kept from everybody. Even Wanaha had been kept in ignorance of it.
Seth seated himself on a fallen tree-trunk, and now looked squarely into the wood-cutter's thin, mean face.
"Y' see it's kind o' curious. I got that gal from the Injuns more'n six years back, as you'll likely remember. Her folks, her father an' her ma, was killed south o' the Reservations. Guess they were kind o' big folk in your country. An' ther' was a feller come along awhiles back all the way from England to find her. He was a swell law feller; he'd hit her trail, an' when he comes along he said as she owned 'states in your country, a whole heap. Guess she's to be treated like a queen. Dollars? Gee! She ken buy most everything. I 'lows they ken do it slick in your country."
Seth paused to light his pipe. His manner was exquisitely simple. The narration of the story of the girl's good fortune appeared to give him the keenest pleasure. Nevil removed his pipe from his lips and sat chewing the end of his ragged moustache. There was an ugly look in his eyes as he contemplated the ashes of his fire. He might have been staring at the ashes of his own fortunes. However, he contrived a faint smile when he spoke.
"Then I s'pose you've found out her real name?"
"Sure. Marjorie Raynor. Her father was Colonel Landor Raynor."
"Ah."
"An' ther' ain't no question o' the dollars. She hain't no near folk 'cep' an uncle, Stephen Raynor, an' he don't figger anyways, 'cause the dollars are left to her by will. He only comes in, the lawyer feller says, if the gal was to die, or--or get killed."
Seth had become quite reflective; he seemed to find a curious pleasure in thus discussing the girl he loved with a man he at no time had any use for.
Nevil stared uneasily. A quick, furtive glance at Seth, who at that moment seemed to be watching his horse, gave an inkling of his passing thought. If a look could kill Seth would certainly have been a dead man.
"So the whole thing's a dead cinch for her?"
"Yup. Now."
Nevil gave a short laugh.
"You mean--that matter with Little Black Fox. But she brought it on herself. She encouraged him."
Seth was round on him in a twinkling.
"Maybe he was encouraged--but not by her."
"Who then?"
There was unmistakable derision in the wood-cutter's tone. Seth shrugged. A shadowy smile played round his lips, but his eyes were quite serious.
"That's it," he said, relapsing into his reflective manner, "the whole thing's mighty curious. Them law fellers in your country are smartish. They've located a deal. Don't jest know how. They figger that uncle feller is around either this State or Minnesota--likely this one, seein' the Colonel was comin' this aways when he got killed. We got yarnin', an' he was sayin' he thought o' huntin' out this uncle. I guessed ther' wa'an't much need, an' it might set him wantin' the dollars. The law feller said he wouldn't get 'em anyhow--'cep' the gal was dead. We kind o' left it at that. Y' see the whole thing for the uncle hung around that gal--bein' dead."
"And you think he might have had something----" Nevil's words came slowly, like a man who realizes the danger of saying too much.
"Wal, it don't seem possible, I guess. Them two was killed by the Injuns, sure. An' she--I guess she ain't never seen him."
A slight sigh escaped Nevil.
"That's so," he said deliberately.
"Howsum, I guess I'm goin' to look around for this feller. Y' see Rosebud's li'ble to like him. Mebbe he ain't well heeled for dollars, an' she's that tender-hearted she might--I've got his pictur'. Mebbe I'll show it around--eh, what's up?" Seth inquired in his blandest tone.
Nevil suddenly sat up and there was a desperate look in his eyes. But he controlled himself, and, with an effort, spoke indifferently.
"Nothing. I want another pipe."
"Ah." Seth fumbled through his pockets, talking the while. "The pictur' was took when he was most a boy. His hair was thick an' he hadn't no moustache nor nothin', which kind o' makes things hard. As I was sayin', I'm goin' to show it around some, an' maybe some one 'll rec'nize the feller. That's why I got yarnin' to you. Mebbe you ken locate him."
As he said the last word he drew a photograph from his pocket and thrust it into Nevil's hand.
The wood-cutter took it with a great assumption of indifference, and found himself looking down on a result of early photographic art. It was the picture of a very young man with an overshot mouth and a thin, narrow face. But, as Seth had said, he wore no moustache, and his hair was still thick.
Nevil looked long at that picture, and once or twice he licked his lips as though they were very dry. All the time Seth's steady eyes were upon his
At last Nevil looked up and Seth's eyes held his. For a moment the two men sat thus. Then the wood-cutter handed back the photograph and shifted his gaze.
"I've never seen the original of that about these parts," he said a little hoarsely.
"I didn't figger you had," Seth replied, rising and proceeding to tighten up the cinches of his saddle preparatory to departing. "The lawyer feller gave me that. Y' see it's an old pictur'. 'Tain't as fancy as they do 'em now. Mebbe I'll find him later on."
He had swung into his saddle. Nevil had also risen as though to proceed with his work.
"It might be a good thing for him, since Rosebud is so well disposed," Nevil laughed; he had almost recovered himself.
"That's so," observed Seth. "Or a mighty bad thing. Y' can't never tell how dollars 'll fix a man. Dollars has a heap to answer for."
And with this vague remark the plainsman rode slowly away.
CHAPTER XX
SETH PAYS
As the weeks crept by and the torrid heat toned down to the delightful temperature of the Indian summer, news began to reach White River Farm from England. After the first excitement of her arrival had worn off, Rosebud settled down to a regular correspondence.
Even her return to the scenes of her childhood in no way aided her memory. It was all new to her. As her letters often said, though she knew she was grown up, yet, as far as memory served her, she was still only six years old. Servants who had nursed her as a baby, who had cared for her as a child of ten, aunts who had lavished childish presents upon her, cousins who had played with her, they were all strangers, every one.
So she turned with her confidences to those she knew;--those old people on the prairie of Dakota, and that man who had been everything to her. To these she wrote by every mail, giving details of the progress of affairs, telling them of her new life, of her pleasures, her little worries, never forgetting that Ma and Pa were still her mother and father.
Thus they learned that the lawyer's prophecies had been fulfilled. Rosebud was in truth her father's heiress. The courts were satisfied, and she was burdened with heritage under certain conditions of the will. These conditions she did not state, probably a girlish oversight in the rush of events so swiftly passing round her.
The winter stole upon the plains; that hard, relentless winter which knows no yielding till spring drives it forth. First the fierce black frosts, then the snow, and later the shrieking blizzard, battling, tearing for possession of the field, carrying death in its breath for belated man and beast, and sweeping the snow into small mountains about the lonely prairie dwellings as though, in its bitter fury at the presence of