"The white teacher makes much happy," she said in her labored English.
Seth promptly answered her in her own tongue.
"The papooses of the Indian make the white man happy," he said simply.
There was a long pause. Suddenly one dusky urchin rose with a whoop of delight, bearing aloft the torn paper with several lumps of sweet stuff, discolored with dirt, sticking to it. With one accord the little mob broke. The triumphant child fled away to the bluff pursued by the rest of her howling companions. The man and the squaw were left alone.
"The white man tells a story of a wolf and a squaw," Wanaha said, returning to her own language. The children were still shrieking in the distance.
Seth nodded assent. He had nothing to add to her statement.
"And the wolf eats the squaw," the woman went on, quite seriously. It sounded strange, her literal manner of discussing this children's story.
A look of interest came into the man's thoughtful eyes. But he turned away, not wishing to display any curiosity. He understood the Indian nature as few men do.
"There was no one by to warn the squaw?" she went on in a tone of simple inquiry. "No brave to help her?"
"No one to help," answered the man.
There was another pause. The children still inside the Mission house were helping to chant the Doxology, and the woman appeared to listen to it with interest. When it was finished she went on----
"Where the wolf is there is much danger for the squaw. Indian squaw--or white. I, too, learn these things. I learn from much that I hear--and see."
"I know," Seth nodded.
"You know?"
"Yes."
"Wanaha is glad. The white brave will watch over the young squaw." The woman smiled again. Seth thought he detected a sigh of relief. He understood this woman as well as it is given to man to understand any woman--even an Indian woman.
"This wolf won't bother about the gran'ma," said Seth, looking straight into Wanaha's eyes. "He's after the young squaw."
"And he will have the young squaw soon."
Wanaha abruptly turned away and hurried round to the entrance of the Mission. The sound of people moving within the building told her that the Sunday-school was over. Her silent going suggested that she had no wish to be seen talking in private to Seth.
Seth remained where he was. His delay may have been intentional, yet he had the appearance of deep preoccupation. He quite understood that Wanaha's presence during his story had been deliberate. She had left her own class on some trifling excuse and come out to warn him, knowing that he would be alone with his children. There was no smile on his face while he stood thinking, only a pucker between his dark brows, and an odd biting of his under-lip.
At last he shook himself as though he found the shade chilly, and, a moment later, sauntered round to the front of the building in time to meet the others coming out.
He joined the group which included Wanaha, and they talked a few minutes with the Agent and Mr. Hargreaves. Then Mrs. Rankin and Rosebud moved off to the two waiting buckboards, and Wanaha disappeared down a by-path through the trees. Seth and Charlie Rankin followed their womenfolk.
Seth was the only silent member of the party, but this was hardly noticeable, for he rarely had much to say for himself.
On the way home Rosebud at last found reason to grumble at his silence. She had chattered away the whole time in her light-hearted, inconsequent fashion, and at last asked him a question to which she required more than a nod of the head in reply. And she had to ask it three times, a matter which ruffled her patience.
"Why are you so grumpy with me, Seth?" she asked, with a little frown. She always accused Seth of being "grumpy" when he was more than usually silent.
"Eh?" The man turned from the contemplation of the horses' tails.
"I asked you three times if you saw the Agent talking to two of his scouts--Jim Crow and Rainmaker--before service."
Seth flicked his whip over the backs of the horses.
"Sure," he said indifferently.
"Jim Crow is the head of his Indian police."
The girl spoke significantly, and Seth glanced round at her in surprise.
"I know," he observed.
"Do you think there is anything--moving? Oh, look, Seth, there's a lovely jack-rabbit." Rosebud pointed ahead. A large jack-rabbit was loping slowly out of the way of the buckboard. Seth leant forward with unnecessary interest, and so was saved a direct answer to the girl's question.
CHAPTER X
SETH ATTEMPTS TO WRITE A LETTER
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