During the six years, while Rosebud was growing to womanhood, Seth’s hands were very full. Those wonderful violet eyes belonged to no milk and water “miss.” From the very beginning the girl proved herself spirited and wilful. Not in any vicious way. A “madcap” best describes her. She had no thought of consequences; only the delight of the moment, the excitement and risk. These were the 56 things that plunged her into girlish scrapes from which it fell to the lot of Seth to extricate her. All her little escapades were in themselves healthy enough, but they were rarely without a smack of physical danger.
She began when she learned to ride, a matter which of course devolved upon Seth.
Once she could sit a wild, half-tamed broncho her career in the direction of accident became checkered. Once, after a day’s search for her, Seth brought her home insensible. She had been thrown from her horse, an animal as wildly wilful as herself.
A little private target practice with a revolver resulted in the laming of a cow, and the killing of a chicken, and in nearly terminating Rube’s career, when he ran out of the house to ascertain the meaning of the firing. Once she was nearly drowned in the White River, while bathing with the Indian children after service at the Mission. She was never free from the result of childish recklessness. And this feature of her character grew with her, though her achievements moderated as the years passed.
It was by these wild means that she endeared herself to the folks on the farm. Seth’s love grew apace. He made no attempt to deceive himself. He loved her as a child, and that love changed only in its nature when she became a woman. He made no attempt to check it. He knew she was not for him; never could be. He, a rough, half-educated plainsman; she, a girl who displayed, even in her most 57 reckless moods, that indelible stamp which marked the disparity between the social worlds to which they belonged. He was convinced, without disparaging himself, that to attempt to win her would be an outrage, an imposition on her. Worse, it would be rankly dishonest.
So the man said nothing. All that lay within his heart he kept hidden far out of sight. No chance word or weak moment should reveal it. No one should ever know, least of all Rosebud.
But in all this Seth reckoned without his host. Such glorious eyes, such a charming face as Rosebud possessed were not likely to belong to a girl devoid of the instincts of her sex. As she grew up her perspective changed. She saw things in a different light. Seth no longer appealed to her as a sort of uncle, or even father. She saw in him a young man of medium good looks, a strong, fine figure. A man who had no idea of the meaning of the word fear; a man who had a way of saying and doing things which often made her angry, but always made her glad that he said and did them. Furthermore, she soon learned that he was only twenty-eight. Therefore, she resented many things which she had hitherto accepted as satisfactory. She made up her wilful mind that it didn’t please her to call him “Daddy” Seth any longer.
Those six years brought another change; a change in the life of the wood-cutter of White River. He still lived in his log hut, but he had taken to himself 58 a wife, the beautiful orphaned daughter of Big Wolf, and sister of the reigning chief, Little Black Fox. Whatever may have been Nevil Steyne’s position before, he was completely ostracized by his fellows now, that is by all but the folk at White River Farm. Men no longer suggested that he had “taken the blanket”; they openly asserted it.
The reason of Nevil Steyne’s toleration by the White River Farm people was curious. It was for Rosebud’s sake; Rosebud and Wanaha, the wife of the renegade wood-cutter. The latter was different from the rest of her race. She was almost civilized, a woman of strong, honest character in spite of her upbringing. And between Rosebud and this squaw a strong friendship had sprung up. Kindly Rube and his wife could not find it in their hearts to interfere, and even Seth made no attempt to check it. He looked on and wondered without approval; and wonder with him quickly turned into keen observation.
And it is with this strange friendship that we have to deal now.
Inside the log hut on the White River, Wanaha was standing before a small iron cook-stove preparing her husband’s food. It was the strangest sight imaginable to see her cooking in European fashion. Yet she did it in no uncertain manner. She learned it all because she loved her white husband, just as she learned to speak English, and to dress after the manner of white women. She went further. With 59 the assistance of the missionary and Rosebud she learned to read and sew, and to care for a house. And all this labor of a great love brought her the crowning glory of legitimate wifehood with a renegade white man, and the care of a dingy home that no white girl would have faced. But she was happy. Happy beyond all her wildest dreams in the smoke-begrimed tepee of her father.
Nevil Steyne had just returned from Beacon Crossing, whither he had gone to sell a load of cord-wood, and to ask for mail at the post-office. Strange as it may seem, this man still received letters from England. But to-day he had returned with only a packet of newspapers.
He entered the hut without notice or greeting for Wanaha, who, in true Indian fashion, waited by the cook-stove for her lord to speak first.
He passed over to the bedstead which occupied the far end of the room, and sat himself down to a perusal of his papers. He was undoubtedly preoccupied and not intentionally unkind to the woman.
Wanaha went steadily on with her work. For her this was quite as it should be. He would speak presently. She was satisfied.
Presently the man flung his papers aside, and the woman’s deep eyes met his as he looked across at her.
“Well, Wana,” he said, “I’ve sold the wood and got orders for six more cords. Business is booming.”
The man spoke in English. Yet he spoke Wanaha’s 60 tongue as fluently as she did herself. Here again the curious submissive nature of the woman was exampled. He must speak his own tongue. It was not right that he should be forced to use hers.
“I am much happy,” she said simply. Then her woman’s thought rose superior to greater issues. “You will eat?” she went on.
“Yes, Wana. I’m hungry—very.”
“So.” The woman’s eyes smiled into his, and she eagerly set the food on a table made of packing cases.
Steyne began at once. He was thoughtful while he ate. But after a while he looked up, and there was a peculiar gleam in his blue eyes as they rested on the warm, rich features of his willing slave.
“Pretty poor sort of place—this,” he said. “It’s not good enough for you, my Wana.”
The woman had seated herself on a low stool near the table. It was one of her few remaining savage instincts she would not give up. It was not fitting that she should eat with him.
“How would you like a house, a big house, like—White River Farm?” he went on, as though he were thinking aloud. “And hundreds, thousands, of steers and cows? And buggies to ride in? And farm machinery? And—and plenty of fine clothes to wear, like—like Rosebud?”
The woman shook her head and indicated her humble belongings. 61
“This—very good. Very much good. See, you are here. I want you.”
The man flushed and laughed a little awkwardly. But he was well pleased.
“Oh, we’re happy enough. You and I, my Wana. But—we’ll see.”
Wanaha made no comment; and when his meat was finished she set a dish of buckwheat cakes and syrup before him.
He devoured them hungrily, and the woman’s eyes grew soft with delight at his evident pleasure.
At last his thoughtfulness passed, and he put an abrupt question.
“Where’s your brother, now?”
“Little Black Fox is by his tepee. He goes hunting with another sun. Yes?”
“I must go and see him this afternoon.”
Steyne