“Guess I’ll git out to him.”
He found it hard, for once, to sit in there with the womenfolk. His feeling was one common to men of action.
“You’re feelin’ easy?” Ma asked him anxiously, as he moved to the door.
“Dead right, Ma.”
The old woman shook her head doubtfully, and Rosebud’s troubled eyes followed him as he moved away. She had scarcely spoken since they returned to the house. Her brain was still in a whirl and she was conscious of a weak, but almost overpowering, inclination to tears. The one thing that stood out above all else in her thoughts was Seth’s wound.
No one had questioned her; no one had blamed her. These simple people understood her feelings of the moment too well. Later they knew they would learn all about it. For the present there was plenty to be done.
Rube had been making preparations. Their plans 175 needed no thinking out. Such an emergency as the present had always been foreseen, and so there was no confusion. Charlie Rankin had gone on to old Joe Smith, and that individual would be dispatched post-haste in the direction of the white tents that had been seen on the plains. For the rest the horses in the barn were ready harnessed, and Ma could be trusted to get together the household things ready for decamping. There was nothing to do but to keep a night-long watch.
Seth had crossed the passage, and was passing through the parlor, out of which the front door opened. Rosebud hesitated. Then with something almost like a rush she followed him. She was at his side in a moment, and her two small hands were clasping his rough, strong right hand.
“Seth,” she whispered, tearfully. “I——”
“Don’t, little Rosie!” the man interrupted, attempting to draw his hand gently from her grasp. “Guess ther’ ain’t no need to say anything. Mebbe I know.”