The sun dipped below the horizon. The brief spring twilight changed from gold to gray. A footstep sounded outside the door of the room where the three men were sitting. A moment later Mrs. Rickards came in. Rosebud’s cousin had changed considerably in those seven days. Her ample proportions were shrunken. Her face was less round, but had gained in character. The education of a lifetime had been crowded into the past week for her. And it had roused a spirit within her bosom, the presence of which she had not even suspected.
“Rube wants you, Seth,” she announced. “He’s on the north side of the stockade. It’s something particular, I think,” she added. “That’s why he asked me to tell you.”
With a few words of thanks, Seth accompanied her from the room and moved down-stairs. It was on their way down that Mrs. Rickards laid a hand, already work-worn, upon the man’s arm.
“They’re advancing again. Seth, shall we get out of this trouble?”
The question was asked without any expression of fear, and the man knew that the woman wanted a plain, truthful answer.
“It don’t seem like it,” he answered quietly. 322
“Yet, I kind o’ notion we shall.” Then after a pause he asked, “What’s your work now?”
“The wounded.”
“Ah! Did you ever fire a gun, ma’am?”
“No.”