On their arrival Seth handed the still unconscious child over to the wife of the hotel-keeper for an examination of her clothes. He did this at Dan Somers’ suggestion, as being the most legal course to pursue, and waited with the sheriff and several others in the bar for the result.
Good news had greeted the fighting party on their return. The troops were already on the way to suppress the sudden and unaccountable Indian rising. Eight hundred of the hard-riding United States cavalry had left the fort on receipt of the message from Beacon Crossing. The hotel-keeper imparted the news with keen appreciation; he had no desire for troublesome times. Plainsmen had a knack of quitting his execrable drink when there was fighting to be done—and Louis Roiheim was an Israelite.
A silence fell upon the bar-room on the appearance of Julie Roiheim. She saw Seth, and beckoned him over to her.
“There are initials on the little one’s clothing. M. R.,” she said. And Seth nodded. 49
“Any name?” he asked.
The stout old woman shook her greasy head.
“But she’s no ordinary child, Seth. Not by a lot. She belongs East, or my name’s not Julie. That child is the girl of some millionaire in Noo York, or Philadelphy. She’s got nothing on her but what is fine lawn and real lace!”
“Ah!” murmured the plainsman, without any responsive enthusiasm, while his dark eyes watched the triumphant features of the woman to whom these things were of such consequence. “And has the Doc. got around?”
“He’s fixin’ her up,” Julie Roiheim went on. “Oh, yes, you were right, she’s alive, but he can’t wake her up. He says if she’s to be moved, it had best be at once.”
“Good.” Just for one brief instant Seth’s thoughtful face lit up. He turned to old Louis. “Guess I’ll borrow your buckboard,” he went on. “I’ll need it to take the kiddie out.”