“Then I say sleep little and watch much—I, Jim Crow.”
The two men parted. The scout moved off and his hand went to the pocket of his trousers where his fingers crumpled the crisp five-dollar bill he had received for his services. Nothing else really mattered to him. Seth rode away humming a tune without melody.
All the way to the Agent’s house he carried out the scout’s advice of watchfulness; but for a different reason. Seth had no personal fear of these stormy Indians. His watchfulness was the observation of a man who learns from all he sees. He slept some hours on the prairie while his horse rested, and arrived at the Agency the next day at noon.
Jimmy Parker, as he was familiarly called, greeted him cordially in his abrupt fashion.
“Ah, howdy,” he said. “Prowling, Seth?” His words were accompanied by a quick look that asked a dozen questions, all of which he knew would remain unanswered. Seth and he were old friends and understood one another.
“Takin’ a spell off,” replied the farmer.
“Ah. And putting it in on the Reservation.”
The Agent smiled briefly. His face seemed to 95 have worn itself into a serious caste which required effort to change.
“Many huntin’ ’passes’ these times?” Seth inquired presently.
“None. Only Little Black Fox says he’s going hunting soon.” The Agent’s eyes were fixed on the other’s face.