“I’ve thought so, too, and written to the colonel at the fort. What makes you think so?”
“Can’t say. Guess it’s jest a notion.” Seth 96 paused. Then he went on before the other could put in a word. “Won’t be just yet. Guess I’ll git on.”
The two men passed out of the house, and Seth remounted.
“Guess you might let me know if Black Fox gits his ‘pass,’” he said, as he turned his horse away.
“I will.”
Parker watched the horseman till he disappeared amongst the bushes. A moment later he was talking to his sister.
“Wish I’d telegraphed to the fort now,” he said regretfully. “I can’t do it after writing, they’d think—I believe Seth came especially to convey warning, and to hear about Black Fox’s pass. It’s a remarkable thing, but he seems to smell what these Indians are doing.”
“Yes,” said his sister. But she felt that when two such capable men discussed the Indians there was no need for her to worry, so she took out Seth’s cup and retired to her kitchen.
In the meantime Seth had reached the river. Here he again dismounted, but this time for no more significant reason than to wash out the rag he had rescued from the bush south of the Reservations. He washed and rewashed the cotton, till it began to regain something of its original color. Then he examined it carefully round the hem.
It was a small, woman’s handkerchief, and, in one corner, a name was neatly written in marking ink. The name was “Raynor.”