“That has always been a trouble between us, hasn’t it?” Rosebud said at last. And her quiet manner drew her companion’s quick attention. “But it shan’t be any more.”
The man looked up now; this many-sided girl could still astonish him.
“You’re quittin’ the Reservation?” he said.
“Yes,—except the sewing and Sunday classes at the Mission,” Rosebud replied slowly. “But it’s not on your account I’m doing it,” she added hastily, with a gleam of the old mischief in her eyes. “It’s because—Seth, why do the Indians hate you? Why does Little Black Fox hate you?”
The man’s inquiring eyes searched the bright earnest face looking down upon him. His only reply was a shake of the head.
“I know,” she went on. “It’s on my account. You killed Little Black Fox’s father to save me.”
“Not to save you,” Seth said. He was a stickler for facts. “And saved you.”
“Oh, bother! Seth, you are stupid! It’s on that account he hates you. And, Seth, if I promise not to go to the Reservation without some one, will you promise me not to go there without me? You see it’s safer if there are two.” 115
Seth smiled at the naïve simplicity of the suggestion. He did not detect the guile at first. But it dawned on him presently and he smiled more. She had said she was not going to visit the Reservation again.
“Who put these crazy notions into your head, Rosebud?” he asked.