The Watchers of the Plains: A Tale of the Western Prairies. Cullum Ridgwell

of such men when out on the trail. It is the soil over which the prairie man passes which is the book. The general scene is only the illustration.

      At the bluff the men dismounted. Seth now took the lead. He did not plunge haphazard into his search. He still studied the brush and the ground. But it was the scout whose trained instincts were the first to discover the signs they sought. And he found it in the dead, broken twigs which marked the course of a wagon.

      The two followed the lead; followed it unerringly. With every foot of the way the task became easier. Once they had turned the cover the book had become the simplest reading. In a few minutes they came to a clearing well screened from the road. Now they parted company. The scout went on toward the water further on, but the white man turned to the clearing. Herein was displayed the difference in the men. Seth had come to the point where imagination served him. The other was only a craftsman.

      The grass was tall in the clearing. There was a low scrub too, but it was a scrub that might be trodden under foot. In two minutes Seth was stooping examining a tent-peg, discolored by weather, but intact, and still holding in the earth where it had been driven. It was but four yards from this to a place where two distinct piles of human bones were lying hidden in the rank grass.

      Seth was on his knees pulling the grass aside, but he did not touch the bones. The skeletons were far from complete. Fortunately the skulls were there, and he saw that they were those of a man and a woman. While he contemplated the ghastly remains his thoughts conjured up many scenes. He saw the bullet hole through the woman’s skull, and the horrid rift in the man’s. The absence of many of the bones of the extremities made him think of the coyotes, those prairie scavengers who are never far off when death stalks the plains.

      After a few moments he was searching the long grass in every direction. He looked for remnants of clothing; for anything to give him a sign. In his search he was joined by the scout who had returned from the water, where he had discovered further traces of an encampment.

      At last the examination was completed. There was nothing left to indicate the identity of the bones.

      The two men now stood by the bones of the unfortunate man and woman. Seth was staring out at the surrounding brush.

      “I guess the Injuns cleaned things up pretty well,” he said, while his eyes settled on one little bush apart from the rest.

      The scout shook his head.

      “That’s not Injuns’ work,” he said.

      “No?” Seth queried casually.

      “No. Everything gone. So. That not like Injun.”

      Seth made no response, but walked over to the bush he had been looking at. The scout saw him thrust a hand in amongst the branches and withdraw it holding something.

      “What you find?” he asked, when Seth came back.

      “Only a rag.”

      Then, a moment later, Seth asked suddenly: “How far from here to – Jason’s old place?”

      “Six – eight – nine hour,” Jim Crow said, with his broad smile that meant nothing.

      Seth looked long and thoughtfully at the split skull on the ground. Then his eyes sought the bullet hole in the woman’s skull. But he said nothing.

      A little later the two men went back to the horses and mounted.

      “Guess I’ll git on to see the Agent,” Seth observed, while the horses moved away from the bluff.

      “You go by Reservation?”

      “Yes.”

      Jim Crow surveyed the prospect in silence. They reached the trail, and their horses stood preparatory to parting company.

      “S’long,” said Seth.

      The Indian turned and looked away to the north. It was the direction in which lay the great Reservations. Then he turned back, and his black, slit-like eyes shot a sidelong glance at his companion.

      “You go – alone?” he asked.

      The other nodded indifferently.

      “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 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.

      “See you’ve got Jim Crow workin’ around – south.” Seth waved an arm in the direction whence he had come.

      “Yes.” Again came the Agent’s swiftly passing smile. “We’re a good distance from the southern boundary. Jim Crow’s smart enough. How did you know?”

      “Saw his tepee.”

      “Ah. You’ve been south?”

      “Yes. There’s a fine open country that aways.”

      They passed into the Agency, and Parker’s sister and housekeeper brought the visitor coffee. The house was very plain, roomy, and comfortable. The two men were sitting in the office.