ter than the rest
of his race when deliberations of grave import were on.

CHAPTER VIII

SETH WASHES A HANDKERCHIEF

Seth was not in the habit of making very frequent visits to Beacon
Crossing. For one thing there was always plenty to do at the farm. For
another the attractions of the fledgling city were peculiarly suited to
idle folk, or folk who had money to spend. And this man was neither the
one nor the other.

White River Farm was a prosperous farm, but it was still in that condition
when its possibilities were not fully developed, and, like the thrifty,
foresighted farmers Rube and his adopted son were, they were content to
invest every available cent of profit in improvements. Consequently, when
the latter did find his way to Roiheim's hotel it was always with a
definite purpose; a purpose as necessary as any of his duties in his day's
labor.

Riding into the township one evening he made straight for the hotel, and,
refusing the stablehand's offer of care for his horse, sat down quietly on
the verandah and lit his pipe. Beyond the loungers in the saloon and old
Louis Roiheim no one worth any remark approached him. He sat watching the
passers-by, but went on smoking idly. There were some children playing a
sort of "King-of-the-Castle" game on a heap of ballast lying beside the
track, and these seemed to interest him most. The sheriff stopped and
spoke to him, but beyond a monosyllabic reply and a nod Seth gave him no
encouragement to stop. An Indian on a big, raw-boned broncho came
leisurely down the road and passed the hotel, leaving the township by the
southern trail.

Seth waited until the sun had set. Then he stepped off the verandah and
tightened the cinches of his saddle, and readjusted the neatly rolled
blanket tied at the cantle. The proprietor of the hotel was lounging
against one of the posts which supported the verandah.

"Goin'?" he asked indifferently. Seth was not a profitable customer.

"Yes."

"Home?"

"No. So long."

Seth swung into the saddle and rode off. And he, too, passed out of the
town over the southern trail.

Later he overhauled the Indian. It was Jim Crow, the chief of the Indian
police.

"Where do we sleep to-night?" he asked, after greeting the man.

Jim Crow, like all his race who worked for the government, never spoke his
own language except when necessary. But he still retained his inclination
to signs. Now he made a movement suggestive of three rises of l