he came to the high-backed,
rigid armchair that had always been his seat in this room.

"He says the crops there are good," he went on, indicating the Reservation
with a nod of his head toward the window.

"It'll be a good year all round, I guess," Seth admitted.

"Yes, I dare say it will be," was the answer.

Rube was intently packing his pipe, and the other waited. Rube's deep-set
eyes had lost their customary twinkle. The deliberation with which he was
packing his pipe had in it a suggestion of abstraction. Filling a pipe is
a process that wonderfully indicates the state of a man's mind.

"Jimmy's worried some. 'Bout the harvest, I guess," Rube said presently,
adjusting his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and testing the draw of it.
But his eyes were not raised to his companion's face.

"Injuns ain't workin' well?"

"Mebbe."

"They're a queer lot."

"Ye-es. I was kind o' figgerin'. We're mostly through hayin'."

"I've got another slough to cut."

"That's so. Down at the Red Willow bluff." The old man nodded.

"Yes," assented Seth. Then, "Wal?"

"After that, guess ther's mostly slack time till harvest. I thought,
mebbe, we could jest haul that lumber from Beacon Crossing. And cut the
logs. Parker give me the 'permit.' Seems to me we might do wuss."

"For the stockade?" suggested Seth.

"Yes."

"I've thought of that, too." The two men looked into each other's eyes.
And the old man nodded.

"Guess the gals wouldn't want to know," he said, rising and preparing to
depart.

"No--I don't think they would."

The hardy old pioneer towered mightily as he moved toward the door. In
spite of his years he displayed none of the uneasiness which his words
might have suggested. Nothing that frontier life could show him would be
new. At least, nothing that he could imagine. But then his imagination was
limited. Facts were facts with him; he could not gild them. Seth was
practical, too; but he also had imagination, which made him the cleverer
man of the two in the frontiersman's craft.

At the door Rube looked round.

"Guess you was goin' to write some?"

He passed out with a deep gurgle, as though the fact of Seth's writing was
something to afford amusement.

Seth turned to the paper and dipped his pen in the ink. Then he wiped it
clean on his coat sleeve and dipped it again. After that he headed his
paper with much precision. Then he paused, for he heard a light footstep
cross the passage between the pa